“That’s good, that’s real good.” Jason puts his can down and presses his hands together. “In that case, I have a big favor to ask.”

William falls asleep on Goodyear’s loveseat, legs dangling off the end, and wakes only when the left fielder throws a glove at his belly, telling him to borrow it for the day; they are late. They do what they need to on the bank’s website, then Jason rushes off somewhere in his Jeep. Out on the sidewalk, William squints at the too-bright morning and walks slowly to the stadium.

There’s a note on his locker, and Paine is waiting for him in his office. “You weren’t answering your phone,” he says.

“Outta juice,” William says, not making eye contact. He hopes he doesn’t smell like beer.

“Anyway, here.” Paine hands over an envelope. William eyes the contents, a stack of twenties. Paine says, “That’s a week, kid. But today’s your last game. You report to Single-A Carolina on Tuesday.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Work on those breaking balls. And when you are fielding, I’ve noticed you have a little stutter-step to the right. Try to cut that out by next spring.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know this spring was disappointing, but I look forward to seeing you next year.”

“Yes, sir.” William walks out of the office, drops the envelope in his locker, and heads for the showers. He turns the water to scalding, hoping to feel the heat—nothing else seems to be registering at the moment. Not getting cut, not moving back to the East Coast, not being handed another chance next spring. His skin pinks; the room steams until it’s nearly white.

He’s the only one in the locker room—that’s never been the case, not all spring. After his shower he walks up one row, down the next. The lockers for the starters have their names spelled out on laminate nameplates, the rest of them are written on masking tape. There are plenty of empty lockers now—the residue of tape where names have been, guys he can hardly remember, even just two weeks gone. He stands in front of his own locker. A nameplate, GOSLIN. Someone made that decision, too. He can hear sports radio coming from Paine’s office. He slips the plastic out of its rails and puts it in the envelope with his meal money. Next year.

He suits up and steps onto the field. Putney is already at home with a bucket of balls, waiting to practice fungoes with him. The shortstop has been doing this twice a week all month, not complaining, just trying to get him better. Maybe there are a few decent guys here. “You ready, Goose?”

William jogs toward first base, steps on the bag, and settles into position. “Ready.”