Jimmy plops down in a chair and scoots it over to Joanne’s side. “This is fine with me.”

“Oh, sorry,” Tami says when she realizes there are only three chairs, four of them. She looks at Greg. “I could’ve sworn I had another. I can—the patio?” She points toward the back of the house.

“Floor’s fine,” Greg says and eases himself onto the dusty hardwood. He winces.

“Have you ladies been watching Carve this spring? He threw a great game the other day.” What game is he talking about? Greg wracks his brain. The Mariners? He threw five innings, maybe six. Did they win?

“Oh, yes,” Tami says as she pours champagne into cups. The bubbles make Greg’s head spin. Back when they were both Stallions, Jimmy and Greg did more than a bit of womanizing together, prowling bars in road towns, finding pretty women and following them home—anywhere was an improvement on the team hotel. They found their way into plenty of strange situations, too. But this all-but-empty house, these two women, fifteen, twenty years older than them—this takes some sort of cake.

“How did you get your scar?” Joanne breaks the silence. Greg is ready to answer, but she is looking at Jimmy, at the faint lightning bolt down his cheek.

“Everyone assumes I got a bat to the face. Catcher’s prerogative, right?” The women nod, and Jimmy shakes his head. “Mom’s boyfriend had a Doberman. I hated that guy from the start.

“But mine’s nothing,” Jimmy continues. “Wanna see something cool?” He leans out of his chair and grabs Greg’s wrist, lifting it like a prizefighter’s. A sharp pain pops to the surface. Jimmy doesn’t notice Greg’s shudder, but Tami does, and she raises an eyebrow at him as Jimmy pushes down the sleeve. “Check out that battle scar.” Jimmy smiles.

Both women lean in to peer at the six-inch incision along the inside of his elbow. Tami’s eyes go wide. “I’ve never seen a Tommy John up close.”

“He’s good as new,” Jimmy continues. “Procedure’s no big deal, tons of pitchers have it nowadays.”

Greg wiggles out of Jimmy’s grip. “Slow recovery, though,” Jimmy says. “This fuck’s been coming back for a year. Over a year. Pretty shitty, huh?”

Neither woman replies, but Greg can see something on their faces, like they know what a year can mean. He excuses himself, finds the bathroom, and swallows another pill.

Jimmy wakes him with a shake and a whisper, the catcher’s breath warm and sharp near his cheek. He is in jeans and socks, his shirt still balled up in one fist and his shoes hanging by their laces in the other. “Carve, we gotta go. Say bye to the bird.”