Chapter Twelve

Chris stood in one of the showers, fully clothed, leaning against the tile wall and trying to catch his breath. He didn't know what had happened—one minute, he'd been in the middle of doing the interview. The next, he felt like he couldn't breathe.

The last few minutes of the interview were a blur. He could barely remember how he'd even gotten to the shower, although he must've had the presence of mind to consider that it was one of the few places he might get some privacy.

He'd known the interview would be a bad idea. His agent had called him earlier that day, wanting to give him some last-minute guidance on how to answer some of the questions. People want to feel like they're part of the game, she'd said, when she'd told him how to respond to the question they knew would be coming about the heckling. But you're also a professional and people need to see that you're going to do your job regardless.

The fact that he'd apparently gotten to the point where she felt like she had to remind him of that kind of thing was concerning by itself. He'd been giving interviews since high school, even more after he'd been picked in the sixth round of the draft after college. Of course he would do his job. Wasn't that all he'd been doing? Keeping his head down and playing baseball like everyone wanted him to?

Part of it had definitely been her. His heckler. Greg had said her name, he realized, but he hadn't caught it. He'd been too busy clocking various details about her appearance, things that surprised him even though he'd seen her at the game, and then later in the shaky cell phone footage of her getting booed out of the Charleston bar. Her reddish-brown hair was curly, and either she hated it in her face or it was a nervous habit, because she kept pushing it behind one ear while she'd been asking him questions. But the curls were stubborn, always springing back to brush her cheek when she glanced down again at one of her cards. Her bare arms had been covered in freckles, and there was a particular freckle right at the corner of her mouth that he'd been afraid to stare at too long, in case she thought he was coming on to her.

Then there had been that surreal moment, when she'd looked up at him for the first time. It couldn't have lasted any longer than a few seconds. And yet it felt like time had slowed down, stretched like taffy. Her eyes were brown but had glowed almost amber under the lights, and for a minute he'd forgotten why they were sitting across from each other in the first place.

So she was pretty. It didn't change anything, and it certainly wasn't the reason he was now hiding out in the bathroom, his heart still galloping in his chest.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, idly clicking through a few apps while he tried to distract himself. Before he knew it, he'd pulled up the text exchange with Duckie again, his final Thanks sitting at the end like a stone.

Okay, so her divorce…how had she put it? Did quite a number on me. She wasn't ready for another relationship. He respected that, was grateful she'd been transparent about it. Now that the option was off the table, he could fully admit how far he'd let his imagination go down that path. That kind of thinking would've always been ridiculous, even if she hadn't put a stop to it—his career kept him way too busy, he needed to focus, he didn't even know her, and on and on.

At the same time, he really could use a friend. And right now, she was the only person he could think to text.

"Hit Me with Your Best Shot"?he typed. Not sure I want to issue that direct of a challenge, but could be funny.

Maybe he should start leaning into pitches more. It might improve his on-base percentage, at least.

Her response appeared almost immediately.

Don't judge me but I hate that song. I feel like you only ever hear it at a rowdy late-night bar or in the dentist chair.

And then, a few seconds later:

What are you up to?

He sank down to the floor of the shower, bringing his knees up so he could lean against the tile wall. It was probably disgusting, no matter how spotless the clubhouse crew kept everything, but he had to change out of his uniform anyway. And right then, he just couldn't bring himself to care.

C: Ever since we started talking, I've been thinking about something. It all started with a book, you know. This whole baseball thing.

D: Really? What book?

C: I don't remember the title, but it's probably still in a box at my dad's house. How Baseball Works, something like that.

D: So basically you…studied to be a baseball player?

He rubbed his hand over his chin, trying to remember what the cover had looked like. It had appeared almost like a textbook, he remembered that. Oversized and heavy, large blocky letters on a white background, a stock photo of an old baseball in the center. It had broken down the sport section by section—the history, the way the equipment had evolved over the years, rule changes, famous players, scandals and statistics, anything you could possibly want to know.

C: We lived really close to the public library, and my dad would let my brother and me walk there by ourselves. I was maybe six years old, he was nine. I'm pretty sure the copy I own is the same one from the library—I kept checking it out until eventually I never returned it. Which, come to think of it, might be why I don't have as many memories of going to the library when I was older. It was technically a grown-up book, but I could barely read most of the words. I just liked the pictures.

D: That's adorable.

C: By the time I stepped foot on a field, it felt like I'd been dreaming about baseball for so long. Every night in bed, I was turning those pages, running the bases in my mind.

His brother had loved the book, too. But it had been different for him—he truly was a student of the sport. He wanted to know all the players' names and their stats and how each team was doing. He could wow adults with his knowledge of iconic historical moments from decades before he'd been born. But when it came to playing, Tim's talent for the game had been average, and his motivation to keep going maybe below that. For a while, his dad had pushed both of them the same amount, enrolled them in the same travel leagues, and somehow managed to always seem like he was in the stands at both of their games even though Chris knew logistically there had to be times when he'd had to choose one over the other. And then, as they got older and the distance between their abilities became more and more stark, his dad had started focusing more of his energies on Chris.

It made Chris feel disloyal to his brother, to even have those thoughts. It made him feel worse when he thought about all the times when they'd been younger, when he'd relished the extra attention his playing had gotten from their dad. The way it had made him feel special.

C: I've also been thinking a lot about what you said last night. About your divorce, and how you're still hurting. I don't want to push you into anything you're not ready for. But Duckie, I could really use someone to talk to right now. And something tells me you could, too.

The wait for her response felt like ages. The shower had seemed mostly dry when he'd sat down, but by now a vague hint of dampness was starting to seep through his uniform pants. This was definitely disgusting. He had to get out of there.

D: You're right.

C: So you're in?

He was staring at his phone, waiting for her reply, when he heard Randy's voice outside the shower.

"Yo, Kep!" he said. "I know you're in here. You trying to save the planet or something?"

If Chris ignored him, he'd go away. How long did it take for someone to respond to a text?

"I'm as concerned about global warming as the next guy," Randy said. "But that shit's systemic, man. You're not gonna save enough with soap-only showers to make up for, like, the oil spills in the Gulf."

Chris saw Randy's hand reach around the shower curtain, feeling for the nozzle, but seconds too late to react. Suddenly cold water was streaming down on top of him, matting his hair against his head and soaking through his uniform.

"Holy shit!" Chris shouted, holding his phone out of the splash zone while he jumped out of the shower. "What the hell, Randy?"

Randy stepped back, his hand over his mouth in an exaggerated expression of shock. Or maybe he was just trying not to lose it laughing. It really could go either way.

"Why so decked out to take a shower? You're not"—now he was definitely laughing—"you're not one of those people, are you? Those never-nudes?"

Chris unbuttoned his jersey and took it off, wringing the water out of it back into the shower pan, more to make a point in front of Randy than for anything else. "You've seen me naked, Randy." It was a locker room. It was inevitable that they'd all seen each other in various stages of undress.

"I know, man, which is why I know you have nothing to be ashamed of," Randy said. "You probably get a complex, with me walking around here, but you're perfectly—"

Chris pulled a face, snapping Randy with his wet jersey. "Shut the fuck up," he said. "If you ruined my phone, you're going to pay for it."

"Oh, shit," Randy said, looking genuinely contrite for the first time. "Is it okay?"

Chris swiped to wake it back up, relieved when everything seemed to work without a hitch. And on his screen was a text from Duckie, her response to his question from before.

I'm in.

He grinned, only looking up when he heard Randy grunt from right next to his ear.

"I knew you had a girl," he said, not even trying to hide that he'd been reading over Chris' shoulder.

"She's just a friend," Chris said.

Randy made a face like, sure she is. He definitely didn't believe Chris for a minute, but that was okay. Chris didn't believe himself yet, either, but he would. He'd have to.