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2
Tonight, Corey didn’t quite hate the Captain America nickname like he normally did.
“We’re heading to Poison. Want to come?” Ryan Daily, the second pitcher in the Metros’ rotation, walked out of the locker room behind him. The guys on the team went to that bar after home games, and everyone in New York knew this. It was a great place to get media attention or a quick hookup, but it wasn’t the spot to relax after a game. At least not for Corey.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Corey said.
His baseball team was starting out the season at the top of the division, and Corey had pitched another great game. Including preseason, it was his twelfth in a row. A record for the man whose head game caused his pitching to be about as consistent as the spring weather. Even if that was the only thing going well in life, that should be enough, but it wasn’t.
“Blowing us off for a hot date?” Daily asked.
Corey just smirked.
Daily smiled as they fist-bumped. “Have fun, Cap. Bet she’ll love that your ugly mug is about to be all over,” Daily said as he walked away.
Sideline was finally thinking about replacing the face of their multinational sportswear brand. And since their current brand ambassador, Marc Demoda, and Corey were tight, they’d talked Sideline into a campaign using both men to transition from Marc to Corey.
He’d good old boyed the media after the game, and not one of the eight men in the locker room had mentioned his third inning. Even the harsh New York media had nothing bad to say about Corey these days.
“Good game, Captain,” another teammate called before he made it out of the locker room but he smiled. No one was being sarcastic when they called him Captain America today.
His phone beeped in his pocket and he wondered which of the many Evans siblings was texting him.
He was surprised to see Clayton’s name on the screen.
Call me.
He was grateful that was all it said.
Corey flicked up and hit the call button.
“Dude,” was the twenty-two-year-old’s replacement for hello.
“Where’s the fire?” Corey answered.
“It’s official. They don’t want me.”
He sighed. Clayton was the youngest Evans sibling—more than ten years younger than Corey—and was currently at USC on a hot deadline with the NFL draft. All he wanted was to come home to New York with a contract to be the next QB for any tri-state area team. It hadn’t looked promising since none of the teams needed a quarterback for a few more years, barring some devastating injury, and Clayton was too high priced for a team without the need.
“You’re pouting about being one of the top three draft picks this year. You know that, right kid?” Corey asked.
“Fuck you. I called you because I thought you would get it,” Clayton shot back.
Corey wouldn’t correct him about who actually made the call, because the truth of it was that he knew exactly how Clayton felt. He, too, had wanted more than anything to come back to New York and pitch after college.
Corey cracked his neck left and right. He couldn’t lie to Clayton and say he was good enough to play wherever he wanted.
Ten years ago, Corey, sporting an Olympic gold medal, had been one of the best pitchers to come into the MLB, and even that wasn’t enough to get him back into the New York area. The Houston Astros had drafted him.
He stopped mid-step and shut his eyes, reliving that time of his life.
Looking back, Houston hadn’t been that bad. The city itself was great, and the space he gained from all the drama in his life had been his saving grace. Plus, he’d had fun in Houston, and he’d grown up a lot.
“Hello?” Clayton demanded in his ear, and Corey wondered how long he’d been silent. He glanced around, realizing he couldn’t stand here staring into space, and continued to the exit.
“Yes, I know how you feel, Clay, but tell me this. Do you really want to play football?” he asked, juggling the phone on his shoulder and searching for his keys in his gym bag. That’s what it came down to—if he wanted to play, he’d go where they’d play him.
“Yes.” All of Clayton’s frustration came through in that one word.
