Rudy Galvan, 53, minor league scout for the Kansas City Royals, slid onto the sticky vinyl bar stool at The Silver Spur just after 9 p.m., dust from the Laredo high school ballfield still crusted in the cuffs of his work jeans. He’d spent the last three days camped in the stands under a blistering sun, arguing with local head coach Jimmie Hargrove over whether Hargrove’s star shortstop was worth a 7th round draft pick. Hargrove had called him a carpetbagger who didn’t know Texas ball. Rudy had called Hargrove a stubborn hack who was holding the kid back for his own ego. The fight had ended with them both storming off in opposite directions, so when the woman sat down two inches away from him at the bar, he recognized her immediately.
Rudy tensed, reaching for his beer to have an excuse not to answer. He didn’t do drama, especially not with a married woman whose husband he’d just fought with 8 hours prior. For eight years, ever since his ex-wife had left him for a real estate agent who didn’t spend 10 months a year living out of a beat-up F-150, he’d kept his interactions with women strictly casual, no last names, no follow-up texts, no chance of getting attached enough to get burned again. It was easier that way, he told himself, no messy feelings to get in the way of the job he loved.
But she laughed, rough and warm, like she could read his panic. “Relax. I thought your take on the shortstop was dead on. Jimmie’s just mad the kid turned down his offer to play at his sorry junior college, thinks that makes him ungrateful.” She leaned in a little, her knee brushing his under the bar, and he could feel the heat of her leg through the thin denim of his jeans. The jukebox in the corner was playing old George Strait, the low twang mixing with the clink of beer bottles and the chatter of a group of construction workers in the back booth. She stole a fry off his plate without asking, her fingers brushing his when she reached across the bar, and he noticed the tiny scar on her left cheek, pale against her sun-kissed skin.
They talked for an hour. She told him her name was Lena, that she’d been married to Hargrove for 19 years, that she was leaving him the second their youngest daughter graduated high school next month, had been planning the move to San Antonio for a year, where she was going to open a small shop selling native Texas succulents. She made fun of Hargrove’s terrible handlebar mustache, the way he left his smelly gym socks on the kitchen counter, the way he thought he knew everything about baseball even though he’d never played past high school JV. Rudy told her about driving 12 hours through a tornado to scout a pitcher in Oklahoma last spring, about the time he got caught sneaking into a showcase game by a security guard who thought he was a trespasser, about how he still missed his ex-wife sometimes, even though he knew they were never going to work.
He didn’t realize how close they were sitting until she leaned in to whisper something about Hargrove’s terrible taste in 90s country, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her breath warm against his neck. His heart skipped a beat, a giddy, light feeling he hadn’t felt since he was 17 sneaking into bars with his high school friends. He didn’t pull away. She pulled a crumpled napkin out of her purse, scribbled her phone number on it in sparkly pink pen, and slipped it between the pages of his scouting notebook, her fingers brushing his wrist when she closed it. “I’m out of this house in 4 weeks,” she said, her eyes dark when she met his, no hesitation in her voice. “You said you’re coming back for the fall showcase in three months. Text me when you’re in town. I make the best chiles rellenos in south Texas. I’ll save you a plate.”
She grabbed her purse off the bar, stood up, and waved over her shoulder before she walked out the door, her cowboy boots clicking against the linoleum floor. The humid Texas night air drifted in for a second before the door swung shut behind her, carrying the scent of mesquite from the barbecue food truck parked out front.
Rudy sat there for a minute, staring at the closed door, then flipped open his scouting notebook to the page with the napkin tucked inside. He pulled out his phone, typed the number in, and hit save before he could talk himself out of it.
