Rafe Escobar, 52, has logged 140,000 miles on his 2018 F150 in the last three years, crisscrossing the Southeast and Midwest scouting high school and junior college baseball players for a low-level Cincinnati Reds affiliate. He’s gruff around the edges, keeps his graying hair cropped so short you can see the scar across his left scalp from a 1998 college ball line drive, and hasn’t let anyone stay the night at his tiny Dayton rental since his wife left him for a travel nurse eight years prior. His biggest flaw, he’ll admit if he’s three beers deep, is that he assumes every person who shows him even a sliver of warmth wants something: a free scouting referral, a cut of his signing bonus commission, a free place to crash while he’s out of town. He’s made a science out of keeping everyone at arm’s length.
He stops into Mack’s Tap every Wednesday on his off-season, orders the same thing: 10 hot wings, extra ranch, a 24-ounce draft of Pabst Blue Ribbon, no lemon, no frills. The regulars know him, leave him alone, don’t ask about the beat-up leather scout notebook he always keeps tucked under his arm. That’s why he likes it there, until the new waitress shows up halfway through his October break.
Her name is Lila, she’s the owner’s niece, moved back to town from Nashville after a messy split from her husband, a county sheriff’s deputy who’s still known to hang around the bar on weekends glaring at any guy who so much as makes eye contact with her. The old guys at the bar have made it an unspoken rule: don’t flirt with Lila, don’t ask her out, don’t give her a reason to talk to you longer than it takes to get your order. Rafe buys into it at first, keeps his head down, mumbles his order when she first approaches his table, doesn’t make small talk.
The first crack is when she sets his wing platter down, her forearm brushing the exposed skin of his wrist where his flannel sleeve is rolled up. She smells like coconut shampoo and vanilla lip balm, not the stale beer and cigarette smoke that clings to every other surface in the bar. Her eyes hold his for half a beat longer than they need to, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, before she turns and walks back to the bar. He stares at the spot on his wrist where her skin touched his for a full minute, suddenly hot under the collar, annoyed with himself for even noticing.
She comes back 20 minutes later to refill his beer, nods at the scout notebook peeking out of his jacket pocket. “My 16-year-old plays left field for the high school varsity,” she says, leaning against the edge of his booth, her knee brushing his under the table when she shifts her weight. “I’ve been bugging every coach within 50 miles to come watch him play playoffs next week, but none of ’em will give me the time of day.”
Rafe hesitates. He knows if any of the regulars see her sitting at his table, word will get back to her ex before the end of the night. He should tell her he’s off the clock, that he doesn’t do local scouting during his break, that he’s leaving for Florida spring training in three weeks and doesn’t have time to mess around. Instead, he finds himself pulling the notebook out of his pocket, flipping to a blank page. “What’s his name?”
They talk for 45 minutes, the bar slowing down as the last of the weeknight crowd heads home. She laughs so hard at his story about a 19-year-old prospect who ate 17 tacos before a game and threw up halfway through the first inning that she snorts a little, clapping a hand over her mouth, her foot brushing his calf under the table. Every time she leans in to ask a question, he catches another whiff of that vanilla and coconut, his chest tight like he’s a 17-year-old kid again talking to his first girlfriend at a high school dance. He’s equal parts disgusted with himself for breaking his own rule and giddy, a feeling he hasn’t had in so long he can barely name it.
When he goes up to pay his tab, she slips a crumpled slip of receipt paper into his palm when she hands him his change, her fingers lingering on his for two full seconds. Her number is scrawled on the back, along with the address of the high school ball field and the time of the Saturday playoff game. “No pressure,” she says, her voice low enough that no one else can hear, her gaze darting to the door like she’s scared her ex will walk in any second. “If you don’t show, I won’t be mad. But I’d really like it if you did.”
He tucks the paper into the front pocket of his notebook before he can talk himself out of it, nods once, and walks out to his truck. The air is crisp, fall leaves crunching under his boots, and he sits in the driver’s seat for 10 minutes staring at the slip of paper, half tempted to tear it up and throw it out the window. He doesn’t need drama, doesn’t need a pissed off cop showing up at his rental, doesn’t need to get attached to someone right before he leaves town for six months.
He drives home, pours himself a glass of bourbon, and sits at his kitchen counter staring at the number for another hour. Finally, he picks up his phone, dials the number, and waits, his heart beating faster than it did when he got his first scouting job 22 years ago. She answers on the second ring, and he can hear the smile in her voice when she says hello. He asks if she wants to get coffee at the diner down the street from the field an hour before the game, says he’d be happy to watch her son play, give him whatever pointers he can.
He sets his phone down on the kitchen counter, grabs his old scout clipboard off the hook by the door, and scribbles her son’s name at the top of a blank page, the faint smell of coconut shampoo still clinging to the cuff of his flannel shirt.
