Rafe Mendez, 59, has spent 22 years scouting the Appalachian League for the Cincinnati Reds, logging 300 days a year on the road, sleeping in motel rooms with peeling wallpaper, eating gas station bologna sandwiches for lunch, and avoiding any interaction that doesn’t involve radar guns, swing mechanics, or contract negotiations. He’s a widower of 12 years, and his greatest flaw is that he still treats any casual, non-work attention from a woman like a personal insult to his late wife Maria, even when he can feel his chest go tight when they smile at him. He’d been stuck in tiny Mars Hill, North Carolina, for three extra days after the final game of the season, waiting on a replacement tire for his beat-up rental SUV, and he’d parked himself at the corner stool of the only dive bar in town for three straight nights, too restless to watch TV in his motel room.
The bar was nearly empty at 10 PM, the high school football playoff game on the fuzzy CRT above the tap running down to the final two minutes, when Lila slid a fresh IPA across the bar to him without him asking. He’d seen her behind the bar every time he’d passed through town that season, knew she was the mother of Javi Ruiz, the 19-year-old switch-hitting shortstop he’d offered a contract to that morning. She had streaks of silver in her dark braid, a smudge of fryer grease on her left wrist, and silver hoops that caught the neon beer sign light when she leaned against the bar across from him, her arm brushing his when she set down a bowl of salted peanuts. She smelled like vanilla hand cream and fried pickles, the same scent that had lingered in the air when she’d hugged Javi after the final out that afternoon.
He tensed up immediately, ready to default to polite small talk about Javi’s fielding percentage, but she sat down on the stool next to him, her denim-clad knee brushing his work boot under the bar, and said she already knew all about the contract, that Javi had texted her 17 times that day screaming about how he was going to make it to the big leagues. Rafe laughed, a rough, rare sound, and joked that Javi’s swing was so fast he could knock a hummingbird out of mid-air if he wanted to. She laughed back, loud and unapologetic, and her foot tapped his ankle when she asked him how long he’d been scouting, how he’d ended up driving 40 thousand miles a year to watch teenagers play baseball in small towns.
He fought the pull of it, hard. The unwritten rule of scouting says you don’t mess around with a prospect’s family, full stop, and the voice in his head that sounded just like Maria kept telling him he was being stupid, that he was too old for this, that he should finish his beer and go back to his motel. But she kept holding his eye contact, not the quick, polite glance she gave regulars, three full beats at a time, like she was reading the scouting report he kept tucked in the back of his head. She told him she’d been running the bar for 18 years, that Javi’s dad had left when he was 2, that she’d worked two jobs to pay for his travel ball fees until he got his first college offer. When she mentioned she hadn’t been on a date in 10 years, Rafe felt the last of his resistance crack.
When she said she was closing up early, that she had a bottle of small-batch bourbon stashed by the fire pit out back, he didn’t hesitate for more than two seconds. The air was sharp with fallen maple leaves and the distant smell of wood smoke from the houses down the street, and when they sat down on the weathered Adirondack chair, she tucked herself close enough that their shoulders pressed together when she passed him the bottle. He told her about Maria, about the car accident that had taken her, about how he’d thrown himself into scouting because it was the only thing that didn’t make him feel like he was cheating on her by enjoying life. She laced her fingers through his, her thumb brushing the old scar on his knuckle from when he’d broken his hand playing college ball, and said Javi would be thrilled to see her stop spending every night alone behind the bar, that no one would think less of him for letting himself be happy.
He leaned in and kissed her before he could overthink it, tasted bourbon and cherry lip balm, and the fire popped behind them, sending sparks flying up into the dark, star-heavy sky. They didn’t make any big promises, didn’t talk about moving or meeting each other’s families, just sat there passing the bottle back and forth for an hour, their legs tangled under the blanket she’d grabbed from behind the bar, talking about nothing more complicated than Javi’s terrible taste in music and the best small town diners along the Appalachian League circuit. When his phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket with a text from the rental shop saying his tire was ready, he tucked it back in his pocket without answering, leaned his head against hers, and let the fire warm the cold spot in his chest he’d thought would stay frozen forever.
