Manny Ruiz, 53, leans against the scuffed Formica bar of the roadside oyster shack outside Tifton, Georgia, the hem of his faded Jacksonville Jumbo Shrimp hoodie damp from the rain that’d canceled the high school playoff game he’d driven four hours to see. The air smells like Old Bay, fried catfish, and damp pine seeping through the screen windows, the jukebox in the corner spitting out a scratchy Merle Haggard track he hasn’t heard since he was a kid riding around in his dad’s Texas pickup. His beer sweats through the paper coaster under it, his scouting notebook open to a half-filled page of scribbled notes about the left-handed pitcher he’d only gotten to watch throw two innings before the sky opened up. He’s a minor league scout, 22 years on the job, and he’s spent the three years since his divorce living by one rigid rule: no distractions, no casual connections, no one who’ll get mad when he’s on the road 300 days a year.
He blinks, surprised. He’s used to flying under the radar at small town games, no one recognizing the minor league scout logo unless they’re obsessive farm system fans. “Yeah,” he says, half ready to give a generic non-answer like he always does when people ask about his work, until she laughs, the sound warm enough to cut through the wall he’s built up around small talk since his ex moved out. “That’s my nephew,” she says, twisting on her stool to face him, her knee brushing the side of his jeans when she shifts. “I’m Lila, the athletic trainer over at Tifton High.”
He talks to her longer than he’s talked to anyone who isn’t a coach or a player’s parent in months. She teases him about Javi’s terrible curveball, says she’s been nagging the kid to practice it for six months, he teases her back about the way she yelled at the umpire from the stands right before the rain hit, loud enough that half the stadium turned to look. He notices the sunbleached streaks in her dark hair, the faint scar above her left eyebrow from a college softball injury, the way she leans in closer when he talks, close enough that he can smell coconut sunscreen and peppermint gum on her breath, no awkward gaps in the conversation even when the jukebox cuts out for a minute. When a drop of his beer spills on the edge of his notebook, she reaches across him to grab a handful of napkins, her chest brushing his shoulder for half a second, her hair falling forward to tickle his neck.
He fights the voice in his head screaming about rules and boundaries the entire time. This is unprofessional, he tells himself. If anyone finds out he’s even talking to the aunt of a top prospect, he could get written up, maybe lose the job he’s built his entire adult life around. He hasn’t so much as flirted with anyone since his divorce, convinced any casual connection was a waste of both people’s time, that he was too broken from the split to show up for anyone the way they deserved. But Lila doesn’t push, doesn’t ask prying questions about his ring finger, just laughs at his terrible jokes about gas station barbecue and complains about the way the high school football team leaves athletic tape all over the gym floors.
The rain slows to a drizzle an hour later, the crowd of fishermen at the other end of the bar piling into their trucks and peeling out down the gravel road. She slips a twenty onto the bar to cover both their tabs, then tilts her head at the door. “I’ve got full game footage of Javi’s last three starts on my laptop at my place,” she says, holding his eye contact for half a beat longer than polite, her hand resting on the bar an inch away from his. “You wanna come look? No pressure. I live ten minutes from here.” He hesitates for all of three seconds, then shuts his notebook and stands up.
Her truck smells like vanilla air freshener and golden retriever hair, she keeps a baseball signed by Dale Murphy on the dashboard, her hand brushing his when she reaches across him to turn up the radio. Her ranch house is small, the porch strung with fairy lights, an old hound dog asleep on the steps that lifts its head to sniff his hand before going back to napping. They sit on her couch, the footage playing on the TV in front of them, but neither of them are watching it. Her leg is pressed fully against his now, warm through their jeans, when she turns to face him, her hand coming to rest on his forearm. “I can tell you’ve been overthinking this all night,” she says, soft, no judgment in her voice. “You don’t have to.”
He doesn’t say anything, just brushes the stray strand of hair off her face, his thumb brushing the edge of her scar, and she leans into the touch. He leaves at six the next morning, before the sun comes up, she walks him to his truck, kisses him quick, her hand lingering on his shoulder. He hands her his personal cell number, scrawled on the back of one of his scouting note pages, tells her he’ll be back in two weeks for the next round of playoffs. He drives down the highway, the window rolled all the way down, the smell of cut hay and pine blowing in, the old “no distractions” note he’d taped to his dashboard crumpled up in the cupholder trash next to his empty coffee cup. He turns up the Johnny Cash track playing on the radio, taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat, and already starts counting down the days until he’s back.
