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.

Trey swirls his drink, cracks his neck, and pops each knuckle, left to right. He skips the thumbs today, though Stephen has seen him crack those, too—the sick crunch of it loud enough to make him grimace. Trey’s body is deteriorating; both men know it but are unwilling to say as much. They can wait to have that conversation; there are three more years on his contract.

But those hands: in them are three Gold Gloves, including one last season, and he did it so elegantly as to make it look effortless. If he weren’t on a team—in an outfield—with Jason Goodyear, Trey’d be their star. Stephen is proud of this, the almost.

Trey must know that Stephen is watching him as he plays with his napkin, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. This, too, has always been part of their relationship: Stephen’s attention, Trey’s demurral. The push and resistance, pull and restraint, the one heaving the two until—once and only once—Stephen’s efforts broke the jam and they were swaying together. That one time the two men coupled, after a big walk-off win, Mona and Alexis in Hawaii, is another thing that Trey never acknowledges, even as the men continue their friendship, these postgame happy hours and rounds of spring golf. Not a word.

After another moment of quiet, Stephen asks, “Is he as fast as they say?” Last season at UNC Corey’d stolen something like fifty-seven bases in sixty-two games.