“¿Quieres otra piña colada?”
Perry Hill pulls his eyes away from his e-reader and squints up at the smiling waiter.
“Ahh no no. No gracias.”
“Está bien. ¿Algo más?”
Perry considers the placement of the sun, still high enough to provide ample warmth, and his book, the latest Kathy Reichs, which is just beginning to get good.
“Mmm un daiquiri de fresa por favor.”
“Por supuesto,” the waiter nods, and turns away.
Perry’s phone dings with a text.
J.P. Crawford: miss ya
Below is a selfie of him and Dylan Moore, posing with fungos in the outfield grass.