The bar smelled like fried pickles and old beer, rain lashing the fogged windows so hard he could barely see the street outside. He was halfway through his drink when a woman dropped her purse on the stool next to him, hard enough to knock his crumpled napkin to the floor. They both reached for it at the same time, his knuckle brushing the back of her hand, and he noticed the faint callus on her index finger, the kind you get from gripping a softball bat for years. She held eye contact for a beat longer than casual, her lips twitching into a half smile when they both stood up straight, napkin held between them.
Manny went rigid. He never talked to family members of eligible prospects before the draft, had it written into his own personal rulebook, no exceptions. That strict line had kept him free of conflict of interest claims for his entire career, had been his anchor after his ex-wife left him three years prior, telling him he cared more about 17-year-old kids with batting gloves than he ever cared about her. But before he could lie and say he was just a local fan, she laughed, soft, and shook her head. “Relax. I’m Jessa. That shortstop you were staring at all night? He’s my stepson. My husband’s his dad, works offshore in the Gulf, only comes home one week a month. I’m the one who drags him to all the practices, all the games. I know the rules. I won’t tell anyone you talked to me. Promise.”
He should have moved stools. Should have paid his tab and left, gone back to his motel, typed up his report, gone to bed like he always did. But she was funny, teasing him about the way he’d muttered under his breath when her stepson swung at a bad pitch in the seventh inning, told him she’d yelled the exact same thing from the stands two rows behind him. She leaned in when he talked about growing up playing sandlot ball in south Texas, her knee still pressed to his under the bar, her eyes fixed on his face like every word he said mattered. When she turned to grab a napkin to wipe a drop of rain off her cheek, her hair brushed his jaw, and he had to fight the urge to tuck a strand of it behind her ear.
The bartender set her takeout bag on the bar a few minutes later, and she pulled a pen out of her purse, scribbled her number on a napkin, folded it small, slid it across the bar under his notebook so no one could see. “There’s a little field out by Miller Creek, no bleachers, no gossiping parents, kids go there to practice on weekends,” she said, her voice so low he had to lean in to hear her over the Johnny Cash track playing on the jukebox. “If you’re still in town tomorrow, we can go watch him there, no one will know who you are. Then maybe we can get a beer after. No strings. No scouting rules. Just… two people who like baseball.”
Manny stared at the napkin under his notebook for a full ten seconds after she left, the bell above the door jinging behind her, her taillights fading through the rain on the street outside. He’d thrown every similar note away for three years, had never once broken his rule about fraternizing with prospect families, never let himself get distracted from the job. He picked up his bourbon, drained the last of it, then tucked the napkin into the inner pocket of his notebook, right next to the scouting report he’d started on her stepson. He signaled the bartender for another drink, leaning back against the stool for the first time all night, watching the rain streak down the windows.
