“Of course I have.” In truth, William has been avoiding his agent’s calls. Once, Herb and his too-pretty assistant took him out for dinner; William spent the whole meal staring at the woman’s breasts and wondering how Herb had found her. “I’m fine. Eating good and everything.” As if on cue, there’s a rap at the door, a muffled Room service. “That’s dinner, Ma. I gotta go.”

Once he collects his sandwich, he checks his e-mail. OkCupid pings three new messages. According to his profile he’s a graduating senior at ASU, studying architecture. YoungFLW is his handle. He lies about his age so he can suggest drinks; he lies about baseball to cut down on the gold diggers. And because, well, “professional athlete” doesn’t quite feel true, not yet. Architecture seemed a viable route; he’d absorbed enough jargon from his dad to be convincing for a few drinks.

The first potential paramour, a stern-looking Slavic chick, seems like she’s fishing for a green card. The second candidate is too old, a divorcée with kids; William can see the wrinkles even in her thumbnail-size profile picture. The third, a brunette calling herself Emillionaire, seems intriguing. Midtwenties, writer/artsy type, nice smile. Up for fun. He pings her back: How was ur day?

He chomps into his sandwich, waiting for a reply. This has worked once so far, in the form of a sloppy hookup with a bottle-blond sorority girl from Tempe. Drinks at the hotel bar, lots of laughing and whiskey, then back up to his room. She seemed to buy the architecture bit, and chose to believe his uncle was an investor in the casino and so he could stay over whenever it got “too late to drive.” She didn’t ask about, or didn’t notice, the bats in the corner, the duffel bag spilling with gold-and-black gear. She had noticed the circuitry of video game consoles he’d jury-rigged around the flat screen. You play a lot? she’d asked, inspecting his thin frame and farmer’s tan in a way that made him want to hide under the covers. She’d slipped out during the night. It sent a quick pang through his chest when he discovered she was gone—not that he’d seriously liked her or expected to see her again. But he’d liked it, touching another body, the motion of sex feeling as natural as scooping up a ball and stepping on the bag—the dip, pressure, and release of a well-executed play. He fell back asleep and when he awoke again, hours later, he called down to the kitchen for pancakes.

Halfway through his sandwich, his computer chirps. A new message from Emillionaire. Dinner with the rents. 2 late after?