The parking lot is emptying out, a few TV trucks packing up in the press section. William weaves through a pair of rented Mustangs and goes past Jason Goodyear’s beat-up Jeep. He recognizes Stephen Smith, one of the owners of the team, as his Audi A8 glides by, and lifts a hand to wave. The man at the wheel does not acknowledge him. He’s probably feeling pretty bad about his investment right now. William sidles up to a 2011 Porsche, custom-painted Lions gold with black pinstripes. His baby, borne of his signing bonus. His parents sat William down months before the draft to talk to him about financial planning and long-term savings but they had allowed him this, and how he loves it. He drove it the twenty-four hundred miles from Bay Head, New Jersey, to Scottsdale, Arizona—an act of rebellion that had made Sheila Goslin, a hoverer even among helicopter parents, crazy—but he was only a couple of speeding tickets worse for wear. And even a week’s worth of road food (the wrappers wadded up in the foot well of the passenger seat) hadn’t gained him any weight.

An ancient Olds that must belong to a janitor or something is parked alongside his Porsche. Whoever parked there clearly can’t read: a sign posted above the cars says PLAYERS ONLY.

William’s car starts up with a satisfying purr. He looks over his shoulder for traffic, sets the car in reverse, and crunch. He sees the end of the Olds through his rearview mirror.

Muttering to himself, he pulls forward, parks, and gets out to inspect the damage. The car’s an ugly thing, a rusty Cutlass Supreme in a taupe that might’ve once been white. And it’s angled fifteen degrees off parallel, not really between the lines at all. It’s a wonder it didn’t hit his Porsche on its way in, he thinks. William glances inside the dusty window: the back seat’s covered with sheet music and unopened mail, a few days’ worth of Arizona Republics, and, tucked underneath some papers, the plastic top of a cheap bottle of booze.

He crouches down next to the Olds’s long back flank to inspect the damage. A fleck of gold paint from his bumper is pressed onto the metal, and the point of contact on each car is slightly indented. He tries to rub the metallic stamp off with his thumb, then licks the finger and tries again.

He looks around the lot to see if anyone has noticed him. His stomach churns. Could he just go?

“Where’d ya get me?” The man who asks is lean to the point of skinny, tan and creased like worn leather. His hair, a fluffy white rim that rounds a sizable bald spot, is a little long and very mussed, and his eyes are wide and watery behind large, out-of-date frames.

William stammers. “I—I—I just—”