Page 27 of The Art of Catching Feelings

“Still,” Layla said. “You have some experience, and at least at one point, this was something you wanted to do. So why didn’t you?”

“I—” She thought about how many times Justin had told her that those kinds of jobs were nearly impossible to find, how she should think about where her talents were.You can write up those little blog posts in an hour, and get fifty bucks a pop. Hell, that’s more than I make.

She’d tried to explain to him how the math didn’t always work out in her favor—when they took more than an hour, when she was in between jobs, when she had to chase down payments or not get paid at all. But somehow Justin had managed to make her feel like her dreams were too big but also pathetic and small, all at the same time.

“I had a hard time finding a job,” she said finally, opting for a neutral truth. “You know how it is.”

Layla grimaced. She certainlydidknow how it was, which was no doubt why she was so keen to do anything to ensure stability in her current gig. And Daphne definitely didn’t want to do anything to mess that up. If Layla wanted her to do this, and believed that she could, well…she still thought she might crash and burn, but she guessed she could give it a try.

“At least we have a while to get ready,” Daphne said, trying to put a brave spin on it.

But to her surprise, Layla burst out laughing. “Oh, honey,” she said. “It’s the pregame segment they’ll air tomorrow, which means you’ll shoot it after the game tonight. That’s why I asked you to bring all your stuff over. We’re going to get you camera-ready in the next three hours.”

Daphne clutched her duffel bag to her chest as if she were planning to make a run for it.Today?She was going to be on cameratodayand all they’d told her was to bring fucking donuts?

She was going to see Chris today. She would have totalkto him, and not behind a phone screen, not under a veil of anonymity, but as herself. The Heckler.

She couldn’t do it.

Layla must’ve read the play of emotions over her face, because she gave her a gentle smile. “You’ve got this,” she said. “We can role-play and I’ll coach you through it. But first, let’s figure out what you’re going to wear.”

ELEVEN

It was strange, being at the ballpark at night when it was almost empty. The game had finished an hour before, the stands had already been cleaned by the yellow-vested staff, and the grounds crew had come out and raked the red clay around the base path. Daphne had been greeted by a guy named Greg, who introduced himself as the executive producer and almost definitely had hair plugs to achieve the early-’00s boy band look of his hair.

“We have you set up in the bullpen,” he’d said, leading her to two folding chairs set up across from each other in a little carved-out area to one side of the field. Greg appeared to be gesturing toward one of the chairs, so she started to sit, figuring that was where they wanted her for the interview. But Greg immediately gave a little laugh, grasping her by the elbow to bodily encourage her back up. She was so stunned by the physical contact that for a second she just froze, having no idea how to react.

“Not so fast,” he said. “We need to get you miked up first. You can leave your notecards here.”

Layla had typed up questions and talking points for her, printing them neatly on cardstock via a printer she’d set up on her nightstand. It had all been a whirlwind—Layla switching fromgiving her advice to asking her pointed questions (You don’t have a lipstick that’s brighter?)—and Daphne still wasn’t confident that she could pull this off. She was nervous about appearing on camera in general, about looking at her cards too much, not looking at them enough and getting off track.

She was even more nervous just about seeinghim.

He’d replied to her last text, about how she thought he could get away with using theRockytheme, with a simpleThanks. She didn’t know whether that was because no further response was required, or because he’d sensed her trying to close down the conversation, or because he wanted to close down the conversation. She was exhausted, trying to keep up with the dynamics at play every single time they texted.

That’s your own fault, a voice inside her head whispered as the tech finished securing the small mic to the collar of her dress.If you’d been straight with him from the start…

Maybe there would be a chance to say something today, after the interview. Maybe it would be easier doing it face-to-face, where she could gauge his reaction and rush in with an explanation.

But then she approached the folding chairs again, slowing a little as she saw Chris already seated. He had her notecards in his hands and was staring down at one, spending so long on the question that he couldn’t possibly be reading it. The hair at the back of his neck was trimmed with almost military precision, the edge straight and neat.

She knew with a sudden clarity that she wasn’t going to say anything about being duckiesbooks.

“Sorry,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears as she took her seat. She’d only meantsorry for any delay on my part, but Greg cut in.

“Save that for once we’re rolling,” he said. “And we’re going toedit this together into an eight-minute segment or so, include game clips, that kind of thing, so don’t worry about stopping and starting if you mess up. Just go with the flow, have a conversation, and we can find the best bits to work with later. If we need you to do something again, we’ll cut and ask you.”

Chris murmured his agreement, even though the directives couldn’t possibly be for him—he’d done this before, after all. She found that she couldn’t physically make eye contact with him. He was still in his uniform, and she looked at his shoes, the clay streaked on his white pants, anywhere but at his face.

“I thought you didn’t play today,” she blurted. Layla had told her something to that effect, when they’d discussed the scheduling of the interview.

“Pinch runner,” he said. “In the eighth inning.”

His voice was even better in person. Not as smooth, maybe, a little more gravelly, like there was some texture that got lost on TV. She had a hard time even focusing on what he was saying for a minute, although she realized that it was more baseball-speak she probably would’ve missed anyway. Layla had tried to give her a quick primer on some of the terms she’d be dealing with in the interview, but Daphne still felt a little like when she’d had to give presentations in French class back in high school. She could memorize vocabulary words and correct conjugations, but she had to think very carefully about how to construct them together, to the point where they almost became meaningless units of sound.

Greg counted them in, and Daphne tried to smile, keeping her gaze trained somewhere over Chris’ left shoulder. “It’s not often a heckler has a chance to sit down one-on-one with the object of their a-attention,” she started, stuttering a little on the introduction she’d rehearsed with Layla. “Chris, what—”

Greg called “Cut,” which wasn’t a surprise. She’d already messed up. She was supposed to use another word, notattention,although now she couldn’t remember what it was. Abuse? Perhaps it was a fair characterization, but she didn’t really want to think of it that way. Chris Kepler was definitely an object of her attention, in a way that hit a little too close to home to usethatword, either. Layla had told her to use Chris’ name liberally throughout—to build rapport but also to remind the viewer who they’re watching, she’d said—but the word had sounded all strangled and unnatural coming out of Daphne’s mouth.

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