“Who said you did? These are for me.” Jason rolls his shoulders inward, toward the cards. He looks at his hands, says something to the dealer. He busts on one hand; the house beats the other. Jason lays down another pair of chips. “Let’s try that again.”

After Jason burns through his initial ten he gets ten more. He wins a hand, finally. A pretty cocktail waitress, her bangs teased two inches, asks them what they’re drinking. “Gatorade?” Greg says.

That gets a laugh from the table, a back slap from Jason. She brings him a club soda with lime. Greg’s still sweating but feeling frozen in the AC, disoriented by the fact they went from a bright afternoon to this dim and clattering room, where it could be 2:00 p.m. or 2:00 a.m.

When Jason is up to thirty, they wander from blackjack to poker. The left fielder quickly loses all he’s gained on a hand of Hold’em with a gray-haired cowboy (his two-pound belt buckle and a ten-gallon hat making Greg, his sweaty clothes now stiff with salt, feel underdressed all over again). At that, the outfielder stands up and says, “Good game, sir. Carve, should we head back to the stadium?” Greg nods, though he hardly understands why Jason is so damn chipper. Thirty thousand is what Greg earns for a whole season in Salt Lake.

They jog through the parking lot, over a short bridge that spans a drainage canal, and onto the Salt River lot. Goodyear picks up his pace, nearly sprinting between practice fields. A few fans taking smoke breaks squeal when they see Jason Goodyear approach the players’ entrance, his pumping arms and perfect form, his skin glistening. No one calls out for Greg, thundering down the sidewalk a few steps behind. Inside, the clubhouse TV says it’s the ninth inning and Vásquez is still on the mound. Goodyear raises his eyebrows and Greg curses under his breath.

Jason turns and says, “Looks like I owe you a five spot. And remember, we just went for a run.” He slaps Greg’s back again, but closer to his shoulder, and it sends shots of pain down his arm. He’d nearly forgotten about his surgery, had not thought of his arm since that first whoosh of cold casino air.