She was going to make a complete mess of things.

In another hour, he’d be dropping her off at the parking ramp and heading back to the bar, looking for someone more intriguing. It was time to start asking questions. “So you’re famous,” she ventured. “What’s that like?”

“It’s about what you’d expect,” he said with a shrug. “Sometimes bad, sometimes good.”

“Tell me the bad,” Angela said.

“I hate the press. I hate that they can make up stories about my life without any thought of how it affects the people I love. I hate that people wonder who I date or where I eat dinner or where I sleep at night. I hate that I don’t have much of a life outside of baseball.”

“Tell me the good,” she said.

“If I wasn’t famous, you might not have given me a second look at the bar,” he said. “I’m glad you did.”

“Oh, you think I’m impressed by your fame?” Angela asked. “I’ve spent time with much more famous people than you-Churchill, Gandhi, Hemingway. You don’t impress me.”

“Obviously not,” Max said with a devilish grin. “Since you seem intent on poking holes in my ego.” He opened all the windows in the BMW, letting the warm summer wind blow through the car. “I love Chicago in the summer. The smell, the sounds. I never get to enjoy my summers anymore. It’s always about work, the next game, the next at bat. This is the first summer in my memory that I haven’t played baseball.”

“Isn’t it fun?” she asked, anxious to keep him talking about himself.

“It’s a job. It can be fun. It certainly looks like fun. But it’s not…normal. I’d like to lead a normal life.”

“Normal is boring,” Angela said. “Take it from me.”

“Normal might be nice for a change.” He glanced over at her. “What would you be doing on a normal Tuesday night?”

“Laundry,” she said.

“You made the right decision,” he teased. “I’m much more interesting than laundry.”