The first ring of practice fields is dark, but there is a glow beyond them, and he hears something that sounds like a bat making contact. He walks toward the noise. The lights, hanging just inside the upper net, cast webbed shadows onto the paved approach, with a bigger, batter-shaped shadow spilling onto the walkway. Thwunk. The next ball is spit out of the machine. The shadow batter swings, a swing Michael recognizes instantly as Jason Goodyear’s. Decisive, graceful. Certain.

The left fielder makes solid contact and sends a line drive into the dark of the cage’s far net. The hit would’ve been a stand-up double, maybe a triple with Jason’s speed—he’s fast, and not afraid to use it. Another pitch, another line drive, this one angling slightly more to the right. He makes it look so easy, Michael thinks. The machine isn’t flaming at ninety-five, but these balls aren’t under eighty, either. A third, another notch over. He is doing it on purpose, Michael realizes, hitting clockwise across the cage, like a minute hand ticking around the hour. He knows Jason is obsessive about his swing, poring over tape of opposing pitchers and his own performance, asking for advice from everyone, Michael included. But this is something else.

When the bucket is done, Jason sets his bat against the net. It is then that he sees Michael’s shadow in the darkness.

“Who’s there?” The player tenses. It isn’t a genius move to leave yourself so exposed, no one for a half mile in any direction. What would happen if trouble came around? Run for the casino? But men don’t think that way, of their vulnerabilities. Michael knows he never did.

“It’s Coach Taylor.” He steps out of the shadows, shows his palms.

The player’s posture relaxes, and his mouth splits into a crooked smile. He is good-looking, a Tom Cruise smile and Paul Newman eyes. Heartthrob, that’s what Michael’s daughters called him, and he remembers the collective sob that happened around the country when Jason’s secret wedding to that kindergarten teacher was revealed. Clean cut, too—no visible tattoos, no billboards in his skivvies, no cursing when he strikes out—just a tight-lipped huff and he’s right back to the dugout, so that Audrey and Helen’s type like him, too. Even if the holier-than-thou bit gets old (his teammates call him “Goody Two-shoes” behind his back), this is a solid man. “Hey, Coach. Thought I had the place to myself tonight.”

“Me, too.” Michael steps closer. “You’re to camp early. Before pitchers and catchers even.” He’d heard that Jason’s Arizona house had a batting cage built into the backyard, but maybe he’d heard wrong.

Jason shrugs. “Needed a change of scenery, wanted to see this new stadium they’ve been hollering about. How about you?”

“Audrey and I always try to get down here early. A bit of calm before the storm, you know?” Or the storm before the storm, Michael thinks, remembering the wrecked kitchen, the empty garage.