“Stevie, take off those pants!” Mona splashes to make her point, spraying an arc of water over the lip of the pool, to where Trey, Corey, and Stephen sit in a semicircle of lounge chairs. They are smoking cigars, hardly talking. Actually, just Trey and Stephen smoke; Corey has declined and continues to smack on a large wad of gum. That won’t do, Stephen thinks, but it’s better than chewing tobacco—he’s known enough players who’ve had the cancer cut out of their jaws with a demented jigsaw.

The pool’s splatter gets Stephen’s loafers wet. “Mona, dear, you’ve given away all my trunks.”

“Pish-posh. You too old to skinny-dip?”

“Yes, I believe I am.”

She treads water for a few moments, lets her mouth dip below the waterline before kicking herself back up with a humph. “Trey, how about you?” Trey is quick to shake his head; thank you, but no. “Or your new friend?”

The boy looks startled, as if he’d rather be mistaken for patio furniture, but she is bobbing and sputtering, waiting for an answer.

“Corey. His name is Corey, Mona,” Stephen says.

“Right. Corey. You know how to swim?” She dips down and pops back up, blinking at him. Her mascara has smeared an inch down her cheeks.

“Jesus, Mona,” Stephen says. “That sounds racist.” He’s been correcting her for decades, though her bullheaded comments are less frequent now (their daughter, after all). Usually alcohol is involved, and it’s almost always sparked by ignorance. “Asking a black man if he knows how to swim.”

“What? It’s a simple question. Maybe he doesn’t.”

“I do,” Corey says.

“What was that, son?” she says, spitting a spray of pool water from her mouth.

“I do. Know how to swim.”

“Well, good.” She smiles. “Hop in, then.” The boy is already kicking off his shoes, unbuckling his belt, pulling his shirt out from his waistband.

“You’re not going in.” Trey’s voice is anxious, somewhere between a question and a command.

“Why not?” Corey’s chest, hairless and ridged with muscles, is more striking than Stephen had imagined. Trey, also staring at the boy, looks stricken.

The ferocity in Corey’s eyes and the pleading in Trey’s: suddenly, Stephen sees everything, all that has happened between these two men. He sees a physical bond, an emotional one. These men have been together, or else Trey desperately wishes it so. The locker room, indeed.