Manny Ruiz, 53, is a minor league baseball scout for the Cincinnati Reds farm system, and he’s spent the last 12 years avoiding every single person related to his ex-wife like they carry a contagious strain of flu. It’s a petty flaw, he knows, but when she left him for a 32-year-old real estate agent who drove a Tesla and wore white sneakers to weddings, he decided the whole family was dead to him, even the ones who’d been around long before the divorce. He’d skipped every family barbecue, every holiday party, every little league fundraiser his ex organized, even though scouting local teen talent is the entire reason he stays in this drab little Ohio town half the year.
He shows up to the county fair’s youth baseball fundraiser anyway, because he’d gotten a tip that the 16-year-old left-handed pitcher he’s been chasing for three months is throwing a 15-minute demo on the makeshift field by the pig barn. The August sun hangs low and golden, hot enough that the back of his faded Dragons cap is soaked through with sweat, and his work boots kick up dust caked with bits of cotton candy and fried dough crumbs as he walks. He’s already halfway to the field when he realizes the beer tent right next to it is being run by Lena Marquez, his ex’s first cousin.
He freezes mid-step, half tempted to turn around and drive the 40 minutes back to his ranch, cold beer be damned. Then Lena looks up from wiping down a counter, spots him, and smirks so wide the scar across her left eyebrow crinkles. He gave her that scar when they were 20, teaching her to ride his old dirt bike behind the fairgrounds, when she hit a pothole and went flying into a patch of gravel. She still teases him about it every time they run into each other, which he’s spent the last 12 years making sure is almost never.
“Thought you swore you’d never step foot anywhere my cousin planned,” she calls, leaning against the counter, and he can hear the amusement in her voice over the rattle of the Ferris wheel and the yelling of kids chasing each other with glow sticks. She’s wearing cut-off denim shorts frayed at the hem, a faded Willie Nelson tee with a hole at the shoulder, and her dark hair is streaked with gray, pulled back in a braid slung over one shoulder. There’s a smudge of black welding soot on her left jaw, leftover from the metal yard art she sells on the weekends, and her arms are toned, crisscrossed with tiny burn scars from her torch.
He huffs a laugh, steps up to the counter, and nods at the IPA tap behind her. “Here for the lefty pitcher. Don’t get excited.” She pulls the pint, fills it to the brim, and hands it to him, their fingers brushing when he takes it. He feels the rough callus on her thumb, the same one she got from holding a welding torch 40 hours a week, and a jolt runs up his arm that he hasn’t felt in longer than he cares to admit. The beer is ice cold, condensation dripping down his wrist to soak the cuff of his flannel shirt, and he takes a long sip, eyes never leaving hers.
They make small talk for 20 minutes, him leaning against the counter, her leaning in so she can hear him over the noise of the fair, and he realizes he’s missed talking to her. She’s the only one in his ex’s family who ever got his obsession with scouting, who never complained when he’d cancel dinner plans because a 17-year-old shortstop in Toledo threw a no-hitter he had to see, who loved hearing his stories about driving 8 hours through a snowstorm to watch a game that got rained out 10 minutes in. He’d always felt a weird, unspoken pull to her, even when he was married, but he’d never acted on it, too loyal to his ex, too scared of the drama it would cause in the small town where everyone knows everyone’s business.
The pitcher’s demo starts, and Manny leans against the tent post, scribbling notes in his tattered scouting notebook, glancing over at Lena every few minutes, catching her looking back at him every single time. 10 minutes into the demo, the sky opens up, fat cold raindrops pouring down so hard the crowd screams and runs for cover. Manny ducks back under the beer tent awning, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Lena because the space is so tight, and he can smell her coconut shampoo mixed with the mint of her lip balm and the faint smell of cigarette smoke on her shirt. Their knees brush when a group of kids runs past, jostling them, and she doesn’t move away.
“You know I never took her side, right?” she says, loud enough that he can hear her over the rain drumming on the tin awning. She’s looking up at him, her dark eyes soft, no trace of the teasing smirk she had earlier. “I told her she was an idiot for leaving the only guy who ever brought me fried Oreos at the fair every year, no questions asked.” Manny laughs, a loud, genuine laugh that makes his chest hurt, and he reaches up without thinking, wiping the smudge of welding soot off her jaw with his thumb. His skin lingers on hers for a beat, and she leans into the touch just a little, her eyelids fluttering for half a second.
The rain lets up 10 minutes later, turning into a light drizzle, and the crowd starts filtering back out to the fairgrounds. Lena wipes her hands on her shorts, nods at the back of the tent, where her truck is parked. “I’m closing up here in an hour. You wanna meet me at that dive bar on Route 30, the one we used to sneak into when we were underage? They still make the same terrible cheese curds you used to buy me after dirt bike rides.” Manny nods, tucks his scouting notebook back into the pocket of his jeans, and heads for his Ford, his boots squelching in the mud.
He cranks the old truck’s radio, taps his boot to the Johnny Cash track blaring through the blown speakers, and grins so wide his cheeks ache.
