Page 84 of The Art of Catching Feelings

When he stepped into his condo after the game, it felt…the same. It was the same place he’d lived for the last year, with the gorgeous view and that stupid fucking concrete table and the open-concept the broker had sold him on as perfect for entertaining. There wasn’t a single sign that Daphne had ever been there—which, what had he expected? A note? She’d even made the bed.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he was absurdly grateful for the interruption to his thoughts, grateful just not to be alone. Maybe it was Randy. If a bunch of the guys were doing something tonight, he’d meet them wherever, he didn’t care if it was late and he was tired or how early he had to be up the next day.

But it was his dad calling. Chris almost declined—turned out therewassomething he dreaded more than the silence—but he knew he’d only be putting off the inevitable.

He barely got his greeting out before his dad started in on him about the errors. “You’re not providing value offensively right now,” his dad said. “Youknowthat, Chris. Your defense is all you have. Nobody gives a shit about your two Gold Gloves if you’re dropping the ball like that. Come by this weekend, we’ll—”

“No, Dad.” Chris cut him off before he could go any further. “I’m not running any drills with you. I run drills every day. I take batting practice every day. I need abreak, not a—”

“Abreak?” his dad repeated, like the very word was foreign to him. It probably was. Chris’ dad could be a hard-ass, but it wasonly because he’d been a roofing contractor for Chris’ entire life, and in that whole time Chris couldn’t remember a single time he’d called out sick or missed a job. His dad had had walking pneumonia for two months back when Chris was a kid, andstillhe didn’t remember his dad doing anything differently other than the way he’d fallen asleep on the couch in front of the TV instead of making it to his room.

“Not a break from baseball,” Chris clarified. “I’m still starting almost every single game. I just meant a break from everything else, from extra drills or practices or—”

“You think when you’re fucking up is a time to take abreak?” This time when his dad said the word, it was less like it was unfamiliar and more like it was unsavory, like he couldn’t stand even the taste of it. “Now’s the time to domore. You should be fitting in a workout right now. Or if your shoulder is hurting again, at least some fielding exercises. You know it’s all muscle memory, Chris, the more you do it the more you—”

“It’s not my muscle memory!” Chris had meant to say it firmly enough that his dad would hear him, that he’d stop talking, but still the words came out harsher and louder than he intended. He took a breath, trying to settle down in the wake of his dad’s stunned silence. “It’s not my muscle memory. It’s not my shoulder. It’s myhead, Dad. And I’ve been trying to do any drill I can think of, trying to getawayfrom memory, but it’s not working. I miss Tim. I miss him so bad I don’t even know what to do with it. And younevertalk about him and I need to talk about him. Nobody knew him the way we did, nobody knows what this feels like, and I can’t—”

Chris swallowed past the lump in his throat, only then realizing he was holding the phone so tightly his hand had actually seized up. He forced himself to loosen his grip, tried to take a deep breath. He knew this was a lot to put on his father. He knew thatthe man didn’tmeanto be so critical, truly thought he was doing the best for his son.Would you rather hit balls for the good money or dothistwelve hours a day in the sun?his dad had asked one summer when he’d brought Chris to work a few roofing jobs with him.I want better than my life for you, his dad had always said, and it took a while for Chris to see what an expression of love that was. He hadn’t thought his dad’s life seemed that bad.

Tim had been a little bit of an outsider during those years. He’d had other interests, hadn’t played baseball past high school, had zero interest in being tapped to help out on roofing jobs even as a life lesson. Chris felt his own guilt about that now, but he didn’t want him and his father to just close up around Tim’s absence. He was scared to feel it. Heneededto feel it.

But his dad was grieving in his own way. And maybe Chris couldn’t force this, any more than he could force a home run when he just wasn’t timing the ball right.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a rough night. The game, and—I was seeing someone. Kind of. Anyway, that ended, and it’s just been…a rough night.”

His dad was silent for so long that Chris held the phone away from his face, checking if he’d dropped the call. But finally he heard his dad clear his throat.

“The reporter woman?” his dad said. “Daphne something?”

Chris couldn’t have been more surprised if his dad started calling out winning lottery numbers. “Yeah,” he said. “How did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” his dad said almost gruffly, like he was embarrassed. “But you had this way of looking at her. Anyway, I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Me, too.”

They sat in silence for a bit, but it wasn’t a strained one. It feltoddly comfortable, actually. Chris was just thinking maybe he should beg off, let his father get to bed, when his dad spoke again.

“I do miss him,” he said. “I miss him so much I have a hard time even saying his name. But I haven’t been fair to you, and I’m sorry. I just want you to be happy. That’s really all I’ve ever wanted, for you, and for…for Tim. I did right by you, didn’t I?”

“You did, Dad.”

“It wasn’t easy, after your mom left.”

“I know,” Chris said. “I know.”

—

The call only ended because Chris’ phone died around one in the morning. They mostly discussed other stuff—not Tim, not Daphne, and not how Chris was doing on the team—but at one point Chris did say he was going to find someone to talk to and he recommended his dad did, too. He knew it was a long shot, but he almost thought his dad might do it.

For his part, Chris scheduled a meeting with Marv and asked that the mental skills coach be present, too. That had to signal to Marv that something was up, but he was a veteran manager, and so he took it all in stride. It was almost embarrassing to Chris, how much he took it all in stride.Of coursehe didn’t even blink when Chris said that he knew his issues that season were mental, that he thought he would benefit from regular therapy. The only emotion Marv showed was when Chris revealed that his brother had died before the season started, and Marv reached out to give Chris a firm, compassionate hand squeeze. Chris could’ve broken down right then, but he kept it together. He realized that was what he’d been afraid of all along—not his manager’s frustration or impatience or irritation, but his compassion.

“Do you need time off?” Marv asked. “Because we can dothat. You can take personal bereavement leave. We can even put you on the IL for mental health reasons, if you’d rather do it that way. And I do mean the injured list, not the restricted list—which would let you continue to get paid and accrue service time.”

“No,” Chris said. “I mean, thank you. If I do need that I’ll let you know. But for now, I really think I can keep playing. I want to keep playing.”

“Well, just say the word,” Marv said. “You think you’re out here to support the team, but don’t forget that we’re out here to supportyou. That’s the definition of a team, Kepler.”

After he left Marv’s office, he found himself wandering around, saying a brief hello to a couple guys who were running drills out on the field, dipping into the clubhouse to grab himself a Gatorade, then heading up to where the broadcast booths were. He realized he was looking for Daphne. He hadn’t liked it when she’d told him she thought he needed to talk to someone. He’d seen it as an attack. He’d seen it as a jab that he wasn’t holding it together as well as he thought he was.

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