Chapter Thirty-Five

Chris ended up spending two hours working with the kids at the summer camp, running all the way up through lunchtime. Daphne didn't know how he did it—after about half an hour, she got too hot to be out in the sun any longer, even though she'd just been standing there while Chris had been the one to throw balls for kids to hit during BP, hit balls for them to field. He'd paired with Jonas in a long-toss drill when Daphne begged off, going to sit in the dugout, where she could get some shade.

Coach Mike and the kids had split off to go eat lunch at the picnic tables over by the concession area. The summer camp provided a hot dog and chips, apparently, but Chris had paid for a round of Popsicles for the kids, and he brought one to Daphne in the dugout.

"I figured you for a red girl," he said, handing it to her.

"You figured right."

Chris had his own blue Popsicle, and he took a full bite out of the top of it in a way that made her shiver.

"The kids were so excited to have you out there with them," she said. "It was really fun to watch. You've just made their entire summer."

"You did that," Chris said. "Seriously. This was—"

He broke off, just looking at her. Something about that expression made her stomach swoop, but then it kept falling, and she was struck by an overwhelming dread she couldn't explain. She rushed to find something to bring the lighthearted mood back.

"Jonas sure was grilling you," she said. "Hard to believe a kid that young could know so much. He should have my job."

Chris sucked a bit of Popsicle juice off the side of his hand. It was so hot that the Popsicles wouldn't last long; Daphne knew they better eat them quickly before they both became sticky messes.

"He was funny," Chris said. "Tim used to be the same way when we were kids. He knew everything there was to know about baseball."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. Once we went to a Phillies game when we were kids—I was probably eight, so Tim would've been eleven or so. And there was this guy in the stands behind us, just mouthing off, talking all this shit to his friends. You could tell he was showing off, like he was some kind of baseball expert. The Phillies fucked up this basic play at first to get the final out, the other team ended up scoring, and the loudmouth behind us started in about how the Phillies had the worst record in our division blah blah blah."

Chris laughed to himself, obviously remembering the moment.

"And then Tim—his mouth full of ice cream, he used to eat himself literally sick on that stuff, later he found out he was lactose intolerant and he still ate it without taking his Lactaid first—just goes, ‘Expos.' He said it exactly like that, totally deadpan. He didn't even look back. And I could tell the guy heard him, because he got really quiet after that. For years after that, Tim and I would just say that to each other to shut down a debate. ‘Expos.' I thought he was a god when he said that."

Daphne was in serious danger of wearing more of her Popsicle than she got in her mouth if she wasn't careful. She had been trying to stay perfectly still, like a butterfly had landed on her and she didn't want to risk it flying away. She really didn't want to interrupt Chris or take him out of his story, but she also wanted to understand it, and she didn't fully.

"What does ‘Expos' mean?" she said. "Is that a baseball term?"

"Yeah, sorry. I guess that's pretty niche. It used to be a team—the Montreal Expos. They're the Nationals now." Chris finished the last of his Popsicle, tossing the stick in a perfect arc into the trash can in the corner of the dugout. "And come to think of it, I'm pretty sure the Phillies did end that season with the worst record in our division."

"I just don't know how you guys remember all this stuff," she said. "Like I could ask you about an at-bat from two months ago and I bet you'd remember what pitches he threw, what the count was, whether you struck out or not. It's wild."

Chris shrugged. "Random noise, probably. Do you like the reporting gig? Will you try to find that kind of job somewhere else when the season is over?"

She hadn't really let herself think that far ahead. She'd been taking it game by game just like the rest of them. What did she want? There had been unexpected benefits to this sideline reporting gig. She felt challenged, she felt more confident, she felt like she was part of something bigger than herself. But she also didn't know that she wanted to be on camera all the time, despite having grown more comfortable than she thought she would've at the beginning. So far, any public encounters with people who recognized her from the broadcasts had been largely positive, but still. She'd never aspired to that.

"I don't know," she said slowly, turning the question over in her mind. "I used to want—"

She broke off, not sure why the thought had even come to her mind. It had been so long since she'd even considered it. Maybe it had been being around all those kids today, watching Chris and Coach Mike teach them and make a difference, no matter how small.

"You used to want what?"

Daphne smiled at him. "I started off majoring in early-childhood education," she said. "But then I switched to communication and broadcasting, and at the time I thought I would still do something with reading and literacy. I don't even remember what—even just something like working on children's programming or helping a nonprofit spread its message or whatever. But then suddenly I was taking all these classes in production and digital media and I lost the thread somewhere in there."

"Hmm."

"That probably sounds stupid."

"The opposite," he said. "And I don't think the thread's lost. You can pick it up again whenever you're ready. Maybe even after the season is over."

"Maybe," she said. She didn't really want to think about the season ending. It made her feel impossibly melancholy.

Her Popsicle was seriously melting now, and she did her best to try to catch the drips with her tongue, but they were already splashing on her fingers, dribbling down her chin.

"I'm a mess," she said, laughing.

Chris' hand was on her bare thigh as he leaned over, slanting his mouth on hers. His breath instantly warmed her lips, still cool from the Popsicle, and she could taste the blue raspberry flavor he'd chosen on his tongue. He kissed her chin, then touched his tongue to the sensitive skin at her jaw. Even though it was at least ninety degrees outside, she felt goose bumps rise on her nape as he pushed her hair aside to lick another rivulet of juice that had slid down the side of her neck.

"You're sweet," he said, swirling his tongue in the hollow at the base of her throat.

"And we're still at a ballpark filled with children," she said. "Should we get out of here?"

"Yes," he said. "Emphatically yes."

It took a little more time to leave than they'd expected, because when Chris went back to say goodbye to the kids he ended up getting roped into another round of pictures and autographs, a few parents who'd arrived wanting to talk to him about how the Battery were doing this year. By the time they finally made it back to the car, it felt like they'd escaped a bank heist, like they'd really gotten away with something.

Daphne had already given Chris back his keys, and he held them up, dangling them from his finger. "I'll drive this time."

She was only too relieved—it had been stressful enough driving the both of them out here, although she really couldn't put any of that on him. He hadn't even berated her for stopping at a few yellow lights she knew she could've made it through.

The blast of air conditioning was welcome when Chris started up the car, and he turned it up. "Feel free to adjust the air however you want it," he said. "And the radio."

Daphne didn't really care what they listened to, but she knew he liked music, and it would be nice to have something on in the car. She pressed the preset buttons, trying to find a good station, before clicking up one digit at a time until she heard something decent.

Where were they going without ever knowing the way…

The song was vaguely familiar, and suddenly it hit her. "Oh my god," she said. "Isn't this your song?"

He turned to look at her, a crease between his brows. "My song?"

"Your double rainbow. You said that I'd know it—"

And then it really hit her. She wasn't supposed to know about that. He'd told Duckie about the song; he'd never told her. Panic clenched her stomach, and she knew it was written all over her face—her eyes wide, her breath coming shallow and fast as she sat, frozen in the passenger seat of his car, unable to say anything.

For a moment it was like Chris couldn't speak, either. He'd already pulled out of the parking space but had stopped now at the exit of the Little League field, the car idling as they looked at each other, that fucking song playing on in the background. He had the most awful, still expression on his face, and when he spoke it was barely above a whisper.

"Duckie?"