Duke stood, his hat twisted in his hands, his head bent in penitence. “Skip, I’m sorry.”

The manager sat behind a large black-glass desk, glaring at his pitcher. “Enough with the sorries. I’ve had it with the sorries. I didn’t fly back to New York so I could listen to you whine and simper like a mewling calf. Son, we have asked and asked for you to get it together. I felt bad for you when Mark passed last year, I did … But how long do you expect me to put aside good business sense for your fragile ego?”

“I—”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Duke. Unless you’re gonna tell me the porno that my kid was watching at the breakfast table was some crazy dream I had, I don’t want to hear a goddamn word come out of your mouth.”

Duke stayed silent. He felt like crying.

“What can I do? You don’t listen to me. You’ve got an excuse for everything. We’re supposed to be a family operation, but our star player is involved in a gang shooting, parties like a goddamn rock star, and, now, is famous for boinking a girl and putting the video on something called YouTube for the children of America to see. The Christian moms are blowing up my email, demanding you be put in jail. And you know what, Duke?” He cocked his head, a fat angry bird. “Despite the hoo-ha and bullshit you’ve stirred up, I’d find a way to make this work. By God, you’ve got an arm. How can we afford to lose you?”

Duke heard the “but” coming. Behind the manager, there was a glass wall overlooking Bronx Bolt Stadium. He was afraid this might be the last time he was here as a player.

“But I think you’re lying about your injury,” Skip said. “That’s a deal breaker for me. Are you healed or not?”

“I was at that clinic to see Angel, the nurse…”

“You did not answer my question.”

“Listen, Skip, I can prove I’m fine.”

“That’s right, you will. I’ll have the team doctor and a hitter here the day after tomorrow, and you’re going to pitch for me.” The manager stood up. “This is a team. If you can’t be one hundred fucking percent, for your team, then you gotta step aside. Alright. Get out.”

Duke’s hand on the doorknob, the manager stopped him, saying, “If the newspapers or TV or any goddamn media so much as whispers your name for any reason, don’t bother showing up on Friday.”

“Mama?”

“Hmm?”

“Mama, will you read to me?”

“Hmm?”

“Mama! You said—”

“Baby! Please! Can you just go to bed?”

Jose’s bottom lip quivered as he stomped past her to his room. He slammed his door.

Angel shoved a pencil into her hair and sighed. Mom of the year, right here.