“I’m sorry, Marcus. I zoned out for a minute,” CJ interrupted his agent mid-rant. “Tell me this is a mistake. A rumor. Something put on social media as a joke.”
“It’s not. But someone fucked up, and they didn’t let me know so I could break it to you instead of you finding out from— Who did you find out from?” Marcus sounded genuinely pissed off, and CJ felt some of his anger toward his agent fading.
“Team chat,” CJ said sourly. “Then ESPN.”
Marcus sighed. “Look, you knew there was a chance for a trade?—”
“Yeah, but not to San Diego.” CJ paced his living room in a loop that took him past the window with the skyline view he’d fallen in love with three years ago. “When we talked about it, I told you to make sure it wasn’t San Diego.”
“I told them that, CJ, but you don’t have a no-trade clause in your contract. There was nothing to stop them from sending you to whatever team had the best offer.” Marcus hesitated. “The paperwork went through this morning. The Barracudas wanted you, and the Blazers needed to clear your salary. It’s done, CJ.”
CJ stopped pacing. “And I get shipped across the country. I like it here. I want to behere.”
“I know,” Marcus said gently. “But you’ll like San Diego too. You’ll be closer to your family, the weather is beautiful, and it’s a fresh start.”
CJ let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Fresh start.”
Marcus hesitated, and CJ could hear the unasked questions in the silence. CJ didn’t give him a chance to ask them. He ended the call and clenched his jaw. The words he could have used to explain everything sat heavily in his throat.
By mid-afternoon,the sky had darkened to a flat steel gray, and Chicago felt as if it were bracing for snow. CJ forced himself through the motions of his routine anyway because that’s what he did. He followed his routine.
Today, his routine looked a lot like punishment. At the gym in his building, one of the trainers eyed him cautiously as he loaded plates on the bar. CJ bristled under the scrutiny, but he understood. It was more weight than he normally lifted in November, and his muscles screamed in protest as he pushed through sets, chest burning and arms trembling. But he keptgoing, like he could shove the frustration off his body one rep at a time.
Guys he knew from the building glanced at him in concern, but no one said a word. His jaw was set, eyes locked on the mirror in front of him as he squatted under the weight on his shoulders. Sweat soaked through his shirt and rolled down the side of his face, and he told himself that if he strained hard enough, loaded enough weight on his back, he could silence the noise in his head.
It wasn’t working, and CJ gave up on lifting, returning the weights to the rack and pretending not to feel the stares as he left the gym.
The noise kept echoing with thoughts of a new city, new teammates, and one name he’d spent seven years trying to outrun. On top of that was the rest of the bullshit that came with being traded. The behind-the-scenes parts no one took into consideration when talking about how good or bad a trade was. While analysts and fans were playing backseat general manager, CJ needed to figure out the logistics. Finding someone to pack and haul seven years’ worth of furniture, gear, and memories halfway across the country was at the top of his list. Right behind that was deciding whether it was worth it to ship his car to California or just buy a new one when he got there.
The worst part of starting over in a city he hadn’t chosen was going to be hunting down a decent place to live, and that thought gave him pause as he stepped through his front door. After a year in the minors, living in crappy apartments with four other guys, CJ knew he was going to buy his own place as soon as he made the roster out of training camp in his second year. With a big-league salary, he was able to rent an apartment by himself, which gave him time to find something he really loved. It had taken him three years of countless condo tours and smiling at his real estate agent when she tried to convince him to pick one, tofind his place in Chicago. And now he would have to pick a place to live between today and spring training?
Maybe one of his new teammates would know a good real estate agent.
His new teammates. “Fuck,” he muttered.
Walking into a new clubhouse meant starting over from scratch, learning nicknames and adapting to personalities, pretending like he belonged when every part of him was still wired for Chicago.
Beyond all of that was the phone call he’d dodged earlier. He’d ignored more than a few calls he shouldn’t have, and he knew he would have some irritated voicemails to listen to later. But one call had been the Barracudas’ GM, and he’d let it ring through, too angry to answer. But he couldn’t avoid him forever. Sooner or later, he would have to dial the number, swallow his pride, and say the words everyone expected him to say: “Excited to be there. Ready to help the team. Thrilled for the opportunity.”
CJ didn’t like lying.
He lasted another hour in his condo, pacing in circles around his living room. The space felt too tight all of a sudden, and the silence seemed louder than the city outside. On the television, ESPN kept replaying parade footage, and he couldn’t stand watching himself smile like he still belonged. Eventually, he grabbed his peacoat, shoved his phone in his pocket, and left.
He wound up at a bar in the neighborhood, tucked into a corner where he could be mostly hidden by shadow. It was the kind of place where regulars nursed beers under dim lights with stained glass shades, and the TVs over the bar were tuned to either local news or sports. Tonight, the TVs were locked on the channel that was all baseball, all the time. Lucky him. On the screen, a pair of anchors sat behind a polished desk, deepin conversation as highlight reels of CJ in a Blazers uniform looped.
At the far end of the bar, a couple of guys were glued to the broadcast, beers in hand as they discussed the trade.
“Man, San Diego’s getting a cannon for an arm,” one said. “Hartman is such a beast.”
“Yeah, but he’s almost thirty. Blazers got the better deal,” the other countered. “Those prospects are gonna pay off, and Hartman’s gonna start losing a step.”
CJ hunched over his beer, shoulders curving forward as he pretended not to hear.
“I think he’s going to have better numbers out there,” the first continued. “Pacific Horizon’s a hitter’s park. Plus, sun every day? Not a bad deal.”
“The weather would be worth it,” the second man agreed. “But I doubt his numbers will be better than here. Doesn’t matter anyway. If he doesn’t do well, they’ll just find someone else. He’s replaceable. Everyone is.”
CJ stared into the foam at the bottom of his glass. Replaceable. That was the word that struck hard. He could still feel the sting of the champagne in his eyes, could still hear the crowds howling his name, but in this bar, he might as well already be gone.
