Chapter Twenty-Two

I trust you. It had been two weeks since Chris had spoken those words, and still they echoed in Daphne's head. They put a pit in her stomach if she thought about them too hard, but she was determined to earn his trust with this walk-up song idea at least. She'd talked it through with Layla and Greg, and they'd figured out how the voting would work and the various segments they'd film to promote the poll and showcase the result after the All-Star break. She also didn't know if the two things were connected, but Greg had told her that she'd been cleared to start traveling with the team for their next road trip.

Since first suggesting the walk-up song idea, she'd had minimal interactions with Chris on the project. She'd gotten her car fixed, so there'd been no need for any more rides, and although she'd seen him around the ballpark, she'd gone out of her way to avoid him except for when on camera. For his part, he'd asked her a few polite questions about the car repairs and once about her cat, but he seemed just fine with not talking to her beyond that. She tried not to let it hurt—she was avoiding him, after all, so she couldn't be upset if he was doing the same, any more than she could be upset that he was no longer talking to Duckie after making his position on the whole anonymous thing clear. But that was the problem about feelings. You couldn't just will them away with logic.

There had been way too many close calls that last day when he'd driven her to the ballpark. The more time they spent together in person, the more she questioned what she'd told him as Duckie, what she'd told him as Daphne, what he'd told her, when she'd mess up and say something that would give the whole thing away. So the less they interacted, the better.

She missed it, though. She missed his texts. She missed him.

It didn't help that all she'd been doing for this segment was talking about him. Now she was in the clubhouse with the camera crew, sitting down to talk to Randy Caminero about the song he'd choose for Chris.

"What kind of guy is Chris Kepler?" she asked, a question she'd tossed out to all his teammates she'd interviewed so far. The answers had mostly been variants of "quiet," "thoughtful," "steady." They'd talked about his work ethic, how seriously he took the game. He was generally well thought of by the team. She wondered if he knew that.

"Chris!" Randy said now, his eyes lighting up. "That's my boy, for real. He's…what can I say about Chris, man. When the benches cleared last week, he was the first one there and the only one who could've held me back from a fight. He's a good friend. Sometimes he comes across as reserved, but he's kind of an open book, you know?"

She actually wasn't sure she did know. In her experience, Chris seemed to keep large parts of his life to himself. "What do you mean?"

"I've just never met anyone who cares more than Chris Kepler. About the game, about other people, you name it, he genuinely cares. Unfortunately, he apparently doesn't care enough about his dignity to pick his own walk-up song, so I gotta go with—"

They had to cut Randy's first choice. And second. And third.

"This will air at twelve thirty on a Sunday afternoon," Daphne said, laughing so hard she could barely get the words out. "Kids could have a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly, asking, ‘Dad, what does WAP mean?'?"

"So we're promoting bonding and communication," Randy said. "What's the problem?"

"And sex ed, apparently," Daphne said, wiping the tears out of her eyes.

Just then, Chris walked in the clubhouse, glancing between the two of them before looking at the camera guy.

"Sorry," he said. "I can come back."

"No, no," she said. "Stay. Randy and I were just talking about—"

She'd been about to say your walk-up song, but Randy cut in before she could finish.

"—Sexual pleasure," he said, giving Daphne a wink. "Hers, in this case."

"Not mine specifically," Daphne said, aware of how that sounded. "Just the woman's in general."

That didn't sound much better. She didn't know how Randy got away with saying such outrageous things, but somehow he did. Even now, she didn't feel threatened or uncomfortable with his blatant innuendo. There was a friendly vibe to it, like they were just joking around, not that there was anything actually sexual about what they were talking about.

The minute Chris had walked in, on the other hand…suddenly the whole topic felt charged. She couldn't forget the time they'd both come while on the phone together. And she still hadn't forgotten the way it had sounded when he'd said that word in his car. Pussy. Just thinking about his voice wrapped around those two syllables…well, she'd barely had to use her vibrator for more than a couple minutes.

"We're almost done here," she said now, hoping her voice sounded crisp and normal. "I've already spoken to several other Batteries players and staff. After that, we'll get off a quick interview with you and then…"

She noticed both guys were staring at her. Randy seemed like he was trying to hold back a grin but doing a terrible job of it, and finally he stood up, slapping the camera guy on the back. "Let's leave them to get off that interview," Randy said, the almost imperceptible pause he put before the last two words still ringing in the room after he and the camera guy left.

"What?" she asked.

Chris' cheeks were streaked with a noticeable slash of pink.

"Uh, you said Batteries." He cleared his throat, his gaze lifting to hers. "Instead of Battery."

Now it was her turn for her cheeks to heat. Any other time, she could've played it off as a minor flub, an error that she knew happened all the time to Battery players and they'd learned to take with good-natured humor. That's what we get for being the only team without a plural s name, she'd heard the outfielder Beau say, to which catcher Kendall would say, What about the Red Sox? The White Sox? and Beau would hiss, Red sockssssss, come on, you hear it, same difference.

It would've been a little embarrassing, given that she was the team reporter and shouldn't make such an obvious error, but whatever. She'd live with it.

But given how red her face probably was, the way she was only now hearing the way she'd said we'll get off a quick…No wonder Randy had left with that parting comment.

"Whoops," she said faintly.

"It happens," he said. "One guest commentator got through two whole innings on Sunday Night Baseball before anyone thought to correct him."

With that, he signaled that he was going to treat her mistake like it had been a run-of-the-mill verbal mix-up, which she appreciated. She should've taken that as her cue to shut up, but for some reason, she couldn't stop the words coming out of her mouth even as her brain looked on in aghast horror.

"Obviously I wouldn't use anything with batteries," she said. "I live in the modern era. All my toys are rechargeable with USB." That made it sound like she ran a veritable sex shop out of her tiny apartment. "Not all like I have a million or anything like that. I mean like a couple. That are rechargeable. And then, um, one that's…"

She trailed off. Her brain had completely given up on her, gotten a new identity and was somewhere down in Mexico.

"…analog."

He took a step closer to her. "Why are you telling me this?"

"That's a great question," she said. A prickling heat had started to spread over her limbs, making her want to sink back down into one of the chairs, but something made her stand her ground. "I have no idea."

His fingers brushed her skirt, causing the gauzy fabric to flutter against her skin. She could imagine the pressure of his hand at her waist, the firm way he'd hold her, and she swayed slightly toward him.

But the kiss never came. Instead, he pulled back, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"I, uh." His hazel eyes were dark as they briefly met hers, before he looked away. "I gotta go."

And she was left standing there in the clubhouse by herself, wondering what the hell had just happened.