Javier Mendez is 59, has spent the last 18 years as a minor league scout for the Texas Rangers, driving 30,000 miles a year through small Texas and Oklahoma towns, eating too many gas station burritos, sleeping in cheap motels that smell like old cigarette smoke and laundry detergent. His biggest flaw? He’s shut down every chance at casual connection since his wife passed from breast cancer 8 years prior, convinced any kind of fun or romance would be a betrayal of the 27 years they had together. He avoids small town summer events like the plague, usually opting to scout games from the quiet of his truck with the windows rolled down, but the 19 year old lefty pitcher he’s been tracking for 3 months is playing at a charity exhibition tied to the annual Lockhart Rib Cookoff, so he has no choice but to wade through the crowds.
The July heat sticks to his skin like wet cotton, the air thick with the smell of oak smoke, vinegar-based barbecue sauce, and cheap domestic beer. He’s wearing his beat-up Rangers flannel unbuttoned over a faded Willie Nelson tee, his scouting notebook tucked in the breast pocket, a plastic cup of Shiner Bock sweating in his left hand. He gets in line for the brisket booth run by a local women’s rock climbing collective, waits 15 minutes while the line inches forward, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand every 30 seconds.
When he gets to the front, the woman manning the booth looks up at him, and he freezes for half a second. She’s 47, sun-kissed freckles across her nose, a streak of silver cutting through her auburn hair that’s pulled back in a messy braid, calloused fingers wrapped around a pair of barbecue tongs. She smirks, like she can tell he’s flustered, and nods at the lanyard peeking out of his flannel pocket. “Rangers scout, right? I’ve seen you sitting in the bleachers at my son’s games all season.”
He blinks, fumbles for his wallet, and their fingers brush when she hands him a crinkled paper plate piled high with brisket, coleslaw, and a slice of white bread. Her skin is warm, rough from years of climbing and hauling gear, and the touch sends a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt in close to a decade. He mumbles a thank you, pays, and walks over to the fence lining the baseball diamond to eat, telling himself he’s being ridiculous, that she’s 12 years younger, that she’s the mom of the kid he’s here to scout, that mixing business and anything even close to personal is a terrible idea.
He’s halfway through his brisket when she walks over, wiping her hands on the front of her stained denim apron, holding a can of sparkling water in one hand. She leans against the fence next to him, close enough that her shoulder brushes his bicep when she shifts her weight, and he can smell coconut sunscreen mixed with the smoke from the barbecue pits clinging to her clothes. “I’m Lila,” she says, nodding at the lefty on the mound who just threw a 94 mile an hour fastball for a strike. “That’s Jase, my kid. Dad bailed when he was 10, so it’s just been us for most of his life.”
He tells her his name, admits he’s there to scout Jase, says he didn’t mention it earlier because he didn’t want her to think he was schmoozing her to get a better shot at signing him. She laughs, a loud, warm sound that cuts through the noise of the George Strait cover band playing off to the side, and bumps her hip against his. “I knew who you were the second you got in line, dummy. I asked the other scouts about you a month ago, heard you’re the only one in the circuit who doesn’t pressure kids to skip college for a shot at the minors. Figured you weren’t here to play games.”
They stand there for 20 minutes, talking, neither of them mentioning Jase after the first five. She tells him she teaches yoga part time and competes in regional rock climbing competitions, he tells her about the road trips, the way he still leaves a space on the passenger seat for his wife’s old travel mug even though she’s gone. He doesn’t realize how close they’re standing until a group of kids runs past, and she steps into him to avoid getting knocked over, her hand landing on his chest for a full three seconds before she pulls away, her cheeks pink under the freckles.
When Jase strikes out the last batter of the inning, the crowd around the diamond cheers, and she grabs his arm excitedly, her fingers wrapping around his forearm tight enough that he can feel the press of her nails through the flannel. She doesn’t let go for a long beat, and he doesn’t pull away, his eyes locked on hers, the noise of the cookoff fading into background static for a second.
She checks her watch, then nods toward the pickup truck parked at the edge of the field, a “Support Your Local Lady Climbers” sticker on the back window. “My shift at the booth ends in 45 minutes. I got a cooler of cold Shiner in the back, and Jase is going to a post-game cookout with his teammates. We can talk about his contract, or we can not talk about baseball at all. Whatever you want.”
He nods, and she grins, squeezing his arm once before she turns to walk back to the booth, her boots kicking up dust on the grass, her braid swinging over her shoulder like she knows he’s watching her walk away. He finishes the last of his warm beer, crumples the plastic cup in his hand, and feels a light, giddy flutter in his chest he hasn’t felt since his first date with his wife back in 1992. He tucks his scouting notebook into his jacket pocket, already counting down the 45 minutes until her shift ends.
