He used his finger to unlock the screen and opened a browser instead of the hookup app his thumb automaticallydrifted toward. The search bar stared at him, and he slowly typedgay bars near Surprise, AZ.The results appeared almost immediately. There were a handful of places in Phoenix, which was farther than he wanted to go, but it didn’t seem like he had a choice. He picked one at random and swiped through photos of crowded rooms filled with strangers. Men laughing over drinks and groups gathered around high-top tables. People who might not know him beyond whatever name he gave them. People who didn’t know his story, or college, or how CJ’s apology still echoed inside his chest.
Exactly what he wanted.
Evan pulled up the address and plugged it into his maps, then shoved his phone into his pocket and pushed himself to his feet. He didn’t let himself think because thinking would unravel him. Thinking would put CJ’s face right back at the center of his mind, and would make him question why a conversation in a motel courtyard had managed to crack open wounds he’d spent the last seven years convincing himself had healed.
No, tonight he needed noise, a crowded room, and a beer. Maybe three.
He grabbed his wallet, straightened his shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and sprayed some cologne, though it didn’t really matter. He was just going to feel nothing for a while, and maybe that would be enough. He opened his door and walked straight into CJ.
Literally.
CJ jerked back, startled, one hand coming up instinctively as if to catch Evan’s arm. He didn’t touch him, but the space between them narrowed to a breath. CJ’s eyes swept over him, confused, something that looked like concern flickering there before he blinked it away.
“Evan? You okay?” he asked, his voice low and uncertain in a way that didn’t fit the man Evan was trying so hard not to think about.
Everything inside Evan stalled and his stomach tightened uncomfortably. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but the timing felt conspicuous. CJ had apologized less than half an hour ago. They’d cracked open seven years’ worth of silence, and now he was heading to a gay bar because he couldn’t bear the thought of spending the evening alone in his head, two doors down from CJ.
CJ looked genuinely worried, and that just made everything worse.
“Yeah,” Evan said. The lie tasted sour in the back of his throat. “Just…heading out.”
“Where?” CJ asked, and Evan saw him wince. He clearly hadn’t meant to ask, but the question pissed Evan off anyway.
His jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.”
CJ’s eyes swept over him, taking in the tension in his shoulders, and something unspoken tightened CJ’s expression. It wasn’t judgment or jealousy, but a quiet understanding. A quiet hurt.
CJ probably assumed Evan was looking for a distraction. Evan looked away and scrubbed a hand over his face, irritated with himself for caring what CJ might think in the first place.
“Have a good night,” Evan said, forcing the words out and stepping past CJ.
He hurried toward the parking lot without looking back, then slid behind the wheel of his SUV and pulled the door shut with a dull, hollow echo. He sat there for a moment, breath held tight in his chest, the address of the bar glowing on his phone. He let out a slow breath, pressed the start button a little harder than necessary, shifted into gear, and drove out of the lot.
11
CJ
He never thoughtspring training could feel long. It was usually the opposite: too fast, too loud, too chaotic, schedules jammed full of drills and conditioning and PR obligations that blurred together until the days felt like they were sprinting past him. Even in Chicago, during the worst seasons before they got good, the rhythm of spring training always felt like a new beginning. A clean slate.
This year, every morning felt like stepping into a minefield. Every afternoon felt like a balancing act on the edge of a blade.
Three and a half weeks into camp, and he still felt like he was living in the moment when Evan opened his door and collided with him. Something had flashed across Evan’s face that he couldn’t map out. Worry or hurt or guilt, maybe, and something that had looked a hell of a lot like longing. Or maybe CJ had just wanted it to be longing. It was hard to tell when he wasn’t exactly objective. He’d replayed that split second a thousand times and, God, he wished he could stop.
But he couldn’t. Not when every day since then had required them to pretend nothing was weird or broken. And that nothing was happening between them except professional respect anda shared history that absolutely did not involve kissing in an empty dugout at twenty-one. With one very annoying exception, everyone else seemed to be buying it, so CJ figured they were doing a decent job.
A pale, hazy gold hung low across the practice complex when CJ jogged from the locker room through the gates to Field 3. His breath puffed a little in the early morning chill, the last remnants of cool air that would be obliterated by midmorning. He was never the first guy out there. That honor belonged to exactly two types of players: rookies trying to impress and veterans who knew they were on the bubble. But he liked arriving early enough that the field felt like it belonged to him for a minute.
He dropped onto the grass in the outfield and spread his legs, leaning forward between them in a stretch that pulled in all the right places. He just needed one day where everything didn’t feel like a punch to the nuts. Footsteps crunched on the warning track behind him, and he dropped his head between his arms.
“Look alive, Hartman,” Rizzo chirped as he dropped to the ground next to CJ. “Coach is in a mood.”
CJ grunted. “Isn’t he always?”
“True, but today he looks like he’d fight God if God challenged him.”
“Great,” CJ muttered. “As if mornings aren’t bad enough.”
Rizzo grinned. “Ah, you’ll be fine. You’re too pretty for divine smiting.”
