Manny Ruiz, 53, leans against the scuffed dark oak bar of Houndstooth Tap, a half-drunk IPA in one hand and a beat-up leather scouting notebook tucked under the other arm. He’s supposed to leave in five minutes. He only showed up to the neighborhood holiday toy drive to drop off three boxes of unopened youth baseball sets, dragged through the door by his college roommate who runs the local Little League, and he’s already mentally running through his to-do list for the next day: call the coach at Pasco-Hernando State, restock Hank’s senior dog food—his 12 year old beagle has bad hips and needs the special grain-free blend—fix the broken gutter on the back of his rental.
He spots her across the room before she sees him. Lena Voss, Javi Voss’s mom. Javi is the 17 year old left-handed pitcher from Plant High Manny has been tracking since spring, the kid with a 94 mph fastball and a curveball that drops like a stone, the best prospect he’s scouted in three years. He’s only talked to Lena twice, both quick exchanges from the bleachers after games, but he hasn’t stopped thinking about her since May, when he caught her yelling at Javi for showboating after a strikeout, then turning around to hand a freezing kid in the stands her own extra hoodie. She’s wearing a fitted deep green sweater, jeans scuffed at the knees, ankle boots caked in a little grass stain that he recognizes immediately as the same red clay from the Plant High field. She’s holding a glass of spiked apple cider, and when she turns her head and catches his eye, she grins and starts walking over.
His chest tightens. League rules strictly forbid fraternizing with player family members before the draft, no exceptions. If anyone from the Rays front office sees them talking off the field, he could get fined, even lose his job he’s held for 19 years. He’s already been warned once three years back for taking a kid out for a burger after a showcase, and he knows he won’t get a second chance. He considers ducking out the side door before she reaches him, but she’s already there, sliding onto the empty bar stool next to him, her knee brushing his when she shifts to get comfortable. The contact is light, just a quick brush of denim on denim, but he feels it shoot up his spine, his ears going pink under the brim of his faded Rays cap.
She smells like cinnamon and pine soap, and she laughs when she nods at the scouting notebook peeking out from under his arm. “You never stop working, do you? I swear I saw you scribbling in that thing even during Javi’s last game when it was pouring rain.” They talk for 20 minutes, first about the toy drive, then about Javi’s upcoming offseason training schedule, then about how she’s a freelance graphic designer who collects vintage 90s grunge tees, how he spends half his road trips eating gas station beef jerky and listening to old Tom Petty records. When he makes a dumb joke about how all minor league umpires are legally required to be missing at least one of their eyes, she snorts and her hand brushes his forearm, the warmth of her skin seeping through the thin flannel of his shirt. She holds his gaze for three beats too long, her dark brown eyes flecked with gold, the faint laugh lines around her mouth crinkling, and he almost forgets how to breathe.
He’s torn. He’s avoided any romantic connection since his wife left him 8 years ago, convinced any attachment will just end in disappointment, and on top of that, this is the most unprofessional thing he could possibly do. He tells himself he should leave, make an excuse about walking his dog, but he can’t make himself stand up. He wants to keep talking to her, wants to know what her favorite concert was, wants to know if she puts extra marshmallows in her hot chocolate like he does.
She leans in a little, lowering her voice so only he can hear her over the blaring holiday music and the chatter of the crowd. “I know you’re worried about the league rules. I already talked to Javi. He doesn’t care. He says you’re the only scout who’s ever asked him about his art classes, not just his ERA. And I know this is stupid, but I’ve been hoping I’d run into you somewhere that wasn’t a baseball field for months.” Her hand is sitting on the bar two inches away from his, her nails painted a deep burgundy, and he moves his pinky until it’s touching hers, slow, like he’s scared he’ll scare her off.
He admits he’s been thinking about her too, that he almost bailed on the toy drive earlier that night because he was terrified he’d see her and do something that would mess up Javi’s draft shot, mess up whatever this is. She smiles, pulls a crumpled game ticket stub out of her purse, scribbles her phone number on the back of it in sparkly purple pen, and tucks it into the front pocket of his flannel, her fingers brushing his chest when she does. She presses a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, the ghost of her lipstick leaving a faint pink mark he’ll only notice later when he’s in the truck driving home.
“I’ll text you the address of that little coffee shop in Apollo Beach tomorrow,” she says, standing up to grab the stuffed rabbit she brought for the toy drive from the table by the door. “No one we know goes there. We can talk about anything you want. No baseball, no draft rules, no excuses.”
Manny takes a sip of his now-warm IPA, pulls the ticket stub out of his pocket, runs his thumb over the smudged purple ink of her phone number, and watches her laugh as she hands the stuffed rabbit to a little kid in a sparkly snow hat.
