Page 39 of The Art of Catching Feelings

It sounded so sordid when she put it that way. Chris could feel the tips of his ears growing hot.

“It’s not like that—” he started.

“Whatever itislike,” she said. “Do your due diligence. And no dick pics.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, looking up a second later to smile at the waiter who dropped off their food. She was already starting in on her filet, slicing off a neat sliver of a bite as though they’d been in the middle of talking about the weather.

“I wouldn’t—” he said. “I mean, I’ve never—”

“Because theywillbe able to prove it’s your dick,” she said. “I’m running up against client confidentiality here, but let’s just say that men love their dicks until they’re in court against an expert witness who’s holding up items for scale.”

This was like having the birds-and-bees conversation with a parent all over again. Worse, even. All Chris’ dad had done was bring home a pamphlet from the pediatrician’s office aboutSex and Your Changing Bodyand leave it on Chris’ bed for when he got home from school. At least he hadn’t had to sit across the table from his father at a fancy restaurant in the middle of the day and listen to him talk about the etiquette of sending personal photos of genitalia.

“Obviously, if they’re unsolicited, that’s harassment anyway,” she continued. “Even solicited, it’s just as dangerous for you. I can’t think of a single reason why anyone would solicit a picture of that unless as a setup for blackmail or extortion.”

She took another bite of steak, covering her mouth as she hastened to add, “Notyoursspecifically. I mean dicks as a genre.”

“I have no plans to send any pictures of my dick,” he said faintly, still unable to believe he was having this conversation.

“Good,” she said. He could practically see her checking an item off her list in her head. “And the less you put in writing, the better. Stick to phone calls, in-person meetings.”

He wondered what his agent would say if he told her he’d never communicated with this person any other way than through text.If he told her he didn’t even know Duckie’s realname. She might choke on her steak.

God, he’d wanted so badly to talk to Duckie on the phone last night. He’d almost thought about just calling her, and seeing if she’d pick up. But she was so skittish around talking to him, and he didn’t want to risk scaring her off.

“I appreciate you looking out for me,” he said now to Suze. “But I hope I haven’t done anything to give you the impression that I’m looking to harass anyone, via text or otherwise. I’m really not worried about this becoming a situation.”

“No, no,” Suze said. “Of course not. That wasn’t even necessarily what I was thinking of. I meant more…if you had an argument with a teammate, if you’re frustrated with your manager, if you’re looking to make a move on any endorsement deals, if something is affecting your playing…those are the kinds of things you share withme. They’re not anything you should share with a stranger, and especially not in writing.”

For a second he wondered if shehadread through that first message exchange with Duckie. If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think that Suze was chastising him for telling Duckie about his brother’s death, when he hadn’t even shared that with her as someone with a fiduciary duty toward him and a vested interest in his career. But being indirect wasn’t Suze’s style. It was far more likely that she sensed there wassomethinggoing on with him, thought it was suspicious that he’d started talking to a new person right around the same time, and had connected some dots just as she’d said she had at the start of their conversation.

He briefly thought about telling her more.Help me help you,she’d said in one of their first meetings, unabashedly quoting from the most famous sports agent movie of all time.

He just didn’t see how shecouldhelp him, or what difference it would make.

“I’m being careful,” he said, picking up his fork to take his first bite of his food. It was one of the first meals he hadn’t eaten in the clubhouse or alone in his condo in a while, and was undoubtedly of the highest quality. But he barely registered the taste while he managed a smile for Suze. “Don’t worry about me.”

—

When Chris got to the clubhouse, he should’ve headed straight to the exercise bikes. That was his usual routine, to warm up his muscles a bit before taking some batting practice. But something made him turn down the hallway, out of the clubhouse proper and toward where the station personnel usually hung out, planning their segments for the broadcast.

He waved to a couple guys in the war room, who sat up straighter before giving him a delayed greeting, obviously surprised to see him in their territory. Then he tried the room next door, which had groupings of monitors set up, various control panels, and other equipment. He almost kept walking, thinking that room was empty, but then he saw her. She was leaned forward in an office chair, scrawling notes in a spiral-bound notebook on her lap, glancing up at the screen in front of her every once in a while.

She had headphones on, and he didn’t want to startle her. But he also felt weird, just standing there watching her. His gaze flickered to the screen she was studying, surprised to see himself on it. It was an at-bat from a game that he instantly recognized as one from last season, where he’d had that big walk-off home run against the Royals. He’d ended the season with decent numbers, including seventeen homers, but that one had been special.

He lifted his hand, rapping his knuckles lightly against the door, then harder when she didn’t seem to hear the first time. That got her to jump a little, turning in her chair to face him.

“One second,” she said, her voice pitched louder than it needed to be as she scrambled to pause the footage, then pull the headphones off her head. They’d left an impression in her curls, and she clenched her fingers in the hair at her scalp, bunching it up and then releasing as if trying to reset it.

“I was just…” She gestured back toward the freeze-frame on the screen. “Watching old broadcasts. Trying to learn from what Layla would do.”

The image happened to be him coming into home plate, his hand already raised for the teammates who were waiting to high-five him there. Even in the blurriness of the image, he could see that he was smiling. And he could press play on the memory in his own head, remember the way it had felt when Randy removed his batting helmet from his head, and Beau jumped up for a chest bump.

“Makes sense,” he said quietly. “We study film all the time. Go ahead and play it.”

She shot him a doubtful look before leaning forward to press play. She unplugged the headphones and turned a knob until sound started to fill the small room.

“I was really trying to cue up the postgame interview,” she said with an embarrassed grimace. “See what kinds of questions Layla asked.”

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