Rafe Mendez, 53, has spent half his life crisscrossing small-town Texas in a dented 2017 Ford F-150, working as a minor league scout for the Frisco RoughRiders. His biggest flaw, the one his ex-wife yelled about on their way out of the courthouse 8 years prior, is that he puts work above every single other thing, no exceptions. He has a rule scrawled on the first page of every worn leather scouting notebook he carries: no fraternizing with player families during evaluation windows. He’s watched three colleagues get fired for crossing that line, so he enforces it like a military order, even when it means leaving a bar mid-conversation, even when the person he’s talking to makes his chest feel light for the first time in months.
The bar he’s parked in tonight is a dive off Highway 71 outside La Grange, rain lashing the tin roof so hard the jukebox playing George Strait’s deep cuts sounds fuzzy around the edges. He’s nursing a frosty Shiner Bock, the mug sweating so much it leaves a wet ring on the paper coaster, going over his notes from that afternoon’s high school all-star game. The left-handed pitcher he’s been tracking for three months, Jase Carter, threw 92 mph consistently across 7 innings, no walks, three strikeouts. Rafe’s already got the contract offer tucked in his flannel shirt pocket, ready to hand over the next morning if Jase’s mom signs off on the terms.
The bar stool next to him scrapes against the linoleum. He glances up, and there she is: Lena Carter, the woman he’d watched screaming so loud in the bleachers that her voice went hoarse, holding a frayed little league glove she’d clearly had since Jase was a kid. She’s got a smudge of grass stain on the knee of her jeans, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, and when she sits, her knee brushes his for a full two seconds. She smells like coconut sunscreen and cut cedar, the same smell his mom’s yard used to have back when he was a kid playing ball in the Rio Grande Valley.
He tenses, fingers tightening around his beer mug. He knows he should move, should find another spot at the far end of the bar, should avoid any interaction that could get him in trouble. But she orders a bourbon neat, nods at the notebook peeking out of his pocket, and says, “I saw you scribbling all game. You here to steal my boy?”
Her voice is warm, rough around the edges from yelling, and when she laughs, crinkles fanned out at the corners of her hazel eyes. He hesitates, then admits he’s with the RoughRiders, that Jase’s stats check out, that he’s got an offer for him. She leans in, elbows on the bar, so close her hair brushes his cheek when a group of rowdy teenage players from the game push past to get to the restroom. Her hand brushes his wrist as she reaches for her drink, pausing when she sees the tattoo of baseball stitches wrapped around his forearm. “My dad had that same tattoo,” she says, her finger tracing the ink for half a second before she pulls away, like she just remembered she’s talking to a stranger. “He was a minor league catcher back in the 80s, blew out his knee same year Jase was born.”
He tells her about blowing out his own elbow at 22, about how scouting felt like the only way to stay connected to the game he loved, even if it meant living out of a duffel bag 300 days a year. He doesn’t mean to tell her about the divorce, about how he stopped going on dates because he never stayed in one place long enough to get to know anyone, but it spills out before he can stop it. She doesn’t pity him, just nods, says she’s been single for 6 years, that Jase is graduating next month, that she’s finally got time to do things that don’t involve driving to away games or washing baseball uniforms.
Every few minutes, some part of them touches: her shoulder against his when they both lean in to hear the jukebox play a song they both love, her foot brushing his under the bar when she shifts in her seat, her hand brushing his when she passes him a napkin to wipe the beer sweat off his notebook. He’s torn, half of him screaming that he’s risking his job, that this is reckless, that he’s breaking the one rule he’s never broken before, the other half buzzing, warm, like he’s 22 again and sitting in the stands with his dad, eating peanuts and watching the game, no responsibilities, no rules.
The bartender yells last call, turns the overhead lights up a little. They both hesitate, neither making a move to leave. She says her truck is parked three blocks over, that she doesn’t want to walk in the rain alone. He offers to walk her, and they huddle under his old waterproof RoughRiders jacket, his arm slung around her shoulders, her hand pressed to his waist to stay close. The rain is cold, but he can feel the heat of her through his flannel, can smell that coconut sunscreen, can hear her laughing when a drop of water falls off the awning onto his nose. When they get to her truck, she turns to him, rain dripping off the end of her braid, and says she knows he’s not supposed to talk to players’ moms, that she doesn’t care if anyone finds out. He kisses her before she can say anything else, slow, the rain tapping on the roof of her truck, her hands fisted in the front of his shirt, tasting like bourbon and mint gum.
The next morning, he shows up to the Carter house at 10 a.m., contract folder in hand, his hair still a little messy from the rain the night before. Jase signs the offer ten minutes after Rafe finishes walking him through the terms, yelling so loud the neighbor’s golden retriever starts barking through the fence. Lena brings out iced tea in mason jars, pressing a folded slip of paper into his palm when Jase is busy texting all his friends the good news. The note has her phone number scrawled in messy cursive, and a line that says “Meet me at the bar at 8, no notebooks allowed.”
He shows up ten minutes early, brings a bottle of the same bourbon she ordered the night before, sits in the back booth where the light is dim. When she slides into the seat across from him, her foot brushing his under the table, he tucks his work phone in his jacket pocket and turns it off, no more rules for the rest of the week.
