Chapter Three

Chris leaned his head back against his seat and closed his eyes. Beau had brought his Bluetooth speaker again, which meant that electronic music was pulsing through the plane like they were in a club flying thirty thousand feet. Earlier, one of the rookies had been sliding up and down the aisle on a flattened cardboard box like it was a sled. He'd come through on all the alcohol he was supposed to bring as one of his rookie duties, so everyone was in an indulgent mood. Or maybe just a mood to distract themselves from the fact that, thanks to today's game, they were officially in last place in their division.

Thanks to him. No one had said it directly to his face—it takes a team to win, it takes a team to lose, et cetera, et cetera—but everyone seemed fine giving him his space.

Or at least they had been. Randy Caminero, the Battery's twenty-five-year-old shortstop, slid next to Chris, nudging him with his elbow.

"They're crazy back there, man," he said.

"Yeah."

"You still down about the game? Don't be, man, it happens."

Chris felt like the only thing he could think to say was another lackluster yeah. So instead he stayed silent. But the thing about Randy, for better or worse, was that he'd never met a silence he wasn't afraid to power right through.

"What did that chick say to you anyway?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he had a headache. Hell, maybe he did have a headache. It was hard to tell. This might just be how he felt now.

Christopher Robin. He didn't want to think about it.

That moment was on SportsCenter, people were talking about it on social media, tomorrow there would be any number of sports analysis shows debating the natural passion that came with playing versus athletes needing to get over themselves versus overpaid crybabies versus toxic masculinity versus who knew what else. Already his phone had been blowing up with text messages, calls, notifications—mostly people in his life who were well-meaning, but who had no particular claim to any insider information. There were only two phone calls that mattered, and he'd ignored both of them.

His father had followed up by text with a terse Call me, while his agent had at least left a voicemail. Chris—it might make sense to talk some strategy, given what's going on. Here for you.

His agent wasn't a bad person, but she didn't even know what was "going on." And Chris wasn't naive. His agent was "there" to protect her asset as much as she was there to support her athlete.

Randy seemed to understand that he wasn't going to get an answer to his question, and moved on. "Hey, I got a buddy in LA who's got the hookup on some hot spots around town. You want in?"

Thirty-two wasn't old. But it felt old, especially in baseball. Chris tried to remember the last time he'd had the energy to make late-night plans during a road series in the middle of the week. His usual routine after a game, whether he was at home or away—maybe hit the weight room, stretch out with the trainer, get a shower, grab some food, head back to his condo or the hotel. Days could pass by in a monotonous blur of routines, the only difference being what color jersey he was wearing and which pitchers he faced and whether or not reporters cared to talk to him after the game.

Maybe going out with the guys was exactly what he needed.

"Sure," he said. "Thanks."

"Oh, shit!" Randy said, so loudly that Chris startled a little in his seat. "Sorry, I just didn't expect you to actually be down."

Great. So it had been a pity invite. "I don't have to—"

"No, no, no." Randy cut him off with a shake of his head. "This is sick. What kind of music you like? Techno, house, hip-hop, trip-hop…You know what, don't worry about it, I got it covered. We're gonna take this series and then we'll have some fun, am I right?"

Chris hoped he was right. But he had a sinking, superstitious feeling nonetheless, like maybe he shouldn't actually say it out loud. He settled for a short, noncommittal laugh before picking up his phone again, scrolling through it like he was looking for something in particular. Eventually, one of the guys in the back called for Randy, and the younger guy went off to join them, leaving Chris alone again.

Checking social media would be the absolute worst thing to do, like touching a stove you knew would be hot. So of course that was the first place Chris went. He had over three hundred notifications from the last time he'd checked, and a quick skim confirmed that most were people tagging him into their hot takes on what had happened at the game earlier.

if I was batting .173, I'd cry, too

watch them make some "mental health" thing out of this #snowflakes

that bitch should've been thrown out of the game

Chris frowned. As much as he didn't love reading all the hate directed his way, he didn't want it directed toward that fan, either. As far as he could tell, no one had identified her to make her name part of the public conversation, and he hoped it stayed that way. Intellectually, he didn't blame her—he'd been heckled way worse before, and would probably get heckled more in the future, especially if he continued on the slide he'd been on lately.

Emotionally, though…

Christopher Robin. It had been what his brother used to call him, when they were kids. He hadn't yet started to shorten his name, because their mother hadn't liked it—I named you Christopher for a reason, she used to say. Back when she'd still been a part of his life anyway—she'd left when he was barely in elementary school, and he'd had very little contact with her since. But Winnie the Pooh had been one of his favorites as a toddler, so it had been an obvious nickname. He hadn't heard it in years, decades, but the minute he'd heard it shouted by that fan it had immediately brought him back. To a time when he was young, and hopeful.

To a time when his brother was alive.

He clicked over to Instagram. Normally, he didn't find it particularly restful to scroll through a bunch of people's random pictures, but right now he welcomed the distraction. A friend he kept up with had posted a few photos of him and his girlfriend hiking in Zion National Park, so he liked those, which would probably have him spinning out since Chris so often only lurked on social media. His agent had all his password information and occasionally posted a photo to his own feed, usually one provided by the team's Publicity Department or a repost of local media coverage. She always sent him a text, asking him any caption he wanted to include, but he rarely answered.

His DMs would be a cesspool just like his other notifications, but he opened them up anyway. No one he knew sent him messages via social media, because they were aware that he rarely checked it. There actually weren't as many message requests from today as he might've thought. It seemed most of the people who wanted to yell at him were over on other sites and hadn't yet thought to cross platforms. He started from the top and swiped to delete each of the unread messages, until one caught his eye.

His thumb hovered over the preview of the message. I'm sorry about your pain. I don't pretend

He almost swiped to delete it, but something made him click to open it instead.

I'm sorry about your pain, it began, just like in the preview, before continuing on.

I don't pretend to know what you might be going through. Maybe it's just about baseball, or maybe there's more to it than that. Maybe it's not "just" baseball when it's your job and your life. I don't know.

I do know what it's like to feel overwhelmed and sad. Lately it feels like I can't think too hard about what's already happened, and I can't think too hard about what might happen in the future. I have to stay aggressively in the present just to get through my day. Is that what all those yoga influencer accounts have been trying to say this whole time?

Chris surprised himself with his own snort of laughter. Then he schooled his features back into neutrality, not that anyone was even paying attention to him. It was second nature by this point.

Luckily, I work from home, so if I cry on the job nobody has to know. Well, except for my cat, Milo. He gives me the judgiest looks, like he can't believe I would be so unprofessional. But to be fair, that might just be how his face is. I'm not trying to resting-bitch-face-shame my cat. I also don't have jerks coming to my workplace and shouting random shit at me! If you wanted to heckle me, I guess you could call me out for not including at least three affiliate links or forgetting the final word count on my invoice. Not very exciting stuff, but it's the reason they give for not paying me within thirty days so sometimes it can make me cry lol

Anyway, I'm rambling. Sorry. That's the only important part of this message, which I know you'll probably never even see. I'm so, so sorry.

It was a bizarre message. For one thing, there was a tone of familiarity in it, as though they already knew each other somehow. The username was duckiesbooks, the profile icon a rubber duckie, fittingly enough, on top of a stack of books. He clicked over to the profile, to see if anyone he knew followed the account, some real-life connection he might've missed. But there was nothing. The account had a couple hundred followers, and a quick scroll through the feed showed that it was only pictures of book covers or stacks of books, no selfies or other identifying pictures. Nothing to even indicate that this person was a big baseball fan, or why they would've reached out at all.

Maybe the most bizarre thing was how Chris did feel like he knew this person already, or that the person knew him. I have to stay aggressively in the present just to get through my day. In that one sentence, he felt like someone had made sense of the way he'd been feeling lately.

While he'd been reading, he'd stretched out on the seats, his back leaned against the window and his legs toward the aisle. At six foot three, he was hardly the tallest person on the team, but this was the part of the flight when he started to feel restless. Normally, he might get up, find a group of guys playing cards, or even just hit the bathroom as an excuse to stretch his legs. But today, he was happy to keep a lower profile.

His foot must've been sticking out in the aisle a bit, because Roberto Gutierrez, the veteran slugger the team had picked up from the Tigers right before spring training, stepped on it as he walked past. Chris winced slightly, pulling back in, and started to apologize.

"You gonna cry about it?" Gutierrez said, before continuing up the aisle.

Maybe it had been a joke. He'd already gotten some ribbing from his teammates, and genuine concern from guys he was friends with, like Randy. But this had felt more pointed.

It was late. They'd played a shitty game, and were now on a six-hour flight across the country to play a team who, despite Randy's optimism, was practically guaranteed to take at least two of three. He was sure all those factors were behind Gutierrez's irritable mood.

Maybe it's not "just" baseball when it's your job and your life.

He stared down at the message still pulled up on his phone. It didn't feel right to leave it completely unacknowledged. So, he typed a one-word response.

Thanks.

It had only been on the screen a few seconds when a little gray word appeared beneath it. Seen.

Fuck. He had no idea the app sold you out like that. Now he thought back to how long it had been since he'd first opened the message, how weird it must've seemed, the delay between him first seeing it and him responding to it. Or maybe the read receipt could've been the equivalent of a response, if he'd just left it alone. This was why he didn't mess with social media.

And yet the idea that there was a person on the other end, someone who was seeing these messages in real time, compelled him to keep going.

When I was a kid, I had a pug named Otis.

Three dots, like they were typing. Then the dots disappeared. Chris realized that his message was a bit of a non sequitur, so he started to add a bit more context. Milo Otis? It was about a dog and a cat…

He actually didn't remember anything more than that. He clicked over to a search page, wanting to look up the movie real fast to jog his memory, before it occurred to him just how stupid this whole thing was. Who cared. He went back to Instagram to delete his unsent draft, but saw that there was new text from duckiesbooks already.

Milo Otis! That's cute. Don't look it up but apparently there was some animal cruelty in the way they filmed that movie tho.

Then, a second later: Oh god, I'm sorry. What a downer thing to bring up! I haven't seen that movie since I was a kid. They used to show it in my after-school program on rainy days. I bet your pug was adorable.

It occurred to him that he didn't really know anything about duckiesbooks, including their age. They'd mentioned working from home, which suggested they were an adult at least, but still it was a relief that they seemed to get his dated references and referred back to when they were a kid in a way that suggested it had been years ago. Still, it was a good reminder of yet another reason he didn't use social media—as someone who was at least quasi-famous, he had to be extra careful about boundaries. It would be best if he shut this down.

He was, he typed. And don't worry, I won't look up the movie, but I appreciate the heads-up. Have a good night.

But at the same time he sent his message, there was another from duckiesbooks.

Milo's actually named for the main character in The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. It was one of my favorite childhood books. Basically, Milo is this super bored kid who thinks everything is pointless until he gets a mysterious package in the mail with a magical tollbooth and a map. He goes off on all these adventures through places like Dictionopolis and the Doldrums, and runs into these princesses Rhyme and Reason and this watchdog named Tock…

Chris was typing his response when another message popped up on the screen.

Have a good night!

He should be relieved that duckiesbooks had read the room correctly. It was the closure he'd wanted. And yet suddenly he realized he didn't want to drop the conversation just yet. He had no idea what time it was—his phone had probably updated to the local time zone for wherever they were flying over, but where that was, he had no clue. But for once, he wasn't thinking about baseball or about his brother, and that was hard to pass up.

C: For someone living aggressively in the present, that's the second time you've brought up your childhood.

D: I guess you can't escape the past after all.

D: anyway, you started it

Nope. He wasn't touching that.

He flicked back to Duckie's profile. There were her pronouns, right next to her username—she/her. And her bio was only a single quote—"A well-read woman is a dangerous creature," attributed to Lisa Kleypas. Although none of the thumbnails he scrolled through showed Duckie's face, there were several that showed part of her hands. In a recent one, she was holding up a green-and-black hardback book, an artistically blurred couple embracing behind the bold white brushstroke title. She had pretty hands from what he could see of them, graceful fingers. Her nail polish was chipped teal.

You could imagine so much of a stranger's life from these little moments. Already he was calling her Duckie in his head, like that was her actual name.

C: What time is it in South Carolina?

Full minutes went by without a response, longer than it should have been given that she was clearly active on the app—that little Seen notification had popped up again—and the time would be displayed on her phone or computer. He didn't know if he'd crossed a line by referencing their home state. But he'd figured she would be local—it wasn't like the Battery were a large-market team. And one of her recent posts had been of a book stack in front of the Charleston Library Society, the forced perspective making the books seem like the steps to the building.

The question had seemed safe when Chris volleyed it over. It was a simple request for factual information, an acknowledgment of the temporal moment they found themselves in. But the longer it went unanswered, the more the words seemed to pulse on the screen. The question peeled back so many layers he'd worked hard to reinforce. How distant he felt, how alone. Suddenly he could think of nothing more desperate than asking a stranger what time it was.

Then the dots appeared, blinking before her response came in.