Page 90 of The Art of Catching Feelings

This time when Chris snorted at theperfectly shaded abspart, it sounded phlegmy and disgusting, and only when he reached up to wipe at his nose did he notice there were tears on his cheeks.

(btw I love that your new walk-up song is “Eye of the Tiger.” And I love that your brother would’ve had your ass if you didn’tclarify the correct Rocky movie that used the song. Is now a bad time to tell you I’ve never seen those movies?)

Anyway, I’m rambling again. Maybe you haven’t read through this far, and so this is the worst possible place for me to put the most important parts. I really am sorry. I never meant to hurt you. And I really do love you. Those words might not mean shit to you, but they mean a lot to me. I understand if you never want to talk to me again. But if you do, just know I’m always here.

That was the end of the first long message bubble, but there was another one directly underneath it.

Oh, and—please don’t let me have ruined any of the magic of “The Way” for you. I’ve been losing a lot of sleep over all of this, but you might be surprised by how much I’m haunted by the idea that I could’ve ruined that song.

Chris didn’t know why that made him smile, but it did. Truthfully, he hadn’t even given a second of thought to the song.

He clicked over to her profile, and there were a few new pictures from the last time he’d checked, but they were still all older. The newest one was from back in May, when she’d shown off a fanned array of library books on top of a patchwork quilt he recognized from pictures she’d sent him of Milo.Doesn’t it always happen that all your library holds come in at once?her caption said.

Chris stared back out at the dark night, the barest reflections of light that demarcated what was water and what was sky.If you love her, then you should be with her, Randy had said. Like it was that simple.

And suddenly, Chris felt like it was.

FORTY-TWO

The game had been an absolute roller coaster. The Brewers had taken an early lead, but then a two-run homer by Gutierrez had put the Battery ahead. The Brewers had scored again, but the Battery had had an incredible seventh inning, bringing home four runs on some two-out magic. Daphne always worried about games—had trouble believing thatanyof them were in hand, no matter what kind of lead was on the scoreboard—but for once she was feeling good about this one. It felt like destiny.

Or maybe she was just feeling good because Chris had smiled at her. It hadn’t been much of an interaction—he was on his way to the on-deck circle, a reminder of that first time she’d ever met him. She’d been standing near the photography well, looking down at her notecards while she received a few instructions for her next segment in her earpiece. She’d seen some motion out of the corner of her eye, and she’d glanced up just in time to see Chris walk by. And he’d smiled at her.

It had probably just been a polite smile, the kind you automatically give anyone as you pass by them. Probably Chris hadn’t even fully clocked that it was her he was smiling at, thought he was acknowledging some random person, a photographer or the batgirl or whoever, she didn’t know.

But it hadn’t felt like that. It had felt personal, special, a little secret. It had sent tingles from the base of her spine all the way down to her toes. It felt like the kind of smile that guaranteed some kind of ninth-inning heroics, which was why she wasn’t even concerned when the Battery’s closing pitcher walked two guys in a row and then hit the third to load the bases. It was the kind of smile that she could cling to even when the inning got completely out of control, with a wild pitch and a double and a two-run homer to end up putting the Brewers back on top. It was the kind of smile that she felt sure would send any ball that connected with a Battery bat sailing four hundred feet over the outfield fence. It was the kind of smile that she started to worry she’d imagined like some sort of mirage when the game ended on the Battery’s final out, Randy Caminero swinging and missing on a curveball at the knees.

One of her least favorite parts of her job was talking to players after a loss, and this one hurt more because she knew it was an important one. They weren’t out of playoff contention, but they’d made things that much harder. They’d have to be perfect from here on out, and they still had one more series against the Padres coming up, who’d been on a winning streak.

“Randy,” she said, stopping him on the way to the dugout with her microphone. “What was going through your mind during that last at-bat?”

She’d asked Layla once, Why do we ask these kinds of questions when the answer has to be clear? Like, obviously the guy is hoping to get a home run, or at least a base hit; obviously he’s hoping to score the runner on base and help his team take the lead. She’d heard so many versions of these same answers before that she could almost script their answers herself.

Of course it’s filler, Layla had said. She’d said that half of what they did was filler, and that was okay, that was part of sports.There was a patter to it, the speculation and observation and reflection. Being good at your job didn’t always mean providing the most incisive analysis or the most unique answer although, sure, those were great when they happened. It was also just coloring in the background around the game, helping it to feel like a complete experience.

Now, Randy gave her the exact answer she’d expected, and Daphne tried to focus on active listening instead of looking around to see if Chris was still in the dugout or if he’d already left. She knew she was supposed to ask Randy about the upcoming series, so she pivoted to that question once he’d finished.

“I feel good about it,” he said. “My boy Kepler has a saying—he says baseball is being endlessly optimistic in the face of math. I’m feeling optimistic. And I think he is, too.”

And then Randywinkedat her, heading to join the rest of the players disappearing into the clubhouse. She threw it back to the anchors who handled the postgame show, and once the camera was off her, she unclipped her microphone and handed it to the production assistant.

What had that wink been about? And why had he brought up Chris—was that on purpose? Players mentioned other players all the time, especially if they’d had a particularly good game and deserved a shout-out. Chris had played well that night, and had stolen a base in the ninth inning to set himself up to be the potential winning run if Randy had been able to bat him in. But Randy hadn’t mentioned any of that. So what could that mean?

Daphne retrieved her purse from where she stowed it while she was doing broadcasts, withdrawing her phone to check it for any new messages. There was one from Donovan—apparently the first three nights of perfectly blissful full-night sleeps in the hospital had been some weird fluke, or a bait and switch, because now he said the baby was up every two hours and it was driving himand Layla out of their minds.The phrase ‘sleeps like a baby’ is a crock, he said.

She smiled.Send me a picture of my nephew and I’ll give you my opinion.

A picture came in right away, and she saved it to the album on her phone she’d created of baby pictures before typing her response.Sorry, looks pretty legit to me. (When the season is over, I can come over and watch him for a few hours so you can nap?)

The grounds crew were already at work repairing the pitcher’s mound, and there was no one in the stands save for a couple people in yellow vests still cleaning up around the seats. This transition always felt a little dreamlike to Daphne, the way the stadium could go from loud and crackling with energy to quiet and deserted only a short time later. Tonight it was making her feel especially melancholy, but she supposed the whole night had been filled with its ups and downs. The smile, the loss, the wink, and now it was time to go home, and she knew there were only a few games left before the season might be over for good.

She was halfway out one of the exits when she heard it. It sounded like a radio being tuned, little clips of voices and songs, some static underneath. Then the music started, and a man’s voice singing—

They made up their minds and they started packing…

She recognized the song even quicker this time than she had the last time. She’d been primed to, maybe. She hadn’t been able to get those few lines she’d heard out of her head, playing them on a loop with the memory of that look on Chris’ face.

She glanced toward the field automatically, her gaze going up to where she knew the music came from during games. But of course she couldn’t see anything from all the way down there, and so she turned around, facing the dugout.

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