Greg is scared to bring it up with his doctors, but he’s done enough trawling through WebMD to have an educated guess of what happened. Something went sideways on the first surgery, a clipped nerve or scar tissue. Something. If Greg mentions it now, explains that it feels like he’s sticking his elbow in an electrical socket every time he pitches, the doctors would want to take a look. And not just look: they’d have to go back in, root around, snip and tuck and hope they fix it right. If they made another mistake, even a tiny one, the Internet says he could lose all feeling in his arm—fingers, too. Something about how the nerves are bundled. How is he supposed to pitch if he can’t feel his thumb? At least now he can throw, even if it hurts like a mother. A second surgery, recovery time, would be another four months. Practically the whole damn season on the bench, and then his rehab assignment. Fuck that. Greg took two pills before his last start and couldn’t remember a pitch of it, but Jimmy said he’s throwing faster than ever.

A bright, buzzing liquor store. Greg’s at the counter with a basket full of cheap champagne. The man with a scar on his cheek brings his basket up to the front—light beer with mountains on it—and pays for both of their lots with a credit card that says JAMES CARDOZO.

Greg picks up and palms a muddy, familiar ball. Jimmy. He knows Jimmy. Jimmy is his best friend. Jimmy is the catcher for the Salt Lake Stallions. No, the Los Angeles Lions. Jimmy is wearing a ball cap that says as much. “I got it.” Jimmy gives the cashier a credit card, signs a slip. “Thanks for picking up the tab at that last place.”

Greg has no recollection of the last place, but he realizes that along with the fuzz of the vikings, he’s wobbly with booze. He straightens up, tries to ignore the swimming corners of his vision. “No problem.”

There is a beat-up convertible in the lot, two women waiting in it. They wave at Greg and Jimmy; the one with brown hair blows a kiss. Jimmy blows one back. “Who are those women?” Greg says under his breath. They look familiar, but he’s not sure if it’s because he’s seen them before or because they look like every dolled-up divorcée in this town.

“Dibs on the brunette,” Jimmy says. “Joanne, right?”

“Hell if I know.” According to Jimmy, the trophy wives want trophies, too—though these women look too rough around the edges to be anyone’s stay-at-home. Pretty, though.