“It’s fine.” He flaps his elbow to indicate as much. The pain had been small, rounded soft and smooshed to fit into the palm of his hand, but that up and down sends it spinning into a larger shape, all sharp angles.

The catcher’s eyes jump to the arm and back. In Greg’s mind, the scar is glowing. The scar is leering. The scar is six-foot-two, brown haired and blue eyed, a minor league pitcher trying to make the team. “Think you can finish out the inning?”

“I’m getting them over the plate, aren’t I?” The scar talks, the scar listens. The scar answers to the name of Greg.

The catcher studies the pitcher’s face. What did he see from behind the plate? What does he see from a foot away? The sweat dripping down Greg’s face? He wipes at it with his shoulder.

“Mostly, yeah.”

“It’s been six innings?”

“Well, five and a third, but yeah.”

“So.”

“So—” Jimmy’s face bursts into a wide, crooked smile. That gap again. “You got this.” He smacks Greg on the butt, trots a few paces, and turns back. “Oh,” he says, putting the web of his glove over his mouth, “this guy hit thirty homers last year, so keep it in.”

As Jimmy returns to the plate, Greg Carver looks around: the sunny afternoon, the impressive, unfamiliar stadium. The seats of the lower deck are mostly filled with gold-shirted fans. The red mountains he recognizes from Arizona springs past. This is Lions spring training. He’s pitching.

Jimmy squats, flashes a signal between his legs. Greg nods, not that he remembers what the signal means but because he knows to nod back. Jimmy spreads his feet, settling into his ankles to receive the impact of the pitch. That he recognizes, his best friend’s posture when he’s expecting a breaking curve. Greg looks at the ball in his hand, adjusts his fingers. He takes a deep breath and readies himself for a rocket of pain. And with it, the ball goes flying.

Jimmy and Greg were drafted together, came up through the farm system together, fought like fiends to keep climbing—together. Until September 2009. End of the Salt Lake Stallions’ minor league season, Jimmy got bumped up to the Lions’ expanded forty-man roster. That was the season when Coach Mike finally taught him when not to swing, no excuses, and Jimmy’s batting average jumped twenty points, from atrocious to all right. Over the moon, they were. Greg? He’d been 5-1 the second half of the Triple-A season, his ERA hovering around 2.80 in August. He and Jimmy were certain he’d get a call, too.