Rafe Mendez, 57, minor league baseball scout, slams the door of his beat-up F-150 against the lash of South Carolina summer rain, his scouting notebook crammed under his oilskin jacket to keep the ink from running. He drove three hours from Augusta for tonight’s low-A ball game, left the stands ten seconds after 19-year-old shortstop Javi Ruiz hit that walk-off double, his notes on the kid’s quick release and quiet grit already half scrawled across three pages. The bar is the only lit spot for ten miles, a cinder block dive with a neon beer sign flickering half out above the screen door.
The air hits him warm and thick when he walks in, smelling like fried peanuts, bourbon, and the faint sour tang of old beer soaked into the floorboards. Only three regulars huddle at the far end of the counter, a Johnny Cash record spinning low on the jukebox. He slings his jacket over the back of a stool, sits, and taps the faded bourbon sticker on the counter twice, the same signal he’s used at every dive bar across the southeast for 22 years.
The woman who steps over to pour his drink has silver streaks cutting through her dark curly hair, calloused fingers wrapped around the neck of the bourbon bottle, a worn Gamecocks hoodie hanging loose off her shoulders. She slides the glass across the counter, and their fingertips brush for half a second, a jolt of something sharp and warm running up Rafe’s forearm that he hasn’t felt since his wife, Elaina, died eight years prior. He tenses, pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, stares down at the amber liquid in his glass.
“Saw you in the stands tonight,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter, her elbow brushing his bicep when she wipes a spot of spilled soda next to his hand. She’s close enough that he can smell vanilla lotion mixed with the grease from the fryer in the back, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners when he snaps his head up to look at her. “You’re here for Javi, right? I’m Lila. His mom.”
Rafe’s jaw goes tight. League rules strictly bar scouts from fraternizing with players’ immediate family, no exceptions, to avoid accusations of favoritism or under-the-table deals. On top of that, the quiet pull he feels toward her makes his stomach twist with guilt, like he’s betraying Elaina even by sitting here noticing how soft her smile is, how the silver streaks in her hair catch the neon light. He considers lying, grabbing his jacket, and driving straight back to Augusta, but his feet don’t move.
He nods, slow, taps the edge of his notebook where the league logo peeks out from under his arm. “Guilty. Was gonna leave straight after the game, but the rain picked up too fast.”
Lila snorts, turns to grab a plate of fried okra from the warmer behind the counter, slides it across to him without him asking. “Every scout that’s come through here for Javi books it out the second the final out is called, scared someone will see them talking to me. You’re the first one that’s even stopped for a drink.” She leans against the counter again, closer this time, her knee brushing his under the edge where no one can see, holds his eye contact for a beat longer than casual conversation requires. “I know the rules. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
Rafe takes a bite of the okra, crispy and salty, the heat of the cayenne coating his tongue. He’s spent eight years shutting anyone who isn’t a coach or a player out, going home to an empty house, sleeping on Elaina’s side of the bed half the time just to feel close to her, convinced any attempt to move on would make the memory of her fade. The disgust he’s trained himself to feel at any flicker of attraction wars with the quiet warmth spreading through his chest, the way Lila laughs like she doesn’t care what anyone thinks, the way she doesn’t push him to talk when he goes quiet for a minute.
He tells her about Elaina, how she used to come to every game with him, how she’d keep score in a pink notebook and yell at the umpires louder than any of the coaches. Lila tells him about her husband, who died six years ago in a construction accident, how Javi started playing baseball full time the next year to keep himself busy, how she opened this bar to pay for his travel team fees. The regulars filter out one by one, the rain tapping softer against the roof, the Johnny Cash record flipping to a slower track.
Lila locks the front door when the last regular leaves, turns the neon sign off, leans against the counter across from him. She reaches across, brushes a stray raindrop off his cheek that he didn’t even know was there, her palm warm against his skin. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just rests his hand over hers where it lingers on his jaw, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel guilty for wanting to stay.
