“So how’s the new outfielder?” They’ve already chatted about his impressions of the new stadium, his off-season training. Trey looks fit; he always takes care of his physique.

Trey takes a sip, licks his lips. “Which one?”

“Come on, Trey.” Now Stephen looks squarely at his companion. “You know, the right fielder. Our second pick, behind that kid first baseman, oh jeez, gimme a sec … Goslin.” The partial owner of the Los Angeles Lions is not good with names, not even those names for which he has paid millions. Numbers, he’s good at those, a walking calculator. Faces, absolutely—he could nail any precinct lineup with one eye closed, or, more important to his profession, the fabric of any blazer by one glance at the lapel. But names are hard. His daughter’s seventh-grade teacher, that old Triple-A batting coach who simply refuses to retire, the waiter who always serves him at this, his favorite restaurant in Scottsdale. All blanks.

Trey shrugs, his shoulders announcing themselves under his collar. Navy blue, meant to minimize his bulk and complement his skin. Stephen notices the familiar sheep logo embroidered over the breast, but doesn’t remind his friend that he’d taught Trey that, years ago: Wear dark colors, conservative brands, to make yourself seem less imposing in mixed, or otherwise sensitive, company. These two black men, drinking expensive tequila together an hour before the Arizona sunset, are not a mixed crowd—something Stephen very much appreciates after walking into so many all-white boardrooms, after hosting so many press conferences wherein the sea of reporters was mostly all white. Nor, Stephen thinks, is he a “sensitive” audience for Trey. They’ve moved far beyond the owner-player, boss-employee relationship; they are friends. Is it just that Trey has internalized the lesson, as he has so many of Stephen’s offerings and advice? That now, this presentation—and following Stephen’s direction—are what come naturally?

“Matthews. Corey Matthews,” Trey says at last. He takes his drink without salt—Trey claims the sodium bloats him up, which in turn may slow him down. And Stephen does not want anything to slow down his center fielder. I want my boys at their best! is his line on the occasional clubhouse visit, always delivered with forced jocularity. Though boys—with Trey he should say men. Man. Trey’s younger than Stephen by enough to make the owner feel old, but the outfielder’s been with the organization for a dozen years, which puts him solidly on Stephen’s side of thirty. “You’ve seen about as much as me.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Stephen presses the rim’s last salt crystals into the roof of his mouth, holding them there until they are gone. He licks his lips and smiles. His wife, Mona, tells him he looks like a Cheshire cat when he smiles. Usually, she says this with suspicion, like it’s a bad thing to act self-assured. “The locker room?” Stephen’s eyebrows raise suggestively.