Manny Ruiz, 53, has worked as the local high school’s football equipment manager for 22 years, and he’s made a fine art of flying under the radar. He’s got a ragged scar snaking up his left knee from a senior year college tackle that derailed his semi-pro shot, a habit of polishing helmets long after practice ends, and a strict rule against flirting with anyone even tangentially connected to the school staff or families. His ex-wife left him for a traveling solar panel salesman seven years prior, and he’s convinced he’s too set in his ways, too fond of his quiet nights with 70s Topps football cards and cheap Coors Light, to be worth anyone’s attention.
He’s halfway through a plate of overcooked catfish and lukewarm coleslaw at the VFW’s annual summer fish fry when someone drops into the picnic bench across from him, hard enough to jostle his beer can. He looks up, and it’s Lena Hale, 48, the school’s part-time athletic trainer, fresh off three hours of serving sides to the line of attendees, her forearms pink from the July sun, a smudge of potato salad on the inside of her left wrist. The town’s been talking about her nonstop for three months, ever since she filed for divorce from the county sheriff, a gruff, petty man who’s handed out more speeding tickets on Main Street than the rest of the department combined, who once wrote Manny a citation for going three miles over the limit on his way to an early morning practice. Manny’s first instinct is to mumble an excuse and leave. He doesn’t need the sheriff breathing down his neck for even breathing near his ex-wife.
Lena leans forward, elbows on the table, and the edge of her knee brushes his sore left one under the slats. He can smell coconut sunscreen and fried batter on her clothes, and her hazel eyes lock on the scar peeking out above the cuff of his worn Nike shorts. “I saw you stay after JV practice last week to help my kid work on his catching form,” she says, no preamble, nodding at the scar. “He said you told him you blew that knee out trying to make a dumb game-winning catch senior year. He’s still quoting the part where you said pride hurts worse than any surgery.”
Manny blinks. He didn’t think anyone saw that, let alone her. He’d stayed late because the JV coach bailed early to pick up his kid from daycare, and her son, a quiet 15 year old with a bad stutter, had looked like he was about to cry after dropping three straight passes. He shrugs, picking at a hushpuppy on his plate. “Kid’s got a good arm. Just needed a little extra reps.”
He stares at her for a long beat, the hum of the crowd and the crunch of potato chips in the background fading a little. He hasn’t been alone with a woman who wasn’t a parent dropping off gear in seven years. His knee aches less than it did ten minutes ago, even though the sky is clouding over, the first sign of the evening rain the forecast promised. “You gonna ask me to dance or are you just gonna stare at my wrist tattoo all night?” she teases, nodding at the tiny football helmet tattooed on her inner wrist, the same logo as the high school team.
He stands up slower than he would have 20 years ago, his knee popping a little when he does, and she meets him halfway, her hand resting light on his shoulder, his palm settling on her waist, just above the waistband of her cutoffs. They don’t go to the dance floor, just sway by the beer cooler, out of the direct line of sight of the rest of the crowd. She rests her head on his shoulder for the last verse of the song, and he can feel the weight of it through his worn team t-shirt, a quiet warmth he’d forgotten existed.
When the song ends, she pulls back, grinning, and tugs his hand toward the parking lot. “I got a box of old 70s football cards my dad left me when he died last year,” she says, unlocking the door to her beat up Ford F150. “Can’t tell a Joe Namath from a Terry Bradshaw. Figured you could help me sort through them. Got root beer in the fridge too, if you don’t feel like drinking beer.”
Manny nods, his throat a little tight, and he reaches to open the passenger door for her. She climbs in, and her hand brushes his hip when she shifts over to make room, and he smiles, the first real smile he’s had that didn’t involve a kid making a good catch in months.
