“Great-great-uncle,” William says, so quiet it’s barely audible over the hiss of showers and clank of lockers.

“What’s that? You finally got something to say for yourself, chico?” Monterrey turns, his eyes narrowed into slits.

“Goose Goslin was my great-great-uncle. And they called him Goose because of the way he flapped his arms when he was catching a ball, not because of the Goslin part.”

“Well, I guess you’d have to flap-flap-catch some balls for us to call you Goose then, hmm?” The outfielder steps out of his pants, his legs darkly hairy in the span between his briefs and sanitary socks. “Thank you for the history lesson, chico.”

“Give it a rest, Tom,” someone says from the next row over. A damp hand towel flies over the lockers and lands on Monterrey’s head.

“What fucking gives?” He holds out his hands, palms up. “I’m not the one with sixteen errors!”

Just then, Paine blows out of his office and into the locker room, announcing his presence with two sonorous claps. Striding forward, he assesses the bodies in various stages of undress, so many dogs at a kennel show. The players shift uncomfortably; he’s been known to pinch when the spirit moves him. “Good game, everyone! Well”—he glances at William and his face drops slightly—“mostly everyone.” That gets some chuckles, but he’s already across the room, and he does an about-face at the media room door. “I think we just about got ourselves a ball club!” he shouts. “And you know what they say, gentlemen: a team that showers together, stays together. So have a good scrub and I’ll see you jackals in the morning.”

He strides out, only to pop his head back in. “Don’t forget, tomorrow is payday!” The team hoots with excitement.

“Or cut day,” Monterrey says into William’s ear as he passes.