Chapter Twenty-Six

The energy had changed when Chris stepped back out into Daphne's hotel room. He couldn't explain how or why, but suddenly any ideas he'd had about climbing into bed with her, going for another round either before or after they fell asleep, all seemed wrong to even think about, much less bring up. He supposed that was what they had talked about—a clear arrangement, on the road only, just two people who were obviously attracted to each other blowing off some steam.

"I should get going," he said, picking his clothes up off the floor. "BP is early tomorrow."

Daphne looked so small in the huge bed, the sheet pulled up to her armpits. "Of course," she said. "I'll see you then."

He yanked his T-shirt down over his head, shooting her a look. He was fully dressed now, but the way she was staring at him was like he was still stark naked. If he didn't get out of that room in the next two minutes, he didn't know that he'd have the strength to leave.

She flushed, as if realizing she'd been caught out. "I mean, I won't see you at batting practice. But after. When the game starts."

He had his hand on the door handle before he paused, turning back. "You know, we're in Chicago next."

"I saw that."

"Still on the road, technically."

She bit the corner of her lip, as if holding back a smile. He didn't know until then how much he'd needed that—some sign that things were okay between them, that they hadn't ruined whatever tentative friendship they might have by sleeping together.

"I've always heard Chicago is a really cool city," she said.

"It is."

She did smile then, her entire face lit up in an expression that took his breath away.

"Too bad we won't get to see much of it," she said.

By the time the Battery headed back to Charleston, they were on a three-game winning streak, which would've been a normal sweep for another team but which felt pretty momentous for them after their season up to that point. Chris had never felt so amped up in his life, not just during the games but after, when he thought about how much time he had to spend doing the typical postgame routine of interviews, workouts, and food before he could show up at Daphne's hotel room door.

They'd had sex in the bed multiple times, on a chair, in the shower, against the wall. She'd given him a blow job in front of the mirror and just the image of her on her knees, his hand lost in the wild curls at the back of her head, had been enough to make him have to take care of himself the next morning, too. He never slept over, or even mentioned it—after that impulse the first night they'd been together, he'd figured that their arrangement couldn't be clearer. She seemed to want to keep it to sex only, like they'd discussed, and he…

He didn't know what he wanted.

The players jumped on a charter plane directly after their last night game in Chicago, while the broadcast team caught their own flights on a different schedule, which meant he never got the chance to say goodbye to Daphne before they left. He didn't know why that bothered him—it wasn't like they wouldn't see each other again, in less than twenty-four hours. But it did.

He checked his phone automatically once he was seated on the plane, although he didn't know who he'd be expecting a text from. He hadn't heard from his father in days—weird, how he heard more from the man when he was doing badly than when he was doing well—and of course Duckie had gone radio silent a while ago. It only just now occurred to him that he and Daphne had never exchanged numbers, which seemed like a colossal oversight.

Randy crashed into the seat next to Chris, jostling his shoulder as Randy leaned over to peek at Chris' phone screen. "Still talking to your girl?" he asked. "She sent nudes yet?"

Chris slid his phone into the front pocket of his backpack at his feet. "If you're not careful people will take you seriously and think you're an asshole," he said.

Randy let out that staccato-fire laugh he gave when someone in the clubhouse had come up with a particularly good roast, and Chris couldn't help it. It was hard to stay mad at Randy, even in a playful way, when he laughed like that. "Nah, but seriously, man. You're, like." He made some gesture with his fingers around Chris' face, which against all odds Chris actually understood. "Brillante."

Talking to Randy about any of it would be the worst possible idea. The man had all the discretion of a Times Square billboard. And yet.

"Have you ever had feelings for more than one person at the same time?"

"Hell yeah," Randy said. "When I was in the minors and bumming around El Paso, I met these two chicks at the county fair and—"

"Never mind," Chris said. "Forget I asked."

Randy sobered up, like he finally understood that Chris was trying to have a serious conversation. "So you got your texting lady, and then you got…?"

"I met someone else." Chris knew he had to be careful about what exactly he said. "In…real life, I guess. Not just over the phone."

Randy's eyebrows rose. "Do they know about each other?"

"I don't talk to the text one anymore."

"Oh." Randy pursed his lips, his eyes moving around the plane like he was literally searching for an answer. "So…no problema. Move on."

Right. When Randy put it like that, it seemed easy. And wasn't that what Chris had done? He'd moved on approximately nine separate times.

"Look," Randy said, gesturing at Chris' face again. "Whoever has you like this? That's the one."

Then he punched Chris in the arm, which took him by surprise more than actually hurt, but still Chris made a show of rubbing his bicep. Randy let out that staccato laugh again.

"Plus," he said. "You're actually hitting the ball for once in your sorry life. Whatever—or whoever—you're doing? Keep doing it."