The silence stretches, grows. He’s been in proximity to the All-Star other springs, taken showers at the same time, caught a few balls he sent back from left. But this is the only time they’ve spoken. What should he say next? I’m sorry about your divorce? Jason probably doesn’t want to talk about it—isn’t that why he got himself into trouble at Taliesin? “Got the afternoon off?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Jason spits to the side of the trail. He’s meant to be a man of few words, but today the left fielder is so short he’s nearly surly. “Dorsey put some kid in left. Wants him to play a game before he’s cut.”

Cut day. What a different thing it means for Goodyear and Jimmy, assured of their spots on the roster. For them, it just means the locker room’s less crowded, they’ll know who’s going to be hitting before them and cleaning up after. Greg, on the other hand, is staring down the end of his option this spring, and dreads every Friday morning, expecting the worst. If he’s cut he’ll be released, and no one will sign him, his arm being what it is. Working but not working right. A part of him is amazed he’s made it a month without anyone noticing. The team doc has asked for a checkup, but he’s so busy with hamstring pulls and back pain he hardly seems to care that Greg keeps rescheduling.

They go another mile. The sun, if possible, is even hotter; both men are sluicing off sweat.

“How far you usually go?” Jason asks, watching Greg’s stride out of the corner of his eye.

Greg could answer ten miles, fifteen, twenty, or he could say the truth: however far it takes to be so exhausted that he forgets about his arm for a while. But he senses the left fielder is flagging, even as the man keeps pushing to stay in step. That Greg can best the star in this one thing gives him a small surge of pride, but he pushes it back down. Today’s gift is the time with Goodyear. He’s known to be a solitary creature, superstitious about routines and rituals. Everyone in the clubhouse knows it’s best not to interrupt, not to invade his personal space. Trey Townsend was let inside just a bit; they spent some time one-on-one. But Trey’s gone now, already in Florida, settling in with the Braves after a trade absolutely no one saw coming. “I’m cool to turn around whenever.”

“Good.” The men stop, about-face, begin running again.

A few miles back toward the stadium, Jason points left. “I’m going this way.”

Greg says he’s happy to follow, thinking he’ll do anything to extend their time together—as if proximity will make him a better ballplayer. Jason looks him up and down and nods. Not a yes, but not a no.