Roy Pacheco, 53, independent minor league scout covering south Texas and northern Mexico, wiped brisket grease off the brim of his faded Stetson and shifted his weight to his good knee. He’d been judging the annual Seguin barbecue cookoff for four hours, and the ache in his left knee—blown out by a stray line drive during 1997 spring training—was bad enough that he’d already popped two ibuprofen. He’d skipped the league mixer the night before, same as he skipped every mandatory team event lately; the new front office kids kept hinting he should retire, trade his 100,000 mile F150 for a golf cart and a condo near the coast, like he was some washed up has-been who couldn’t tell a top 10 draft prospect from a rec league weekend warrior.
He spotted her leaning against a split rail fence 20 feet away, holding a sweating can of Shiner Bock, wearing cutoff jean shorts and a scuffed up Astros tee that looked older than she was. Maren Hale, 36, league merch coordinator, the woman who’d cornered him at the fall combine in Corpus Christi six months prior, asked him 12 straight questions about his scouting process, until he’d brushed her off and mumbled an excuse about needing to watch a 17 year old lefty pitch in Mexico at 5 a.m. the next day. He’d told himself then she was just curious about the guy who’d written the scouting report that got the league’s current star shortstop drafted, nothing more. He had a hard rule: no dating anyone more than seven years younger than him, a rule he’d stuck to since his ex-wife left him for a 34 year old strength coach when he was 46, convinced any younger woman paying him attention was after his free game tickets or the tiny trust fund he’d inherited when his dad died.
He turned to walk the other way, but she called his name, loud enough to cut over the country cover band’s rendition of “Folsom Prison Blues.” She walked over, stopping just out of arm’s reach, tilting her chin up to hold his eye contact two full beats longer than polite, a half grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Thought you were avoiding me,” she said, holding out an unopened beer. He took it, his fingers brushing hers for half a second, catching the rough edge of a silver ring shaped like a baseball bat on her index finger. She moved a step closer, close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and a hint of cherry lip balm under the thick post oak smoke curling through the air.
He made small talk for 10 minutes, grunting answers about the prospects he was scouting that month, avoiding her questions about why he’d blown her off in Corpus. She leaned against the fence next to him, her shoulder almost touching his, laughing when he ranted about the new league rule that limited scouting trips to three days max. When a gust of wind blew a flake of ash onto the sleeve of his worn flannel shirt, she reached over without thinking, brushing it off, her palm lingering on his forearm long enough for him to feel the callus on her thumb from stitching custom ball caps for the league’s online shop. He froze, every alarm in his head going off, half disgusted with himself for even noticing how soft her skin was, half buzzing with a heat he hadn’t felt in years.
The sky opened up without warning, fat warm summer rain drops pounding down so fast everyone within 50 feet scrambled for cover. They ran for the same empty taco truck awning 10 feet away, squeezing under the narrow metal overhang, pressed chest to chest when the rain picked up, coming down so hard it blurred the view of the cookoff pits 20 yards away. He could feel her heart beating fast against his chest, her hip pressed to his bad knee, her hair dripping cold water onto his neck. She tilted her head up, grinning, water running down her freckled cheeks, and he didn’t move away. “I’ve been trying to get you alone for six months,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the rain, tapping the thin scar on his left cheek, the one he’d gotten from that 1997 line drive. “All the other scouts spend half the night bragging about their golf scores and their stupid boat loans. You spend three nights in a dirt cheap motel in Laredo just to watch a kid pitch three innings. That’s way more interesting.”
He opened his mouth to say he was too old for her, that this was a bad idea, that she didn’t want to deal with a guy who woke up at 4 a.m. every day and forgot to buy groceries half the week and had a knee that ached so bad when it rained he could barely walk. She snort-laughed before he could get the words out, shaking her head, reaching up to tuck a wet strand of hair behind his ear. “Save the old man routine for the front office kids, Pacheco. I don’t care how old you are. I care that you don’t lie to people to make yourself look cooler.”
They stood under that awning for 22 minutes, he counted, while the rain slowed to a drizzle, talking about the 19 year old shortstop from the Rio Grande Valley he was planning to recommend for the first round of the draft next year. He didn’t flinch when her elbow brushed his bad knee, didn’t make up an excuse to leave when the rain stopped entirely. He bought her a funnel cake from the stand that had just reopened, let her feed him a bite, powdered sugar sticking to her lower lip. He wiped it off with his thumb, not overthinking it, not running through the list of reasons he shouldn’t be doing this.
She scribbled her cell number on the back of a crumpled scouting report for that 19 year old shortstop, tucking it into the pocket of his flannel shirt before she walked to her beat up Honda Civic parked down the road. She kissed him on the cheek, slow, her lips soft against his sunburnt skin, and told him she’d call him when she was back in town for the draft showcase next month.
He got in his F150, pulled the crumpled paper out of his pocket, folded it carefully and tucked it into the cup holder next to his half empty coffee. He turned the key in the ignition, the radio blaring an old George Strait track, and didn’t even wince when his bad knee throbbed as he pressed down on the gas.
