“Something like that.” The guy started striding over, scowling. “Have a good day, Tami.” She set two fingers on his shoulder, the lightest sort of touch, and walked away.

The exchange was quick, as easy as giving away half a million dollars can be. Easy enough when it’s someone else’s money. “Where’s the interest?” the guy wanted to know, and when Jason explained he didn’t have it, the guy nodded at the Jeep.

“My Jeep?” Jason had had it since he was sixteen. The car was something between a lucky charm and a constant companion. He knew that on the resale market it couldn’t have been worth more than five grand, but maybe it’d pull in more, coming from him. Celebrity affiliation or some bullshit like that. “Right now?”

The guy nodded.

“Fuck, fine.” He handed over the keys.

“We do need to know where to find you. For the rest.”

Jason flipped through the options. Not the stadium. Never at the stadium again. What if it had been someone other than Sara who had seen their exchange? Not the house here—Liana didn’t deserve that, and it would be a violation of his own rules. Not the house in L.A.—the new owners were moving in this week. Not his mother’s house, not any of his teammates’. Trey could’ve helped him, but Trey was already unpacking on the other side of the country and pissed about it.

He’s memorized Herb’s L.A. address, and recited it now. Marlene’d be some sort of freaked to have this guy on her doorstep, but better that greeting than this guy on the doorstep of Stephen Smith. And who knew where Herb would be in a few weeks’ time. He talked about heading to L.A. with the team next week, acted like this season was the same as any other. But they both knew that wasn’t true.

And so the man drove away in Jason’s Jeep, down the aisle and out onto the thoroughfare. Only then did Jason tap his pocket and remember his phone, his wallet—everything was in the car. “Fuck.”

Looking at his watch, looking at the sky, looking at the casino tower shimmering on the horizon, he knew he was going to be late for first pitch. Dorsey would blow a gasket.

The sun is fierce, and he’s drenched in sweat after a mile, heaving for breath after two. There are three days left in spring training, but this feels like Southern California at high summer. He slows but keeps running.