Manny Ruiz, 53, has spent the last 17 years driving 40,000 miles a year scouting high school and independent league baseball prospects for a Double-A affiliate out of Tennessee. His only consistent companions are a dented Yeti cooler full of sparkling water and cheap bourbon minis, and a shoe box full of vintage 1970s ballpark ticket stubs he picks up at flea markets between games. His biggest flaw, if you ask his older sister who still lives in their hometown of El Paso, is that he’s spent the last 8 years swearing off any woman younger than 40, ever since his ex-wife left him for a 26-year-old minor league pitcher he’d been the one to sign. He calls it his “no drama” rule, even when his buddies tease him that he’s just scared of getting burned again.
The night he meets Lena, he’s camped out in a booth at the only dive bar within 15 miles of the tiny southern Alabama high school where he just watched 18-year-old shortstop Jase Collier hit two home runs and throw out a runner at home from deep in the hole. The bar is packed with parents and local teens, the jukebox blaring old Hank Williams Jr., and the only empty seat left is across from him at his booth. She slides in without asking, jeans faded at the knees, a faded Jase Collier #12 jersey stretched over her shoulders, a half-empty can of Miller Lite in one hand. He recognizes her from the stands; she’d been the one yelling so loud her voice went hoarse when Jase hit that second home run, jumping up and down so hard the bleachers creaked.
“Sorry, every other spot’s taken,” she says, wiping a strand of damp blonde hair out of her face. She smells like jasmine perfume and rain and beer foam, and when she reaches across the table to grab a handful of the salted peanuts he’d bought 20 minutes prior, her knuckles brush his. He feels a jolt go up his arm he hasn’t felt in years, and he has to actively stop himself from pulling his hand back like he’s been burned. He knows who she is, too: Lena Collier, Jase’s stepmom, 38, married to Jase’s dad Dale, a local construction foreman who’d left the game halfway through the seventh inning to go drink with his crew at the VFW down the street.
His first instinct is to make an excuse to leave. Fraternizing with a prospect’s family is a fireable offense in his line of work, and even if it wasn’t, she’s 15 years younger than him, married, exactly the kind of drama he’s spent almost a decade running from. But then she starts talking, her voice still rough from yelling, complaining that Dale hasn’t been to a full game of Jase’s all season, that she’s the one who drives two hours each way to every showcase, sews the patches on his uniform, stays up late helping him fill out college recruitment paperwork when Dale’s passed out on the couch watching football. She laughs when she says she knows who he is, too, that Jase has been talking about the scout from Tennessee sitting in the stands all week, that the kid’s been practicing his swing an extra hour every night just to impress him.
They talk for two hours, the bar emptying out around them, the rain lashing against the windows so hard it drowns out the jukebox. Her knee brushes his under the table at one point, and she doesn’t pull it away, just keeps talking, holding eye contact like she’s daring him to look away first. He finds himself telling her about the ticket stubs, about his ex-wife, about how he hasn’t been home to El Paso for more than three days at a stretch in five years. He doesn’t even realize how late it is until the bartender slams a rag down on the counter next to them and says he’s closing up in 10 minutes.
She pauses, swirling the last of her beer around in the can, and says Dale’s already passed out at home, that she doesn’t feel like walking in to the smell of his cheap cigar smoke and snoring right now. He’s got a motel room two blocks away, he says before he can think better of it, a king size bed, extra towels, a mini fridge full of those bourbon minis. She doesn’t answer right away, just stares at him, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half smile that makes his chest feel tight.
When they walk out into the rain, she grabs his arm to keep from slipping on the wet sidewalk, her hand warm through the thin fabric of his flannel shirt. He doesn’t carry an umbrella, never has, so they’re both soaked through by the time they get to the motel, his baseball cap dripping water down the back of his neck, her jersey sticking to her shoulders. He fumbles with the key card for a second, finally gets the door open, and she steps inside past him, shaking the rain out of her hair. She pauses for half a second, turns to look at him, and drops her denim jacket on the chair by the door, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear as she steps closer.
