Manny Ruiz, 52, minor league scout for the Cincinnati Reds farm system, stomped into the Tin Lizard Bar just after 10 PM, rain dripping off the brim of his faded ball cap and the edge of his water-stained scouting notebook. The linoleum under his scuffed work boots was sticky with spilled beer and dill pickle brine, the air thick with the smell of fried onions and slightly burnt soft pretzels, Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* warbling low from the beat-up jukebox tucked between a dart board and a stack of old sports memorabilia in the corner. He’d spent three hours perched on cold, splintered bleachers in the downpour watching a left-handed pitcher from the local high school hit 92 on the radar gun nine times in the sixth inning, and his left knee ached so bad he could barely bend it to slide onto the far end stool, the one tucked out of sight of the front door.
The bartender didn’t even ask what he wanted. She set a frosty mug of draft Pabst in front of him thirty seconds later, wiping her hands on the front of her faded 1990s Reds World Series hoodie, a thin silver scar slicing across her left eyebrow from a college softball collision she’d mention later. “Saw you at the game,” she said, leaning her hip against the edge of the bar, her elbow brushing the corner of his notebook as the neon “OPEN” sign above the door cast soft pink light over her cheekbones. “The kid’s mom was pointing you out in the fourth, said she figured you were here to poach her boy.” Manny nodded, taking a long sip of cold beer, his throat tight. He never liked being spotted at games, never liked anyone knowing what he was there for, it always made the scouting report feel biased, even when he’d spent weeks cross-checking stats before he even showed up to the field. He’d spent eight years building a reputation as the most no-nonsense scout in the Ohio region, no frills, no favors, no mixing work with anything even remotely personal, not after his ex-wife left him for a high school athletic director she’d met at a scouting event, not after his old partner got fired for dating a player’s aunt and got blacklisted from the league entirely.
He tried to keep the conversation short, gave one word answers at first, but she kept leaning in, laughing so hard she snort-laughed when he ranted about the umpire’s terrible call on the checked swing in the seventh, passing him a free plate of crispy fried pickles when he mentioned he hadn’t eaten since a gas station burrito at lunch. When she reached across the bar to grab his empty mug for a refill, her cotton sleeve brushed his bare forearm, and he caught a whiff of lavender hand lotion mixed with the smell of beer yeast and fried garlic, and suddenly he was hyperaware of how close she was, how her knee brushed his under the bar when she sat down on the stool next to him once the last regular stumbled out into the rain, yelling something about his dog waiting at home. She held eye contact for two full beats longer than she needed to when he told her about the time he got hit in the ribs with a foul ball at a minor league game last spring, her fingers brushing the edge of his calloused hand when she passed him a paper napkin to wipe pickle brine off his chin.
The conflict hit him square in the chest when she offhandedly said the pitcher was her nephew. He pulled back like he’d been burned, suddenly disgusted with himself for even letting himself notice how her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how her wavy brown hair fell over her shoulder when she tilted her head to listen. This was exactly the kind of mess he’d spent years avoiding, exactly the kind of thing that could get him fired, ruin the only thing he had left that he cared about, the only thing that didn’t feel like it had been taken from him. He started to grab his notebook, to mumble an excuse about having an early drive back to Cincinnati, but she put her hand on his wrist to stop him, her palm warm against his cold, rain-chilled skin.
“Relax,” she said, grinning, her thumb brushing the edge of the old scar he had on his wrist from a college baseball sliding injury. “Jake already signed a letter of intent to play at Vanderbilt. He’s not going pro straight out of high school, no matter what your scouting report says. You’re off the hook, scout.” Manny froze, staring at her, the tension draining out of his shoulders so fast he felt lightheaded. He’d spent so long building thick, uncrossable walls between his work and his personal life he’d forgotten what it felt like to not have to overthink every small interaction, every accidental brush of a hand, every shared joke over cheap beer.
They talked for another two hours, until the jukebox ran out of quarters, until the rain slowed to a soft drizzle tapping against the fogged up windows. When he walked her out to her beat-up Subaru later, she tucked her hand into the pocket of his worn leather jacket, her cold fingers brushing his thigh through the thick fabric. He unlocked her car door for her, and she leaned up, pressing a soft, warm kiss to his jaw, before she slid into the driver’s seat. He stood on the sidewalk watching her taillights fade down the dark street, the rain dampening the collar of his flannel shirt, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t reach for his scouting notebook first when he got back in his truck.
