A few miles back toward the stadium, Jason points left. “I’m going this way.”

Greg says he’s happy to follow, thinking he’ll do anything to extend their time together—as if proximity will make him a better ballplayer. Jason looks him up and down and nods. Not a yes, but not a no.

With that, Jason turns off the arroyo path and onto an arterial, the sunbaked sidewalk shimmering with heat. Some cars honk as they pass—because they recognize Jason? Or because they are two fit men, shirtless and glistening, running down the midday street? Jimmy, always a few hours away from a conquest, has been telling Greg about the women of Scottsdale, how they are all hungry for spring training and the young men who descend on the retirement town. Like cougars, they spring—that’s what Jimmy’d said.

Jason’s route loops them east, past a sign welcoming them to Pima-Maricopa land. They overshoot the stadium, the hulking casino the only thing between them and the mountains. Instead of turning back toward the field, Goodyear turns toward the casino.

“Where we going, Goody?”

The left fielder nods at the casino. “Five bucks says he’s going to go eight innings. You in any rush to get back?”

Greg can’t bear to think about what’s happening back at Salt River, how well Vásquez is likely pitching. He is in no hurry to see that. “Lead the way.”

At the casino’s entryway, Jason tugs his soaked shirt from his waistband and pulls it over his head. Greg does the same, though the cut-up T-shirt hardly seems appropriate. “If anybody asks, we weren’t here,” Jason says as the automatic doors whoosh open.

The afternoon crowd’s mostly blue-hairs at the penny slots, a few retirees playing hands of poker, one guy shooting at the craps table. Jason scoots between the felt tables and rows of chirping slots—it’s all Greg can do to trail him—and bellies up to the count room window. He speaks to the teller and comes back with ten chips in his palm, a shit-eating grin on his face. “What do you think?” he asks Greg, his voice buoyant. “I’m thinking blackjack.”

Greg isn’t thinking anything about what card table to pick. He’s thinking those chips are thousand-dollar ones. Where did all that cash come from? Does Goody keep ten grand in his sock? He’s got a good contract, one of the best in the league, but—

Jason steps up to a table and lays down two chips. “Two hands, buddy.” The dealer nods, reaches for a chip of his own.

“Oh, I don’t play.” Greg is close at Jason’s shoulder, worried that if he blinks he might lose the left fielder in the sea of tables and tourists, the scantily clad cocktail waitresses and the spinning roulette wheels.