Chapter Thirty-Four

And because Chris was a good host, he shared his bed and showed Daphne the next morning that he wasn't lying about the great showerhead pressure. He even offered her one of his smoothies for breakfast, but she wrinkled her nose at the spinach he added to his, letting him make her a fruit-and-yogurt-only version instead.

"So what's the plan today?" he asked, leaning over the kitchen island counter.

"I actually had an idea for something we could go do," she said. "I was going to make it a surprise, but I think it's better if I tell you ahead of time to make sure you'd be into it. There's this—"

He cut her off. "Keep it a surprise," he said. "I like the sound of that."

She bit her lip, grabbing her phone out of her pocket to check something. It lit up with a brief glimpse of her lock screen, and he only caught a flash of the image, but it reminded him of something. He couldn't think what. The urge to ask her again to exchange numbers was so strong, but he'd already told himself he wouldn't bring it back up, that he'd wait for her to make the first move in that regard.

He just wished she would.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "It's…I mean, I hope it will be fun. But it's also kinda work, too. I can't explain it without giving it away."

Chris tried to think what it could even be. Maybe she wanted him to take her to some batting cages and teach her how to hit. Maybe an errand she had to run. She'd mentioned a couple issues with her apartment last night; maybe she needed him to change a lightbulb.

They all sounded fine to him.

"Let's do it," he said. "Should I dress any particular way?"

She hesitated. "Just in whatever you'd normally wear in public on a weekend, I guess. And bring your glove."

The glove thing was at least a hint, so Chris dressed casually in a T-shirt and gym shorts, an old baseball cap from his minor league days. When he and Daphne were both at the door, ready to go, he saw she was wearing her Battery T-shirt again with his name and number on the back. Briefly, he thought about warning her—if she didn't want their relationship to be public, maybe it wasn't the best idea to wear his shirt. But then she turned to smile at him, and he found he personally didn't care if the whole world knew.

He walked them out to his car, holding up the keys. "Want to drive?"

She seemed as taken aback as if he'd asked her if she wanted to pilot a fighter jet. "Oh, no, that's okay. You can do it."

He didn't mind either way—he'd just thought it made sense if she knew where they were going and it was meant to be a surprise. But the extremity of her reaction needled at something inside him, and he found he wanted to know what was behind it.

"We can also take your car, if you don't feel comfortable driving a car you're not as familiar with."

"Yours is fine," she said, giving a nervous laugh. "I would be so tense driving you around. I would hate to be responsible if anything happened. Your body is probably insured for more than my life is worth."

Something about that really didn't sit right with him. He didn't know if it was being reduced to a highly valued body, if it was her devaluing what she was worth, or if it was that, if he was being honest, he usually didn't get into a vehicle automatically thinking about the chances of a car accident and now he was a little unsettled.

"All right," he said. "Not a big deal."

He went to cross over to the driver's side, but she'd already moved in front of the door. "You really wouldn't mind?"

Chris had been the one to suggest it in the first place. He didn't see why he'd have any reason to mind. But he supposed some people were pickier about their cars—he doubted Randy would let anyone else drive his sports car, Chris included. So maybe that's all Daphne had been responding to. "I'm cool either way," he said. "I thought you'd want to since you picked the location. But if you plug it into my phone GPS I can get us there."

"I'll drive," she said, taking the keys from his hand.

For all that, Daphne wasn't a bad driver. A little more cautious than he was, maybe—she drove with her hands almost adorably at a perfect ten-and-two, whereas he was more likely to have just one hand rest lightly on top of the steering wheel. She stopped for a couple yellow lights he would've pushed through, but all that probably just meant she was a better driver than him, by the book at least. Randy texted him more about the All-Star Game watch party tomorrow night, and he took a few minutes to text back, looking up only when he felt the car slow down and heard the crunch of gravel under its tires.

The sign was old, brick with a white wooden placard that had an outline picture of a baseball player and wendle little leagues printed in block letters. There were a few cars in the parking lot already, and one of the fields was currently in use, groups of kids wearing bright red shirts out there running drills. He turned to see Daphne watching him uncertainly, like she was trying to gauge his reaction.

"We don't have to," she said. "But I checked their website, and they're running this special baseball summer camp right now. Half the kids are here through some sort of scholarship that helps families who can't afford it. I thought we could stop in for a half hour or so, it doesn't have to be long—you could throw a couple balls with them, give them some tips, sign a couple autographs, and then we're out of here."

He looked back out toward the field. There was a group of kids in the outfield, doing the same practice he remembered so clearly from when he was that age. It was a simple pop-fly drill, the coach hitting a ball out into center field, the first kid in line running to field it, throwing it back before the next kid took his place to do the same.

He did stuff with kids for the Battery all the time. Little League groups who got special passes to games, kids through charitable foundations who got to throw a first pitch, occasional school visits. After Sunday afternoon games the Battery let kids come out and run the bases and sometimes Chris ran them, too. It was one of his favorite parts of being a professional athlete, actually, that he had an opportunity to make a kid's day by something as simple as tossing a ball up into the stands, that he could maybe be a mentor or role model in some small way.

But that was another thing he'd gotten farther away from this season. He realized that, other than the official things he'd done as part of the team, he hadn't really made an effort to do anything with the community at all. It had been yet another casualty of his tunnel vision, his lack thereof, whatever. It was so much easier just to keep to himself.

"Sorry," Daphne said. "This was a stupid idea. We can go."

"No," Chris said. "This is perfect. Do they know I'm coming?"

She winced a little, like she knew she was about to give the wrong answer. "No? I thought it would be a fun surprise."

He grinned at her, unbuckling his seat belt. "Even better. I love surprises."

He allowed himself only the briefest touch at the small of Daphne's back as they walked through the parking lot, dropping his hand the moment they came in view of the fields. There was a ripple effect as he approached—it only took the first kid who clearly recognized him to point him out to a friend, and then the word spread until he heard some kid say Chris KEPLER! in an annoyed tone that suggested he'd already said it a couple times. For a few minutes there was a lot of commotion, with kids who were at other parts of the field running over and everyone trying to talk to Chris at once. He did what he could to say hello and respond to questions that were being shouted at him—Did he really play baseball? Was Gutierrez coming? Had he ever met Shohei Ohtani?—but it was overwhelming.

He was grateful when he saw the adult on the field heading over to him, hand outstretched to shake.

"Hi," Chris said. "Sorry to just drop in like this. I'm Chris—"

"We know who you are, son," the coach said. "I'm Coach Mike, and over there—"

"But who is Chris Kepler?" a kid said from behind Coach Mike, and the coach turned, the universal expression of could you not? on his face, but Chris just laughed and held his hand out to the kid, too.

"Third baseman for the Carolina Battery," he said. "And this is Daphne Brink, the sideline reporter for the team. We saw y'all practicing and couldn't help but stop in to see what you were up to. You guys were looking good out there."

"We don't have any cameras with us or anything," Daphne rushed in to clarify, giving Coach Mike a friendly smile. "This isn't an official visit. Just a drop-by."

"Well, we're honored to have you," Coach Mike said. "We were just about to head to the batting cage, if you wanted to come show the kids how it's done."

He'd already started moving with the group over to a chain-link box built over to the side of the field, and Chris and Daphne fell into step next to him.

"He's batting .218," one kid from the back said, not in a disdainful way but just in a matter-of-fact way. Chris turned to look at the kid, who had straggly long hair to his shoulders and was all gangly legs and bony elbows. If he had to guess, he'd put the kids at about nine or ten years old.

"Shut up, Jonas." This from a kid with curly hair poking out from under his baseball cap. Just from the way he held himself, the confident way he walked, Chris could already tell that he was a serious player. Probably a coach's kid, or at least had a dad like Chris', who expected him to give it his all every time he was out there whether it was batting practice or a Saturday-morning game or a championship. "You're such a weirdo."

"I'm impressed," Chris said, addressing Jonas like the curly-haired kid hadn't even spoken. "That's my exact batting average as of yesterday. You know your stats, Jonas."

"You draw the second-most walks of anyone on the team and last year you led the team in steals," Jonas said, before frowning, like he was thinking about something. "This year you've barely stolen at all."

"I steal at least one base every single game," the curly-haired kid piped in. Chris just bet he did. Little League was lawless—the kids weren't adept enough yet to make quick judgment calls or accurate throws, so if you got on base you could almost always get an extra one at some point with fairly little effort. Chris had always been more of a contact hitter than a home run guy, but he was fast, and so he'd carried some of that mentality with him all through his playing career. If you got on base, you had to start thinking about how you might be able to stretch it.

"That's awesome," he said to the curly-haired kid, because even though he hadn't particularly liked the way he talked to Jonas, he wasn't about to be rude to a child. He met Daphne's gaze over the kid's head, and she smiled slightly, like she knew exactly what he was doing.

"Why haven't you stolen more bases this year?" Jonas asked.

"Let's lay off Mr. Kepler," Coach Mike said. "He's taking time out of his busy schedule to be here today, and—"

Chris waved him off. "No, it's okay. And please, call me Chris. It's a good question. I don't really know why I haven't attempted more steals this year, Jonas. Some of it is just opportunity—I haven't been getting on base as much, so I haven't had the chance. And when you have fewer chances, sometimes you take fewer risks. Sometimes you just don't like the timing with that particular pitcher. Sometimes your coaches don't want you to go for it. And sometimes…"

He locked eyes with Daphne again, suddenly sure that she knew exactly what he was thinking, that she could probably figure out a way to phrase it for an audience of children better than he could. Because although he'd never explicitly thought about it this way until now, wouldn't have even made the connection if he hadn't been talking about it, the truth was that stealing a base required a certain amount of full-steam-ahead confidence. A belief that you would make it to the next bag safely, and if you didn't, well, it had been worth it to try. He hadn't felt that way in some time.

"Sometimes you just need the right motivation," Chris said.