There’s a white-tablecloth dining room in the back, but up in the lounge, things are more casual. Red-nosed regulars have snagged all the stools, which leaves the rest of the crowd standing around, jostling one another. As per usual in spring, there’re stag parties from the West Coast throwing back one last round before their night flights, golf-tripping corporate types reliving their best holes, and retirees taking a nip before early bedtimes. When a player comes in—and there are a dozen, scattered through the building—heads turn and voices dim. Unless they’re wearing diamond-studded everything or have an entourage of Playboy Bunnies (both of these things have happened in springs past), the room absorbs them quickly enough.

Not many women around, which is also usual. It’s part of why Tami and Deidre like it. Another reason: between long-weekend vacationers and the businessman travelers, only the stiff-lipped bartenders, a couple of world-weary sportswriters, and some septuagenarians recognize them and what they’re up to. Tami’s not worried about the old folks or the writers, they’ve got their own problems, and as for the bartenders … the women make sure they’re well taken care of by whomever is taking care of them.

“How was the tournament?” Tami asks, still a bit breathless, both from rushing over and because the place is chock-full of memorabilia, stuff that should be in Cooperstown, not getting sticky with beer in suburban Phoenix. Mickey Mantle balls, pennants dating back to the teens, baseball cards displayed like dead butterflies. Stepping inside always makes Tami’s skin go hot.

Deidre twirls the tiny red straw in her drink and casts her eyes around the room before replying. “Boring.” Deidre’s spent the day on the links, watching her boyfriend play in some charity tournament. Then, a broad smile spreads across her face. “But he’s getting me a car.”

Tami nearly spits her drink. “For watching him play golf?”

“No, silly. For being me.” Deidre regularly insists she didn’t set out to be a gold digger, but she’s doing pretty well at pulling up nuggets. Tami’s opinion is that the guy needs to have money enough for nice dinners, maybe some jewelry, but she’s not hunting for a new convertible, so long as her crap car keeps running to the stadium and back. She wasn’t hunting for a house, either, until Ronnie dropped one in her lap.

It takes a moment to recognize Jason Goodyear in his street clothes, a fashionably faded T-shirt and slim blue jeans, a blank red ball cap pulled low over his brow. A certain amount of anonymity in that, not being decked out in team gear. (Danny would make himself conspicuous on campus, although hardly anyone cared about him, even when they went to Omaha.) He’s flanked by Trey Townsend and Corey Matthews, the two other outfielders looking like brothers in matching dark blazers and khaki pants.

Tami feels her heart trilling with the new arrivals—this always happens when she sees a player out in the world. “Omigod, Dee.”