He thinks he sees Trey blush, but his complexion reveals almost as little as his expression, which remains a stern sort of poker. He’s been stiff all afternoon, or even stiffer than normal. Not unhappy to see Stephen but something … “I suppose,” he starts, staring at his drink as if he could see the young man there. “Good physique, if a bit slight,” he continues, deliberate in his words. “Though he says he did plenty of strength training during the fall league. Why?”

“Just curious.” Stephen waves his hand like he’s flicking something away. “I watched a few clips, but still haven’t seen him in the flesh.” Emphasis on “flesh.” Stephen has read the scouting reports, has reviewed game highlights from Cibao and the first week of Cactus League play, but he’s had no luck in seeing the prospect in person. The week had been a bear: a board of trustees meeting and a financial report review in Santa Monica, a ribbon cutting for a store in San Diego. Then Mona needed him to go to a cocktail reception at LACMA and on a double date to some flashy new Thai place downtown. And his daughter, Alexis, begged him to attend her basketball game Wednesday night, which Stephen did even as he hated it: ten gawky girls, klutzy and maddeningly slow, playing like the hardwood was coated with molasses. He loves his daughter, cute but awkward in the seventh grade, yet after five minutes—no, after sixty seconds—on the court he can tell she will never be an athlete, not a real one, and it pains him to watch her try. Just because she is tall like him, lithe like him, darker than the other girls on the prep-school team—her skin tone is almost exactly halfway between his and Mona’s—does not mean she’s got, or will ever have, game. All this busyness in Southern California meant he’d missed the whole first week of spring training, the stadium inauguration, the debut of their new acquisitions.

He’d taken the noon shuttle from L.A. yesterday, dropped his bags at their North Scottsdale home, and was over at the stadium in time for an evening matchup against the Athletics—but some sloppy old-timer was in right. Today the Lions were split squad—forty guys at home, forty driving over to the western Phoenix suburbs to play the Padres—and Stephen had picked wrong; he watched some minor leaguer bungle his way through the game. He could’ve called Paine to ask the field manager who was going where, but he didn’t want to sound too eager after any given player. No help in the team’s owner picking favorites before they’ve done their culling. His coaches already have their work cut out for them: there are eighty guys suiting up every morning in the Lions’ black and gold. The starters have their names in gold thread across their backs, while others just sport numbers—reminders that half of them will be sent to the minors, another dozen’ll be let loose entirely, not even worth a custom jersey. By the end of March, there will be twenty-five men left. Stephen wants his coaches to coach, to improve the best athletes and to release the men who have to be let go. It’s something he learned in business school: empower your employees and they will rise to the occasion.