Chapter Fourteen

Chris knew they'd aired his pregame interview only because his phone blew up with notifications about it. Most were complimentary, although he knew they didn't mean much. They couldn't even be going off that many specifics, since, all told, he'd probably strung together no more than twenty words in a row.

He did feel a little bad for the interviewer. Sure, she'd heckled him at a game, but that already felt like a million years ago. He'd left the interview because he physically couldn't stand to be sitting in that chair, talking about himself, for a single minute longer. It hadn't been personal.

They'd won, and he was actually in a good mood, feeling relatively hopeful for the first time in a while. Gutierrez had hit a three-run homer to give them the lead in the seventh, and Beau had made an amazing play in center field for the last out. Now, he was anxious to get back to his phone, to see if Duckie had said anything else after he'd responded to her picture of Milo. He didn't know how to make her see that it was less about how she looked and more that he wanted to be able to put a face to their conversations. She was already starting to feel so real to him, but there was still a layer of distance that came from not being able to picture the person behind the words.

The field was clearing out, and he was about to head back to the clubhouse when something brought him up short. Randy, who'd been a step behind, made an exaggerated point of walking into his back.

"Come on, man," he said, laughing. "Keep it moving. Some of us have plans."

"Why is she here?"

"Who?" Randy glanced around when Chris pointed his chin over at the area near home plate, where a few bright lights and cameras were pointed toward a woman in a baby blue sheath dress. The dress looked vaguely familiar. The woman was definitely familiar.

"She's taking over for Layla," Randy said. "You didn't see her out there before the game? Wait, didn't you talk to her?"

The fact that Randy even knew about the pregame segment put a pit in Chris' stomach. It wasn't like they usually had the time—or frankly, the desire—to watch any of the extra broadcast stuff before a game started. Sometimes they played the pieces in the clubhouse, which always led to good-natured ribbing of whoever'd been in the hot seat that day, and if you were the focus of a segment, you'd watch it later with your family or friends no matter how many times you said you didn't care. But there was no reason for Randy to know about the interview he'd done—the interview he'd walked out of—yesterday unless it was already going around the clubhouse as another sign that he was losing it.

Or maybe he was being paranoid. He'd had a decent game today. Clean, at least—no errors, a walk, a single that had skipped right past the other team's second baseman.

"She's kinda cute," Randy said, tilting his head. "Not my usual type, but I could make an exception."

"Don't."

Chris only meant because obviously it would be a terrible idea to try to date someone you had to work with, but Randy gave him a little eyebrow raise. "You are a man on the move lately," he said, then held up his hands when Chris shot him a look. "Hey, much love, man. When the pitch is good, you gotta swing."

Chris started walking away, but Randy followed him, laughing. "Pitch, I said pitch. With a p. You want to go over there and talk to her? I'll back you up."

They'd wrapped up whatever segment they were filming—it looked like she'd interviewed Gutierrez, probably about that big home run. He was sure Gutierrez had given her much better sound bites than he had. The guy could be a low-key dick in the clubhouse, but he loved the spotlight.

"She shouldn't be here in the first place," Chris said. "Is that all it takes to get a job here now? Hell, get Piercing Whistle Guy an application."

Randy laughed, diffusing some of Chris' frustration. It was impossible not to laugh along with Randy when he got that expression on his face, like they were two cutups in after-school detention.

"That guy was the worst, man," he said.

"By the sixth inning I thought my head was going to explode," Chris said. "The sound just sliced right through. But hey, he got our attention, right? Make enough noise and you, too, can be on TV. I can film a segment with that guy where he asks me about what it's like to play through a debilitating headache."

"Yeah," Randy said, but his face had fallen slightly. "Kep—"

Chris mimed like he was holding a microphone. "I found it so inspiring how you achieved a frequency at the absolute highest range of human hearing. Fingers crossed, maybe tomorrow someone will spit on me. Then we can get all y'all out here for a round table—the whistler, the spitter, and my very own heckler."

"Kep—" Randy said again, and the expression on his face finally got Chris to turn around.

He'd had a sinking feeling before he saw her. It would be just his luck for her to be standing right behind him, and sure enough, there she was. She looked slightly different than the last time he'd seen her, he realized—something to do with her hair, which was a little less wild than when he'd talked with her before. Her mouth was also shinier, which confused him for a second until he remembered that lip gloss existed. Only after a beat did he realize he'd been staring at her mouth, looking at that freckle again, and he lifted his gaze to her eyes.

She'd definitely overheard what he'd said. Her face stayed perfectly still, but the light in those whiskey-colored eyes told him that she'd heard it all.

"I look forward to talking with Piercing Whistle Guy and Spitting Guy," she said. "Maybe they'll stay for the whole interview."

She spun on her heel and walked away before he could say anything else, sending something flying at his feet. He picked it up, frowning. A binder clip.

"Damn," Randy said. "That was hard to watch, not gonna lie. I tried to warn you."

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," Chris said gruffly, but he knew he'd been out of line.

"Neither did she," Randy pointed out.

And with that parting shot, Randy was already disappearing into the dugout, heading back into the entrance to the clubhouse. Normally, Chris would do the same, start his usual postgame routine of getting in the ice tub if he was particularly sore, getting a workout in if he wasn't, taking a shower and grabbing something to eat. But instead he looked down at the binder clip, then up at the direction where she'd headed. He closed his fist around the clip, and crossed the field to follow her.