CJ
Evan’s there.
Three dots, then nothing, and CJ could almost picture his old friend debating what to say.
Matt
I know.
CJ swore and dropped the phone on the counter. He couldn’t even be irritated. Matt wasn’t CJ’s agent. Years ago, just before he was drafted, CJ had asked Matt to represent him, and Matt had turned him down. Not because CJ wasn’t good enough, but because Evan had gotten there first. Matt had decided it wasbetter not to represent them both, to avoid any overlap and any appearance of divided loyalties. At the time, CJ had nodded his agreement and told himself that Matt was right, and it was a complication he didn’t need. But the rejection had hurt, and CJ had been pissed that Evan had claimed that space before he’d had the chance.
Now, years later, Matt’s name lighting up his phone on the night he was traded made him side-eye his messages. He didn’t have to reach out and, if anything, his loyalty lay elsewhere. It made it hard to believe it was just about friendship.
But maybe it was. It’s not like they didn’t have any contact. They still got together a couple of times a year for dinner when Matt was in town. Maybe Matt was checking in because of their history, because once upon a time they’d been roommates in college, and because of the things he’d seen but never mentioned. But CJ couldn’t shake the darker thought that this check-in wasn’t about him.
CJ’s suspicion sat bitterly in his gut, and he tried to smother it but couldn’t. He knew where Matt’s loyalty was. He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, an old habit that helped him anchor his thoughts. He breathed deeply and told himself that it didn’t matter, that San Diego was just another city. That Evan Delgado was just another player.
But he knew better.
Tomorrow, he would wake up a Barracuda, and sooner or later, he’d have to stand in the same room as the man he’d hurt.
4
EVAN
San Diego refusedto acknowledge winter, and January was a lie of sunshine, palm trees, and soft breezes that made tourists believe they’d escaped winter. Having grown up in Massachusetts, Evan still remembered the sting of winter and a cold that burrowed so deeply into his bones that he couldn’t shake it. It wasn’t hard for him to believe the lie every year.
Even now, standing on his balcony, face turned up toward the sun, he thought about the city where he’d grown up. The gray skies, frozen gutters, and the kind of bitter cold that got deep into your bones.
He was glad to be back in California.
He’d spent Christmas back home with his mom because he always did.
She hugged him too hard in the doorway, face pressed against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and rested his cheek on her hair. He breathed in her familiar blended scent—lavender detergent, café con canela, and the faint scent of the hairspray she refused to give up.
His mom’s house sat on a narrow street lined with triple-deckers and bare maples, its siding a deep blue he’d paid tohave repainted last spring. He remembered the day he bought the place, right after he signed his first real contract. The signing bonus had barely cleared his account before he wired it. No more rent checks to landlords who never fixed leaks or broken steps. No more notice slips taped to the door when she was inevitably late on her rent. His mom had cried when he’d driven her there and handed her the keys, and said,“It’s yours. All of it.”
Just like it had in every apartment they had lived in when he was a kid, the kitchen smelled of masa and cinnamon. The old crocheted throw was folded neatly over the couch, and a stack of unopened, official-looking envelopes leaned against the fruit bowl on the counter. Evan had clocked them the moment she opened the door: the pale-blue notice from the gas company withPast Duestamped in bright red across the front, a perforated notice from the electric company threatening shut-off, and an envelope from the cable company yellingOverduein sixteen-point font next to her address. He knew before he put his bag down that she would find a way to ask. Different house, same weight pressing the air thin.
They ate tamales with too much salsa and watched a movie she picked because she thought the lead actor “looked wholesome.” Evan kissed the top of her head when she fell asleep with her hand wrapped around his forearm, the way she had when he was little and she was afraid he would roll off the couch. He covered her with a blanket and freed himself from her grasp before heading to the kitchen to clean up dinner. He was wrist-deep in scalding water when she appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Mijo,” she said softly, and Evan paused with his hands under the running water. “I hate to bring it up on Christmas, but…things are a little tight again.”
He rinsed a plate and stacked it on the drying rack before turning the water off and turning to face her, drying his hands on a dishtowel. He didn’t look up. “How tight?”
Her shoulders lifted in an embarrassed shrug and she set the envelopes on the counter next to him. “Work has been slow for a few months, and they cut my hours. No one comes to a garden center in the winter.”
He nodded because that had always been the story. But his mother had worked at the garden center for almost twenty years, and for twenty years, it had been the same thing, and she still didn’t save during the busy months so she could get through the winter. “How much?”
“Well…” Her voice trailed off the way it did when she wanted something
“Ma,” he said quietly.
“I’ve been thinking about starting a little thing,” she said. Her voice was bright, the way it got when she was trying to convince him that something was going to be wonderful. “A food cart at the church fairs. Your aunt says if I can just get enough to buy the cart and get the permits, I could?—”
“Ma,” he said again, gentling his tone because it was Christmas and because she was the only person who had stood in every bleacher of his life. “Maybe focus on paying these first.”
Her chin came up and her eyes flashed with irritation. “I can do both. And I can’t wait forever. If I get the permits now, I’ll be ready when the spring and summer fairs start. People love my food, Evan. You know they do.”
