Mona pulls him toward a woman Stephen doesn’t know, a new neighbor or someone’s recent girlfriend. “This one’s his favorite,” Mona tells the brunette. Mona has loosened her grip and puts a hand on Trey’s back. She does the same to Stephen when presenting him at parties. The pressure of her palm makes him feel like some sort of puppet. Mona’s creation, her captive, like saying, Here, here is a thing that I have. “Stevie’s favorite on the whole team.”

The new woman mumbles some pleasantry that doesn’t carry, but Trey responds as clear as day, somewhat louder than his normal voice. “Mr. Smith has been a great friend over the years.”

“Why don’t you ever bring a girl around, Trey? You’re so handsome,” Mona says, scrutinizing his face, pressing into his back. “Dontcha think?” If his posture could possibly get any straighter, it does. The new woman clucks in agreement, looks him up and down admiringly.

Trey clears his throat. “It’s not easy to find the right one, Mrs. Smith. The right girl, I mean.”

“Puh-lease. It’s Mona for my husband’s best friend. What’s so hard? Try one, and if it doesn’t work, try another. I mean, look at Jason—you get knocked down and you get right back up again. I heard he was canoodling with some barfly the night he—”

“Being on the road all the time is tough. And I have … particular tastes.”

“Tastes.” A flash passes over Mona’s face, and she indicates she wants to whisper something in his ear. She is trying for height, stretching on her tiptoes, but Trey still has to lean down for her to reach him. She squeezes his arm again, a hard cinch.

“Did he fuck you?” She hisses it, but the question carries over the chinking of wineglasses, cuts through the rumble of men’s voices behind him. Its venom is a sharp, quick sting, and before Stephen realizes it he’s back in the kitchen, the ice bucket clattering on the counter as he puts a hand on Mona’s, their rings clicking, and pries her fingers off of Trey. With his other hand he pats Trey’s shoulder; short, hard raps trying to steer him toward the doorway. “Mona, dear, be careful.” Stephen lets Mona’s grip curl tighter, and he clenches his teeth to keep from grimacing. “That’s his throwing arm.” He chuckles like it’s funny. Stephen pulls their hands below the counter and squeezes back. She welps softly and eases her grip. “You doing well, Trey?” Stephen asks, ignoring the rustle under the counter. “You need anything else? Another Scotch?” Another rap lands on the player’s back.

He shakes his head. “No, thanks.”