Chapter Five

Chris tapped his phone on his thigh while he waited for Duckie's answer. He knew she was composing something from the way the dots disappeared, then reappeared again, like maybe she'd thought twice about whatever she was going to write and had deleted it to start over. The thing was, she didn't seem like much of a baseball fan—or maybe it just didn't fit with her book-themed account; he didn't know. But something about the way she'd cut and pasted that fact from his Wikipedia, the way that they'd been chatting for almost half an hour at this point and she had yet to make any comment about the team's record, the season, what did he think about that decision from the commissioner or this year's chances that so-and-so would make the World Series…

He was glad not to talk baseball. It was refreshing. It was just unusual for him, especially on the internet, where his presence felt completely superfluous except in his limited capacity as Chris Kepler, third baseman for the Carolina Battery.

This was a terrible idea. What response did he expect, except some variation of Because you seemed like a sad sack on TV and I felt sorry for you.

Maybe it was better if he just got out in front of it. He wasn't ashamed of crying, per se, but he hated the fact that everyone was talking about it, weighing in on why he might've been upset and whether he had any right to be. He knew he had some control over the narrative—he could share more about what had been going through his head in that moment, stop the speculation, and give people the answers they clearly felt entitled to. But then everyone would be talking about that, which would be even worse.

He thought again of his father's text. Call me. He already knew without speaking to the man that he'd want Chris to stay quiet. Keep your head down, keep playing ball, and for the love of god, swing through. You have a hitch that's holding you back, you have to swing through.

We can use this, his agent would say, and she'd have a lot of strategic ideas about how. Ideas that would probably help his career, bolster his reputation, maybe even secure him some niche sponsorship deal. He didn't want to hear any of that, either.

C: My older brother died by suicide a few months ago.

He'd typed the sentence and clicked send before he could take it back. It was the first time he'd laid it out so plainly for someone who didn't already know, someone who wasn't a friend of the family or involved in his day-to-day life. He hadn't even told the Battery's manager, Marv, or his teammates—not because he didn't expect them to be supportive, but maybe even because he was afraid they would be. He didn't know if he could handle it, having people ask how he was doing or offer to let him take time off.

There was absolutely zero reason for him to share such a personal detail with this random stranger, but maybe that was part of the appeal. The anonymity of it.

Although, shit—nothing on the internet was anonymous, was it? He quickly typed a follow-up message.

C: That's not really public information. I'd appreciate if you didn't share it anywhere.

It was also a pretty heavy thing to just dump on someone. She'd felt bad about sharing the unethical working conditions for animals in a movie filmed decades ago, and he'd hit her with this? Via a social messaging app? At midnight? He wished there was a way to erase all of it, but the Seen stamp had already appeared below his texts.

D: I'm so sorry about your brother. "Sorry"—god, such an inadequate word. You must be devastated.

D: Of course I won't tell anyone.

D: Do you want to talk about it?

Did he want to talk about it? That was the big question. He kept thinking it was the last thing he wanted. And yet here he was, pouring his heart out to a stranger. Clearly his feelings were complicated.

C: It used to be that everything tunneled when I played baseball. It was just me and the ball, the field, my team…like in a photo where the crowd is all blurred, but I was crisp and clear in the center of the frame. That's how it felt. But now it's flipped. I'm the blur. And everything that used to be background is turned up so loud, I can't tune it out.

C: I don't know if any of that made sense.

He rubbed his hand over his face, surprised at the sting he felt at the outer corners of his eyes. This was another problem he'd been having lately. This urge to cry came over him at the oddest, most random moments. He'd sat in his condo alone only a few nights ago, trying to cry, willing himself to get it all out. It would be cathartic, he figured. But eventually he'd gone to bed, his eyes dry. Then, a couple days later, one throwaway Winnie the Pooh reference and it had hit him like a wave. He supposed he should just be thankful he'd managed to get himself back under control relatively quickly, that he'd finished his at-bat and the postgame interview without any further incident.

D: It makes perfect sense. Something like that would crater your entire world.

D: Is there anyone you can talk to—your coach or a team doctor…? (I don't know anything about baseball, sorry.)

That made him smile a little. Yeah, he'd figured. The Battery's manager, Marvin Gordon, was a legend. Now in his seventies, he'd had a Hall of Fame–worthy career as a player before taking on leadership roles after he retired. He was one of only five Black managers to have ever managed a World Series team, back when he was in Atlanta. Marv was a great guy, but old-school—Chris could no more imagine talking to him about taking bereavement leave than he could imagine talking to him about pitching in the next game.

C: Maybe.

C: Sorry to lay all that on you. I'm just tired.

D: There's no need to apologize. You can talk more about it if you want to. If you were here I'd make you some tea.

D: (Metaphorically. Not like you'd actually be here, but you know what I mean.)

Around him, guys were starting to shift in their seats, pack up stuff they'd had out for the trip. There must've been an announcement that they were landing soon, but he'd missed it. This had been the fastest cross-country flight of his life.

C: I appreciate the offer (metaphorical or otherwise). Are you having a cup now?

D: Yeah, although I shouldn't. It's a black tea with apricot and currant. It'll keep me up all night. I just like the ritual of it—putting the kettle on the stove, steeping it for the exact right amount of time, adding honey, that kind of thing.

C: Rituals are good.

D: They are. What's one of yours?

Chris had to think about that one for a minute. He had so many in baseball, some he'd done for years, since his days playing in high school. The order in which he did certain stretches before a game, for example, or if he had a good game the way he'd try to replicate certain conditions the next day, as though searching for the magical variable that had made the difference.

But he tried to think of something he did outside of the sport, something that brought him comfort, like making a hot cup of tea. The problem was that he was so rarely home, and the routines he had at his condo or whatever hotel he was at for the night felt less like rituals and more like part of the daily grind.

C: This isn't a ritual exactly, but I do have a superstition about the song "The Way" by Fastball. Have you heard it?

D: It sounds a little familiar? But I couldn't sing it for you or anything. (You wouldn't want me to sing regardless—I have a terrible voice.)

He almost caught himself responding to that, saying something along the lines of how he was sure her voice was just fine. But of course that was ridiculous, because he'd never heard her speak, let alone sing, and surely she would be in a better position to judge than he would. It was a knee-jerk reaction to her talking badly about herself.

C: Well, don't look it up. That's part of the superstition.

D: That you can't look up the song?

The plane was starting to descend, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he hurried to type his explanation.

C: There's something about when that song comes on. I've heard it in a grocery store, once at a Waffle House. It's serendipity. You can't seek it out or you'll ruin it. It has to find you, not the other way around.

D: You could say the same thing about most songs that come over the radio. What makes this one different?

C: I don't know, but it's special. Trust me.

D: Now I'm worried I won't know the song when I hear it. Since I can't look it up to study beforehand.

C: You'll know. Just keep your ears open.

His were starting to kill him. He couldn't remember it being this bad on other flights, but he'd also stayed in one position for a longer period of time than he usually did. He opened his jaw as if to yawn, stretching until he felt his ears pop.

D: Can I look up the lyrics?

Chris had never codified all the rules of this superstition. It lived in his gut, not his head. He didn't even know what the superstition was about—what the song was supposed to be an omen of, or what good luck it brought if you heard it. He just knew that it had to be protected.

C: I don't even know all the lyrics. I have no idea what the song is about and I don't want to know. It's more a vibe than anything else. Like seeing a double rainbow.

D: I feel like that may be more common than hearing this song.

He grinned.

C: Exactly.

D: Imagine one day you meet this band and you say, "I love your song so much I refuse to ever purposely listen to it."

Someone jostled the seat next to him, and he looked up. It was Randy, standing in the aisle with his bag already over his shoulder.

"Hey, man, you gonna bunk down on the plane?"

Half the team had already deboarded, and the other half were lined up in the aisle, still laughing and talking but with a bit of that bleary-eyed look that said everyone was looking forward to getting to the hotel and calling it a night.

Chris glanced back down at his phone. Three new messages had come in from Duckie after the last one, and he could tell his silence had made her second-guess herself.

D: Maybe that is the purest form of love tho

D: Am I allowed to Wikipedia the band?

D: Okay, I'll let the song come to me organically. Appreciate you giving me the heads-up so I didn't spoil the magic for myself.

"Who you chatting with?" Randy asked, craning his neck to see over Chris' shoulder. "You got yourself a girl?"

He could feel the tips of his ears go hot as he rushed to send one last message before putting his phone away. "Nah," he said. "It's no one."