The Art of Catching Feelings by Alicia Thompson
Contemporary Romance
June 18, 2024 by Berkley

About THE ART OF CATCHING FEELINGS

Daphne Brink doesn’t follow baseball but watching “America’s Snoozefest” certainly beats sitting at home days after her divorce papers are signed. After one too many ballpark beers, she heckles Carolina Battery player Chris Kepler, who quickly proves there might actually be some crying in baseball. Horrified, Daphne reaches out to Chris on social media to apologize…but forgets to identify herself as his heckler.
     
Chris doesn’t usually respond to random fans on social media, but he’s grieving and fragile after an emotional few months. When a DM from “Duckie” catches his eye, he impulsively messages back. Duckie is sweet, funny, and seems to understand him in a way no one else does.
     
Daphne isn’t sure how much longer she can keep lying to Chris, especially once she starts working with the Carolina Battery in real life and their feelings for each other deepen. When he finds out the truth, will she be out after three strikes?

Excerpt

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 what if 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 to understand the 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-someone had 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 loud boo with 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 named Chapman, which was a quick consonant change away from Crapman. She was pretty pleased with herself for that one.

It was especially easy when the players were right 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 named Bummer-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, the forearms,” 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’ll hear you.”

“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’s April. 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 people care more? “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 felt great. She’d gone to sporting events with Justin before and always felt like she was solely there to make sure he had 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’d never have 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 practically feel the 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?
Excerpted from The Art of Catching Feelings by Alicia Thompson Copyright © 2024 by Alicia Thompson. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved.

About the Author

Alicia Thompson is a writer, reader, and lover of baseball. She has never caught a foul ball but she was once two seats down from a Jumbotron proposal and that has to count for something. She’s currently taking in home games in sunny Central Florida with her husband, two children, and a cat named Luna who has yet to hit for the cycle (aka has not escaped out of every door in a single day, although with the numbers she’s been putting up…)