Chapter Seventeen

It was almost a full week before Daphne had any chance to take Chris up on his offer. The days passed in a blur of prep work with Layla, more prep with the rest of the broadcast team, getting used to where to stand and how to dress and what to say. The Battery were playing a relatively uneventful afternoon game against the Rangers, and Chris was up to bat. Daphne paused in looking over her notes just because she always tried to catch his at-bats. If she could.

She still had to glance up at the scoreboard sometimes to confirm how many balls and strikes had been called, but at least she knew what to look for now. She was just glancing back to Chris when she saw the ball fly out of the pitcher's hand and hit Chris squarely in the side of the ribs.

He was on the ground so fast she barely had time to think about what she was doing. All she knew was that he wasn't getting up right away, and she couldn't stand to see him like that, clutching his side, twisting his body as he braced one leg against the dirt. She was halfway to home plate when she felt the cameraman's touch at the back of her elbow.

"If they want you to do an injury report, they'll tell you," he said. "For now, let the medical staff take a look."

"Right," she said. "I was just—"

But she realized there wasn't any explanation that would make more sense than the conclusion the cameraman had already jumped to, so she stopped herself before she made it worse. She watched as Chris got up under his own power—which she took as a good sign—and disappeared into the clubhouse for some imaging. It was another full inning before she got the report in her earpiece that he was fine, that he'd been pulled from the game as a precaution but was expected to be cleared to travel to Pittsburgh with the rest of the team. She hoped she delivered the news in a calm, matter-of-fact manner, but she supposed Layla would tell her later when she gave Daphne the rundown of her performance.

Of course, Chris coming out of the game had the side effect of putting him in the dugout for the rest of it, just watching. He spent some time leaning against the rail with a couple of the pitchers, but then eventually she looked up and saw that he'd taken a spot at the corner nearest the photographer's well where she normally stood. If she took two steps backward, his sleeve would brush her arm.

She leaned back a little. "Everything okay?"

He looked at her for a second, almost like he'd completely forgotten that only forty-five minutes before, he'd been hit by a baseball traveling over a hundred miles an hour.

"Your—" She made an awkward gesture toward her own rib area, and his gaze dropped for just a moment to where her hand lingered, then slid back up over her chest, her throat, her mouth, before landing somewhere near her ear.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. "Yeah," he said. "Just a bruise."

"It looked bad."

He'd taken off his jersey and was only wearing the athletic shirt he normally wore underneath. So it was a simple motion for him to peel the shirt up, showing a tanned expanse of skin over muscle until he reached the affected area, which was already turning an angry purple. Daphne swallowed, suddenly glad that there was the netting of the lower dugout between them, preventing her from doing something wild like reaching out to touch it. He seemed to realize then that he was showing her half his stomach, and he dropped his shirt again.

"I've had worse," he said.

Daphne was positive that it was obvious just how much she was leaning in to hear him over the noise of the game, how much she'd wanted to smooth her fingers over that bruise, how much she'd thought about how to make it better. There'd been that moment—the way his eyes had swept over her…but he'd just been tracking her own hand. If she wasn't careful, she was going to make a real fool of herself. She cast around for something to say, anything to bring their footing back to the professional.

"Why does Randy do that, with the batting helmets?"

Kendall had gotten a home run the previous inning, and Randy had done the same thing she'd seen him do on the tape and in other games, where he was waiting at the top of the dugout to lift the hitter's helmet off his head. He did it with a certain flourish, almost like a crowning, but in reverse.

"It's just a home run celebration," Chris said.

"Ah." Well, that much she'd figured.

The Battery's left fielder, Mitch, kept fouling off pitch after pitch, and both she and Chris watched the at-bat. Chris leaned over the railing, turning away from her to spit in the dirt. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she said, because she was used to it at this point, and they didn't usually bother to turn their heads. Or apologize. She'd noticed Chris liked to chew gum during games and would sometimes blow bubbles out at third base when nothing was happening, which she tried not to find cute.

She also noticed now that, after he'd leaned forward, he didn't return back to his former position as he picked up the thread about home run celebrations. "Lots of teams have even more elaborate ones. The Mariners have a six-foot-tall trident they parade around with." Mitch drew a walk, and they both watched him make his way to first base, giving the first base coach a fist bump. "Here's a tip for you—do not ask Mitch about the batting helmet thing."

That took Daphne by surprise. "Why not?"

Chris crossed his arms on the dugout railing, his elbow so close to her now that it brushed her arm. "He doesn't let Randy do it," he said. "He's sensitive. About his hair."

"Really?" Daphne had the impulse to laugh, which would surely be rude. It was just that it was unexpected, this big brawny man who played professional sports being that hung up on something like a receding hairline.

"One time he colored it in a team photo with a Sharpie."

That time Daphne couldn't help the small giggle that escaped her, although she immediately put her hand up to her mouth. When she glanced over at Chris, she thought she'd catch him smiling, but instead he was looking at her mouth again. Then his gaze lifted to hers and for a minute she was lost in his hazel eyes until he looked back toward the field.

"We all give him a hard time and he's a good sport about it," he said. "But yeah, it's a team thing and he does not want to be without a hat or batting helmet on TV if he can help it. Also, if you move a little to the left you'll be better protected from foul balls."

With that, Chris headed back toward the rest of the team in the dugout, stopping to fill a cup with some water before he took up another place farther down the rail. Daphne moved a few steps over like he'd suggested and glanced back up at the scoreboard, trying to reorient herself to what inning they were even in.

Daphne used the next travel day to meet up with Kim again, needing a bit of normalcy after the whirlwind of the last week. They met at a local pub they'd been to a few times before, with dark lighting and amazing chicken wings. They'd already spent an hour on breaking down Kim's latest Tinder disaster when Daphne's phone buzzed with a text. Before she could reach for it, Kim turned the phone toward her.

Kim raised her eyebrows. "Chris says he just got on the plane and it made him think of you. Are you still texting with that baseball player?"

Daphne grabbed for her phone, annoyed at her friend's nosiness even though she knew she had no right to be. They'd glanced at each other's phones countless times on nights out, laughing over a meme someone had sent or rolling their eyes at a last-minute request from one of Daphne's clients.

"Sometimes," she said. Every day. "Here and there."

"I would be the first person to tell you to climb that tree," Kim said. "You know I would. But doesn't it make it awkward now that you work together?"

Daphne took a sip of her drink, grimacing a little when the ice crashed against her teeth. "It's…complicated," she said.

"Complicated like…you're hooking up?"

"No!" Daphne said, a little too forcefully. People at a nearby table glanced over, trying to see what the commotion was about. "No," she repeated, quieter this time. "Nothing like that. We just, you know. Talk."

"Why does getting on a plane make him think of you?" The way Kim said it, it was almost like there was some innuendo in the question.

"The flights can be long, he gets bored, sometimes we text," Daphne said. "That's it."

"Ah," Kim said. "I'm starting to understand all those ‘late nights' you've been working."

Now Daphne was legitimately annoyed. She didn't know how many times she had to repeat herself, but she was also conscious that the more she did, the more it sounded like she was hiding something. And she was hiding something. Just not that.

"He doesn't even know that I work there, actually," she said before she could think better of it.

Kim had been right in the middle of a big bite of chicken wing, and she still had some sauce on her face when she finally got the words out. "Come again?"

"I originally messaged Chris as duckiesbooks on Instagram," she said. "I mean, we moved it to text, but. He knows me as duckiesbooks."

Kim carefully wiped her face and each finger with her napkin, as though she needed the break to figure out what to say. "So he texts you as…what does he think your name is?"

Daphne felt her neck grow hot, and she knew it wasn't from the chicken wings. She was a total wimp and always ordered mild. "Duckie."

"But meanwhile you see him almost every day as…Daphne?"

"Yes," she said. "Obviously I go by my real name at work."

"I don't think you get to use the word obvious here," Kim said. "What were you thinking? This kind of dishonesty isn't like you, Daph."

She knew her friend was right. It was the reason she'd had a pit in her stomach for the past couple weeks, and it wasn't going away. At the same time, she didn't know how to explain herself without sounding pathetic. In so many ways, those text messages seemed like the most honest version of herself there was. She liked having someone to reveal herself to, someone who seemed to relish that reveal like each new detail was something special. She liked getting to know him on a deeper level than she probably ever could've if they'd met face-to-face first.

"I know," she said finally, pressing her fingers to her temples like this was a headache she could make go away. "God, I know."

"Listen, you know I'm pro you getting back out there," Kim said. "But, like, swiping right. Messing around. Dating even. Not catfishing. And not with some guy you have absolutely zero chance of a future with."

That got Daphne to lift her head. "What do you mean by that?"

"Come on," Kim said. "He's a professional athlete. He makes stupid money throwing a ball around and probably has just as many women throwing themselves at him. It's nothing against you. It's just…how's it going to be when the novelty wears off, you know? And you're stuck in another Justin situation where you worship the ground he walks on and he barely even thinks about you."

Kim signaled the waitress for a refill on her drink, like she hadn't just thrown a bomb in the middle of the table. And who knew. Maybe she was right. Maybe she saw the situation clearer than Daphne ever could.

The minute Daphne got back to her apartment, she unhooked her bra from under her thin tank, slid off the skirt she'd put on to go out, and put back on her favorite dinosaur pajamas. She curled up on her bed, grateful when Milo immediately jumped up to lie next to her, even if he did go with the butthole-in-her-face orientation he seemed to vastly prefer.

She didn't like to think that the text conversations with Chris were just a novelty for him, but she supposed it was possible—that he was briefly taken with the idea of corresponding with someone who didn't want anything from him as a baseball player, and it would wear off. These texts felt so real to her, but of course, she had the benefit of knowing who she was talking to. She had no idea how they felt to him.

Daphne grabbed her cell phone off her nightstand, opening up Chris' last text. At this point, hours had passed since it had come in, and the words just sat there, seeming to have gained extra portent with the passing time.

Just got on the plane—made me think of you.

They were playing in Pittsburgh that week, so it wouldn't be too long of a flight. Probably he would've already landed by now, which would mean he'd be asleep in a hotel room. Or he'd be down at the hotel bar with some of the other guys, letting women lean in and ask suggestive questions about rounding the bases. She'd heard stories, especially about the other single guys like Randy and Beau. She hadn't heard any stories about Chris, but that didn't mean there weren't any. Kim had a point—he was a professional athlete. Daphne had no idea what that world looked like.

She was half-tempted to text him something suggestive herself, like just got into bed—made me think of you. She even started to type it, before deleting the words. Who was she kidding. She could never pull that kind of thing off.

Instead she texted, You still around?

His response came in quick, a single word. Yup.

Now that she knew she had him, she just had to think of what she wanted to say. She was feeling almost too many emotions to express them all. She wanted to tell him everything, from the very beginning. She wanted to beg his forgiveness and tell him how much it would cost her to lose his friendship. Because it would cost her, so much that she felt a physical ache in her stomach at the thought.

Maybe it was that ache that made her type, I wanted to let you know how much it's meant to me, to have someone to talk to. Not just someone—you. My days are easier to get through because I know you're on the other end of these messages.

There was more she could say, but already it was feeling like a lot, so she pressed send.

C: Same. And it's not just having someone for me, either. It's you.

Well, fuck. She felt that stir in her lower belly, a confusing sensation alongside the churn of guilt his words also caused. What would he actually think if he knew she was…her?

D: If you knew me in real life, you wouldn't say that.

C: I want to know you in real life. You have no idea how badly.

C: Last night, I actually dreamed about you.

Daphne thought back to the game yesterday, that purple bruise on his ribs, that stretch of stomach, the way he'd turned his head to spit. None of those things should take up so much space in her brain, and yet there they were, playing over and over…

Jesus, she'd had dreams about him, too.

D: How would you even know it was me?

C: What can I say, dream logic. But it was definitely you.

Daphne remembered once reading a theory that you could only see people you'd seen in real life in your dreams. That they were recorded memories—deeply subconscious, perhaps, but all based in fact, not fiction. But she also believed in the power of the human imagination, so she never knew if she subscribed to that theory or not.

The idea that Chris might connect this alter ego with the real her even in a dream, as if his subconscious was doing the investigative work for him…it had never even occurred to her. The idea terrified her but also filled her with a kind of relief.

D: What happened in the dream?

The dots appeared, then disappeared, before reappearing again. She assumed he was typing a long narrative, and waited patiently for it to come in, but when the text finally came it was a single line.

C: Can I call?

Daphne sat up so fast that Milo jumped off the bed, slinking off toward the bathroom in the most melodramatic put-upon manner. He slipped into the cabinet under the sink, which she couldn't use for its intended purpose for this very reason—it was his favorite hiding spot for when he was feeling his most emo, so she couldn't very well put all her cleaning products under there.

Just like she couldn't very well talk to Chris on the phone, when surely he'd recognize her voice from work.

D: It's not a good time, sorry.

She hated how dismissive that looked on her screen, so she rushed to think of a credible explanation.

D: My apartment walls are super thin—I try not to make any noise after ten.

It wasn't a lie…but it definitely sounded like one, even to her. If she had to listen to her neighbor blast entrepreneurial podcasts on speakerphone at six a.m., then he could stand to hear a murmured conversation once in a while.

C: No problem. My hand just hurts a little and it was a lot to type.

She hated that his hand was bothering him. That wasn't even an official injury or anything she'd been made aware of on the prep sheets, just something that obviously plagued him from time to time.

D: Do you want to call and tell me, and I'll just listen?

It was a risky proposition that she was already second-guessing when her phone lit up in her hand, vibrating with a call. She picked it up, biting back the automatic hello that almost came out of her mouth. She should've suggested he send voice notes instead. Why hadn't she thought of that?

Because she wanted the immediacy of having him right there, on the other side of the phone. Even when she knew it was dangerous.

"Hi," he said, that voice right in her ear. Then he laughed, low and intimate. It made her toes curl. "Can you at least say hi back? Just so I know someone's there? This is a little weird."

"Hi," she whispered, her voice sounding so rusty that she almost cleared her throat and tried again. But maybe it was better that she sounded as little like herself as possible.

"Hi," he said again. "So about this dream. First of all, I do want to warn you that it gets a little…I don't know what the right word is. Not sexual. Sensual, maybe. It gets a little sensual."

Daphne sank back down into the bed. For being silent, she suddenly felt like this was the loudest call she'd ever been on. She felt like he could probably hear her breathing and her heartbeat through the phone.

"I don't want to continue if that makes you uncomfortable," he said. "Can you confirm if you're okay for me to continue? Just say yes so I know."

It took every effort for her to keep her voice modulated. "Yes," she said, the single husky syllable vibrating in her throat.

"Okay," he said. "It starts with me walking through this forest, and it's beautiful—all sunlight coming through the trees, birds calling to each other, just this peaceful nature scene. I get the feeling I've been walking for a while, and I'm starting to get tired. I can't explain it, because I don't feel lost or afraid or anything like that, but the scenery never changes and after a while it doesn't seem as beautiful. It's just there."

She made a small sound of affirmation, just to show she was listening.

"And then I come to this clearing, and there you are. You're eating strawberries directly from your hands, and the juices are running through your fingers, down your chin."

Dream me has about the same table manners as real me, she almost joked, then bit her lip. She wanted so badly to ask what she looked like. What did a dream version of her look like, to him?

As if sensing her question, he laughed a little. "I don't know how your dreams are, but I don't always see every detail crystal clear. So like the pine needles beneath my feet felt so real, but you're a little blurrier. It was less about what you looked like and more about the feeling of you. Not unlike the way we've been talking, actually."

And how do Ifeel? she wanted to ask, but of course she couldn't.

"Anyway, you're eating strawberries," he continued. "And you hold out your hands, to offer me some. And I say, I'm allergic—I really am, by the way. My throat completely swells up. But you just say, No you're not. And then you kiss me."

Great. She was some kind of fruit assassin. And then what happens? she wanted to ask, and again he seemed to anticipate her question.

"And then I wake up. But the weirdest thing is that I felt like I could taste the strawberries, could feel that stickiness on my mouth. Even though I probably haven't had one since I was seven years old, for obvious reasons, so I don't see how I would even remember what they taste like."

He was quiet for a minute, and they just sat like that, on the phone together but not saying a word. It was surprisingly erotic. She wondered if he was feeling the same way, or if all this tension was completely one-sided.

D: That dream is a little sexual.

There was a slight delay as he obviously had to check the text message, and when he came back his voice had a rasp to it that buzzed right down to her clit like a live wire. "Ah," he said. "Yeah. I definitely—sorry."

D: Why are you sorry?

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

D: You didn't.

She thought about the pulse between her legs, how badly she wanted to touch herself, how badly she wished he would touch her. In the past two weeks, they'd flirted a bit, skated close—sometimes so close—to taking it over that edge. She'd always held back. She'd always had good reasons to, the same reasons that Kim had been warning her about earlier that night and still existed now. But suddenly she didn't want to hold back anymore.

D: I mean, you did make me uncomfortable. Just in a different way.

"Oh?" The way he said that word, she knew he understood what she was saying. She wanted to be bold enough to spell it out, to tell him what she wanted to do, to ask him if he'd woken up from that dream dying to come. But she couldn't imagine typing those words out, couldn't imagine saying them aloud even if she wasn't trying not to speak on this phone call. The best she could do was tell him she had to go.

D: Don't worry, I'll take care of it. Hanging up now.

"Wait," he said.

Daphne gripped the phone, her palm already slick.

"Don't hang up. Please."

She swallowed. She couldn't do what he was asking, for so many reasons. It was wrong. But then the very fact that it felt wrong only made it more exciting, and she was torn between what she knew she shouldn't do and what she really, desperately wanted to give in to.

"I'll tell you every way I've imagined this," Chris said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll tell you everything I want you to do. I know you have to be quiet—but I don't."

She kicked her covers off, suddenly way too warm with them draped over her. She wanted exactly what he was describing, could already imagine the things he could say in that voice of his that would make her come in a matter of seconds. But it also felt too vulnerable—both for her but also for him. What would he think if he knew who she was, who he was saying those things to?

D: No talking.

She hesitated before sending the next message.

D: But I won't hang up.