Rafe Marquez, 52, has spent the last eight years structuring every part of his life around his job as a minor league scout for the Braves’ Single-A Florida affiliate. His routine is non-negotiable: 6am runs, road trips mapped out three weeks in advance, zero unnecessary small talk with anyone who isn’t a coach or a prospect. The only crack in that routine comes courtesy of his older sister, who strong-armed him into volunteering at the local high school baseball team’s annual chili cookoff fundraiser, saying he owed the program for the access they gave him to their players all season.
She’s wearing cutoff jean shorts and a faded JUCO softball t-shirt, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with a single strand of silver, and there’s a smudge of chili powder on her left cheekbone. She holds his eye contact for three beats longer than polite, and he feels his neck get hot, the way he hasn’t since he was a 20-year-old kid trying to talk to college girls outside the ballpark. “You’re the scout that sits behind home plate every other week, right?” she says, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “Javi’s been talking about you for months. Says you always write with that beat-up blue pen and never cheer, even when he hits a home run.”
He’s torn immediately, the rigid, rule-following part of his brain screaming that fraternizing with a prospect’s family is a fireable offense, that the regional director promotion he’s been gunning for for two years will go up in smoke if anyone sees them talking for more than ten seconds. But the other part of him, the part that’s been asleep since his ex-wife moved out, can’t stop staring at the way her silver hoop earrings catch the golden hour light, the way she leans in a little closer when a group of yelling teens walks past them, her shoulder brushing his.
He finds himself leaning in too, speaking quiet enough only she can hear, admitting he doesn’t cheer because he doesn’t want to tip off other scouts to how much he likes a kid. She laughs again, and this time her hand brushes his wrist when she gestures to the chili tent behind her. “Relax,” she says, grinning. “Javi signed his letter of intent to Florida State last week. He’s not even eligible for the draft for three more years. You’re not breaking any rules talking to me.”
The weight that drops off his shoulders is almost physical. They talk for an hour, shifting closer and closer as the crowd around them gets louder, the beer flowing faster. He learns she’s been divorced for three years, runs a native plant nursery 15 minutes outside of town, collects vintage band tees, has seen every one of Javi’s games since he was eight years old. She learns he grew up playing ball in south Texas, lives alone with a three-legged rescue cat named Slider, hates cilantro and loves 80s action movies. When someone spills a tray of nachos two feet away from them, she steps into him to avoid the mess, her chest pressing against his arm for half a second, and he can smell coconut sunscreen and lime seltzer on her skin.
“You wanna get out of here for a minute?” she says, nodding toward the dirt path that leads down to the creek behind the fairgrounds. “The music’s giving me a headache.”
He hesitates for half a second, thinking about the scouting report he’s supposed to finish tonight, the early drive he has to Tampa tomorrow to watch a pitcher throw. Then he nods, shoving his phone in his pocket.
The grass crunches under their boots as they walk, crickets chirping in the trees lining the path, the noise of the cookoff fading behind them. When they reach the bank of the creek, she stops, turning to face him, and reaches up with her thumb to wipe a smudge of chili grease off his chin. Her hand lingers on his jaw for a beat, her thumb brushing the stubble there, and he doesn’t move. He’s spent so long building walls around his routine, around the quiet, empty life he thought he wanted, that for a second he can’t remember what it feels like to want something that doesn’t have anything to do with pitch speeds or exit velocities.
He leans in first, kissing her slow, her lips tasting like spicy chili and cherry lip balm, her hand tangling in the short, graying hair at the nape of his neck. It’s not rushed, not messy, the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been building for six months, ever since he first saw her waving at Javi from the stands behind home plate.
They stay by the creek for 40 minutes, sitting on a fallen log, talking about his upcoming road trip up the east coast, her plan to add a butterfly garden to the nursery, Javi’s dumb habit of leaving his cleats in the middle of the kitchen floor. He walks her back to her beat-up pickup truck when the firework show starts, the sky lighting up pink and blue over their heads, and she tugs a crumpled slip of paper out of her pocket, scribbling her phone number on it in sparkly purple pen. “Come over for dinner tomorrow,” she says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “I make better chili than any of the garbage they were serving tonight. Javi’s staying at a friend’s house, so we won’t have any interruptions.”
He tucks the slip of paper into the front of his scouting notebook, right next to the page of notes he has on Javi, and watches her drive away, the taillights of her truck fading down the road. He gets in his own truck, turns the key in the ignition, and pulls out his phone to text her before he even pulls out of the parking lot.
