Page 2 of The Art of Catching Feelings

Strands of Daphne’s curly hair were sticking to her cheeks, and she automatically reached for the hair-tie she usually kept looped around her wrist. But it wasn’t there, and even though there could be any number of rational explanations why—she’d left it on the bathroom counter! it somehow snapped without her noticing!—it felt like justonemore thing that wasn’t right. She didn’t want to think about her divorce, or the bleak ocean of her future disappearing into the horizon. She didn’t want to think at all.

“I want to get really, really drunk,” she said.

Kim quirked an eyebrow at her. “Well,” she said. “That’s one way to enjoy a baseball game.”

—

Several beers later—three? four? They were local craft-brewed IPAs flavored with raspberry and vanilla and were surprisingly smooth—Daphne was in a much better mood. So whatif her life was stalled out? The sun was shining and she was at a baseball game with her best friend, making more friends by the minute.

The older goateed guy next to her, for example. It turned out she didn’t need tounderstandthe game—just mimic his reactions. Soon they were high-fiving when the Battery scored a run, or he’d slap the netting in front of them and say,“You’ve got to be kidding me!”and she’d say, “I know, right?” and shake her head. Kim had limited herself to one beer—someonehad to be sober to drive them home—and observed this new dynamic with amused indulgence.

“You’re really getting into this, huh?” she said at one point. Daphne took another gulp of her beer before letting out a loudboowith the rest of the crowd.

“Come on, play the game!” she yelled. She was proud of herself for having figured this one out. Whenever the opposing pitcher threw over to first base instead of making another pitch, the entire crowd reacted, and the guy next to her would throw up his hands and say something similar to what she was now shouting herself. Only usually with more colorful language.

Another part that was really fun—you could heckle or cheer for players with little puns on their names. Daphne didn’t have to be a baseball expert to figure that one out—she just glanced up at the scoreboard, where they put a picture and information about the batter currently on and the next one up. There was an opposing player namedChapman, which was a quick consonant change away fromCrapman. She was pretty pleased with herself for that one.

It was especially easy when the players wereright there. Kim had a point—Layla had given them great tickets, and they were just behind the on-deck circle, where the next batter up swung his practice swings while he waited his turn. If Daphne wanted to shout to the guy namedBummer—at her current inebriation level,she wasn’t above picking some low-hanging fruit—she could. Meanwhile, Kim chose to focus her energies in a thirstier direction.

“Mmm, theforearms,” Kim said as a bigger guy came to the on-deck circle. “You can have the infielders. I want those designated hitter muscles.”

Daphne giggled. “He’llhearyou.”

“So?”

“Hey, Gutierrez!” Daphne yelled, until Kim pulled her in and clapped a hand over her mouth, laughing the whole time. Apparently she wasn’t as sanguine about being perceived as she claimed to be. Daphne, on the other hand, had no such inhibitions at this point. Who cared? These guys made millions of dollars and were probably used to people shouting at them. It was a nice outlet. Like scream therapy.

The atmosphere had been buzzing with excitement when the Battery scored a few to take a narrow lead, but toward the end of the game, that lead was long gone and they had their backs against the wall. At least, that’s what Goatee Guy reported, looking as red-faced and fired up as though he were on the team’s coaching staff.

“And now it’s Chris fucking Kepler on deck,” he said, gesturing angrily toward the guy coming out of the dugout with his bat. “Bottom of the ninth and this joker’s on the interstate. Hell, put me in to hit for him. Who’s running this fucking team?”

“Dude,” Kim said under her breath, “it’sApril. Chill out.”

But Daphne liked Goatee’s passion. He was just a man who cared about his team. Wasn’t that a good thing? Shouldn’t peoplecaremore? “Chris Kepler?” she said, more to feel the name in her mouth than anything else. Kepler. That was a hard name to do anything with.Chris Kepler, watch your step-ler!She’d sound like an after-school special rap battle. The very idea had her laughing so hard she almost choked on her beer.

“You are on another planet,” Kim said, and Daphne couldn’t tell, but she didn’t look as amused anymore. More concerned, but truly, she had no reason to be. Daphne feltgreat. She’d gone to sporting events with Justin before and always felt like she was solely there to make surehehad a good time—hold his cup when he needed her to, make the snack run when he didn’t want to miss any of the action, stay sober enough to drive them home. She’dneverhave been able to let loose like this on his watch. This was freedom, baby! She cupped her hand around her mouth.

“Chris!”

Kim wasn’t wrong. Baseball players did have amazing forearms. There was netting between them and the players, but this guy was so close that she could practicallyfeelthe texture of the red clay streaked down one leg of his white pants. He twisted one foot every time he took a swing, flashing the bottom of his shoes, and she could see the clumps of grass and dirt stuck in his cleats. His back was to them, and there was a small nick on his left elbow, the dried blood of a scab. Daphne felt like she could reach out and open it up with the flick of a fingernail.

Which was an extremely weird thought to have.

She felt her mood starting to tilt precariously, like it was a boat on choppy waters she had to get back under control. Chris Kepler. What could she do with that?

“Yo, Chris!” she said, clinging to the netting in front of her. “Your name should be Christopher Robin, ’cause you’re hitting likePooh!”

Bam! She’d hit that one out of the park. A play on his name and a reference to a charming children’s book—an all-star heckle if she’d ever heard one.

Then he turned and looked at her.

Her breath caught in her throat. For all the shouting she’d been doing for the last half hour, it had honestly never occurredto her that this could happen. It felt as strange as if she’d been watching the game on TV and one of the players had faced the camera to address her directly. Because she’d said something from her cushy seat in the stands, and suddenly here was this guy all dressed out in his uniform with the clay rubbed into it and the nick on his elbow, and he waslooking right at her.

Weirder still was thewayhe was looking at her. She might’ve expected anger—it would’ve been uncomfortable and made her face flame even more than it probably already was, but he’d be justified in getting irritated with some random drunk woman telling him his playing was shit. She might even have expected a nonchalant, lighthearted clapback, the kind of thing she imagined famous people had to get really good at. Something that said,Keep talking trash while I make fifty times your annual income, but you know, in a fan-friendly way.

But this guy—Chris Kepler, a real name that belonged to a real person—didn’t look like he was angry or like he was ready to take a little heckling in stride. He looked…stricken.

That was the only word she could think of.

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