It was a dick move, one I’ve seen many times in my years as a professional player, but I never thought it would actually happen to me. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve held pretty much every batting record in Baltimore, I’m a crowd favorite, and I’ve done more work than any other player in the community. You think of Baltimore, you think of Cory Potter. I built a home there, I had friends there, I had a community. Hell, I had the best fanbase a man could ask for.

But when you’re a good player on a struggling team, you’re not much help. More of a hindrance because your contract sucks up all the cash flow. Therefore, something had to go if they wanted to have a shot at a World Series in the coming years. So I was kicked to the curb.

And the shitty thing about the entire trade was it happened right before the trade deadline during the season. Completely blindsided.

Out of all teams to want me, it had to be the rival team I’d spent my entire life hating.

Black and red, the devil’s team, the most hated team in baseball.

They play dirty, they have unsportsmanlike attitudes, and they’re despised by every Bobbies fan, especially by Chicago, other than their fans who bleed black and red.

Here in Chicago, the saying goes: you’re either a Bobbie for life or a Rebel at heart.

Therefore, this past year, I’ve had to find room to be a Rebel at heart. It’s been challenging, to say the least.

I had the worst second half of a season of my career. I’m not sure if it was from the shock of being traded, from not meshing with the guys on the team, or having to deal with the fans booing me every time I stepped up to plate—since they know where my heart has always favored—but I struggled, more than I care to admit.

And telling Milly about the trade, hell, that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. She doesn’t even look at the Rebels, refuses to acknowledge them as a major league team, so when I told her I was traded to them, she cried for a week.

I didn’t bother getting my family Rebels jerseys, that’s how bad it is. I tried to see if there was any way to get out of my contract, given I don’t get along with the coaches or half the guys on my team, but my agent said there was nothing he could do. I was stuck being a Rebel for at least three more years. Utter. Fucking. Nightmare.

I take a sip of my beer and say, “Could be better.”

Carson winces. I’m sure he’s heard some of the shit I’ve gone through from Milly. “They really booed you every time you went up to bat?”

I nod. “Yeah. It’s pleasant,” I say sarcastically. “I remember listening to Derek Jeter once say that whenever he stepped foot in Boston and they booed him, he thrived off the collective sound because it meant that he was doing his job as an opponent. I took on the same way of thinking. Getting booed on an opponent’s turf is a compliment. But I’ll tell you this, being booed in your own stadium, by the fans wearing the same name on their chest as you, it’s a fucking gut punch.”

Milly gently presses her hand to my forearm. “They just know where you come from, where your allegiance is, having grown up in Chicago. They’re going to hold that against you for a while. Rebels fans are shitty like that.”

I nod, knowing how right Milly is. “Even knowing that didn’t help.” I pull my hand out of my pocket to scratch my jaw, a nervous tick when a piece of paper falls from my pocket to the ground.

Shit.

Carson picks it up before I can. When he sees what it is, he says, “Dude, you don’t read this shit, do you?”

Milly leans over to look at it and immediately frowns. “Cory, when have you ever looked at bad headlines?”

“Ever since it was my own team writing them,” I answer.

Carson steps closer and reads it out loud. “Rebels run for the pennant was a half-hearted try this year and there’s only one person to blame: Cory Potter. His high priced contract bruised and depleted all resources from the Rebels front office, leaving the fans wondering if they paid so much for the old man, why wasn’t he performing?” Carson stops there, crumples up the article, and says, “What a load of shit.”

Concerned, Milly says, “You were not to blame. The pitching staff couldn’t hold up toward the end of the season. It’s hard to win games when you have to score at least ten runs to get the W every time.”

“I agree, but they’re not going to blame the staff, especially with Maddox Paige at the helm. They’re going to blame me, the guy with the heavy contract who didn’t show up.”

“You’re one guy, even you can’t make or break the team. That’s why it’s called a team.” Milly rolls her eyes and I can tell she’s getting upset.

“And the guys? Are they at least cool?” Carson asks, changing the focus of our conversation.

“Assholes,” I mutter, keeping my voice down since some of them are in attendance. The nice ones. “Maddox Paige being one of the biggest assholes out of all of them.”

Carson agrees with a curt nod. “I could see that. He has a hell of an arm on the field and is a massive dick in the interviews.”

Carson looks over his shoulder and says, “Next year, Jason’s going to have one hell of a time catching him.”

“Jason’s going to be eaten alive by the fans.” I finish off my drink and hand it to a waiter that passes by with a tray. “He’s too nice. That’s why Rebels fans love Maddox so much, because he’s an ass and they thrive off the dickhead on the field.”