Tami knows that tone. When Joanne finishes something, she’s onto another team, no matter what. Doesn’t want to get a “reputation” anywhere. She started with a scarred-up Giants catcher, then went to Peoria. That’s where the two women met, loitering around the Mariners lot, both of them trying to look too good to be there. Joanne spent the spring with a veteran reliever. The year after that, she was in Mesa and met a DH who could put just about anything in play (never mind that he could barely shuffle up the base path). With fifteen Cactus League teams, she figures there are squads enough. Tami’s not sure what her friend sees in these codgers, near as old as them and back to making the major league minimum. And the drives! It is thirty-five minutes to Peoria without traffic; the Lions’ new compound, built on Pima-Maricopa land, is seven minutes, door to turnstile.

“Do you think that’s such a good idea?”

Tami also knows from her friend’s strained voice that Joanne’s eyebrows are trying to make their way up her forehead. Back when she was Mrs. Thomson, she’d had a good deal of work done. It looks nice, except for when she’s trying to move something. Tami’s lucky that way—nothing’s gotten too draggy or droopy.

“It’ll be fine,” she says. “Besides, Ronnie’s not on the team. He just financed the stadium. He doesn’t count toward your silly one-a-team rule.”

“What about Hal Moyers?” A few seasons ago, Tami had a fling with the Lions’ veteran curve baller, at least until his wife got wind and stormed in from Los Angeles. He was on a short leash after that.

Tami is surprised, and not surprised, that Joanne remembers Hal. “That was ages ago. Water under the bridge.”

“That’s what you think. But ballplayers—motherfucker.” Tami hears a clatter of kitchenware, and then Joanne is muttering far from the phone. “Gotta go,” she says. Joanne’s always been a klutz.

Tami sets down the phone and steps into the backyard. Ronnie never got around to landscaping, but he dug for a pool and paved a not-small patio. Tami bought a few pieces at an estate sale, a café table and a couple of chairs that make her think of Paris. The yard looks pretty nice, if her eyes don’t wander over to the pool-size hole or the pile of red-orange dirt where the landscaping is supposed to start.

No, it’s not bad, she thinks as she settles into her breakfast. It’s the last week of February, there’s a game on this afternoon, and as the sun reaches over the McDowells, the tiles begin to warm under her bare feet.