Greg looks at Tami, her forehead smooth with sleep. He can’t remember what they talked about last night, but he has the sense he fell asleep reassured—and not just from the release of sex. He does remember that, at least snaps of it: her naked body, the tan skin of her legs gone a bit loose with age. Her breasts, still round, the nipples big and hard as leather. Had she said her ex was a pitcher? That she knew someone who came back from surgery? He can’t remember. Greg steps into his jeans, grabs his wadded-up clothes, and follows Jimmy out of the house, both men dressing as they go.

“Damn,” Jimmy says, hustling to his car. “I sure hope we’re not late for pregame. Gotta get you warmed up. You ready to start?”

The only thing Greg is ready to do is curl up into the fetal position, but he smiles wanly.

“Atta boy.”

Every throw hurts. It starts before the throw even, screaming when he lifts his arm up and back for the motion.

Jimmy holds up his palm, gets out of his crouch, and jogs over to the rubber. “You okay, Carve?”

“Just sore.”

Jimmy gives the pitcher a hangdog look. “I am, too! Joanne kept me up half the night. How’d you make out, champ?”

“Fun time.” Fun, if that’s what it’s called to burst into tears after sex, soaking some stranger’s pillow. He remembers now—he’d actually said it, out loud: My elbow’s wrecked. Tami, she’d just put her hand on his chest, right over his breastbone, and pressed. Hard but soft. That opened the floodgates.

“It’s good to have you back.” Jimmy grins. “Last season was no fun at all.” Greg smiles, sort of, then says he’s gonna take five.

Tomás Monterrey is in the clubhouse bathroom, standing at a urinal. He busted his wrist against the outfield wall two summers ago, and Greg is pretty certain he’s got something. Might not be the same, but that hardly matters—he can’t start the game feeling the way he feels, pain so sharp he might puke. And he can’t tell Dorsey he’s hurt, that’d be curtains—tomorrow’s cut day, and as it is he’s hanging on by a thread. “Tomás, hi,” Greg says. He offers a hand, and then sees Tomas’s hand is around his dick. Greg crosses his arms. “I’m Greg Carver, a pitcher with the Stallions? I mean, hopefully the Lions, but last time I—”

“I know who you are.” Since they traded Townsend, Monterrey’s been starting in center. Not exeptionally good at it, but not fucking up, either.

“Oh, good. Right. I wasn’t sure, since I’ve been out—”

“What you want, Carver?” Monterrey looks annoyed and finishes pissing with an exasperated little shake.