They follow the convertible through the nighttime streets, Jimmy driving, Greg hanging out the window, hoping the fresh air will blow away his fog. And it does, somewhat: Joanne and Tami, those are their names. They’d been sitting on a bench near the players’ lot, Joanne saying something sharp and flirty, Jimmy snapping right back with a humdinger. Jimmy: unless he’s due on the field, he’s always down to meet a lady. They’d gone for drinks at the casino, some lounge with a happy hour fit for a minor leaguer. The whole time there, swilling their vodka sodas, Greg had been convinced he’d run into Jason, and he looked for the left fielder’s broad shoulders leaning over every card table. But they saw only Goslin, the wayward rookie, scurrying across the hotel lobby, pretending like he didn’t know anyone. Oh, how Jimmy’d heckled, turned the rookie beet red. Jimmy also bought the kid beer, he said, kept him in six-packs, so there was no bad blood, not really.

The palms zip by like so many columns holding up the night. Did he tell the women about their long-distance run, Goody’s midgame gamble? Greg had sworn up and down he’d say nothing, but now he can’t remember if he’d kept his promise or not. As for the women, the blond one, Tami, knew everything about the team, and a damn lot about him, his surgery and his stats for the spring. Sorta creepy, but flattering, too, particularly after the year at home, feeling like the opposite of a professional ball-player. Jimmy had so much to brag on, the one-hitter with Stan Rogers and Vásquez’s complete game shutout being the most recent; it felt good to have Tami focused on him. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt tonight, but the way she’d put her hand on his arm, gentle-like, a fingertip tracing the seam under the fabric, it’s like she knew everything.

They trail the taillights past a stone sign that says SANDIA HILLS. The car stops just inside the gate, an imposing white-stucco pile.

The women unfold from the car. “This your place?” Jimmy asks them.

“I’m watching it for a friend,” Tami says with a serious expression.

“But it’s basically Tami’s,” Joanne adds. She’s still making eyes at Jimmy as Tami unlocks the front door. The four step into a double-height foyer, cool terrazzo floors and a glittering, too-bright chandelier.

“Let’s go in here.” Tami leads them into the great room, soaring ceilings and a stone fireplace, no furniture except for a semicircle of camping chairs.

“Sorry about the furniture,” Tami says. “I’ve just been waiting to find the perfect couch.” She fishes a champagne out of Greg’s bag, unwraps the foil, and pops the cork. It ricochets off the ceiling, just missing another gaudy light fixture. “But please, make yourselves at home.”