Manny Ruiz, 53, a minor league baseball scout with 19 years of crisscrossing the Midwest in a dented 2018 F-150, had spent the last three hours hunched in cold metal bleachers watching left-handed pitchers throw 90-mile fastballs into a fine mist that stuck to his glasses like lint. The rain picked up by the final out, so he ducked into the only bar within 10 miles of the small Ohio high school, propped his damp waterproof jacket on the empty stool beside him, and ordered a lager while flipping through his crumpled scout notebook. The bar smelled like fried cheese curds and worn oak, the jukebox in the corner spitting out crackling 90s country, condensation from his beer dripping down his wrist onto the frayed edge of his notebook. He had a flaw he’d never admitted to anyone, not even his ex-wife of 18 years: he always put everyone else’s needs first, even if it meant skipping the rare moments he actually wanted something for himself. In the last two months alone, he’d bailed on a fishing trip with his college roommate to drive his 24-year-old son to a job interview in Detroit, and canceled a reservation at the steakhouse he’d been craving for two years to help his daughter move into a third-floor walkup in Cleveland.
He was scribbling a note about a pitcher’s wobbly follow-through when the stool next to him scraped against the linoleum, and a woman slid into it, her oiled leather jacket brushing his bare bicep when she leaned forward to flag the bartender. She smelled like cedar shampoo and rain, thin silver hoops glinting against the dark strands of hair pulled loose from her ponytail, and when she shifted to cross her legs, her knee knocked his under the bar, warm through the thin, rain-damp fabric of his cargo pants. “Sorry about that,” she said, holding eye contact long enough that he could see flecks of honey gold in her dark brown eyes, a half-smile playing on her lips that made the edges of his neck feel hot. He mumbled a no problem, stared down at his notebook for ten awkward seconds, then looked back up when she ordered a bourbon neat, same as his mom used to drink on Christmas Eve after all the kids had gone to bed.
They talked small at first, about the nonstop rain, about the game that had just wrapped up, and when she found out he was a scout for the Dayton Dragons, she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, and admitted she was the ex-wife of the high school’s head coach, the same guy Manny had played second base with back in their junior year of college. The thrill hit him low in the gut, sharp and a little dirty, because he knew if word got around that he was talking to his old teammate’s ex, everyone would assume he was playing favorites, that he was only there to give the team’s top pitcher an unfair shot at a minor league contract. He almost got up to leave right then, the familiar pull of responsibility yanking at his chest, but then she told a story about her ex burning the Thanksgiving turkey three years in a row and hiding the evidence in the backyard compost pile, and he snort-laughed too, and for the first time in months, he didn’t feel like he had to be anywhere or do anything for anyone else.
The rain kept coming down, so hard it was streaking the bar’s fogged front windows, and when she checked her phone and groaned that her old Ford truck’s battery was dead, Manny offered to drive her home before he could talk himself out of it. The drive was ten minutes of quiet, the radio playing old Johnny Cash, her shoulder brushing his every time he hit a pothole on the unpaved side road, and when he pulled up to her small ranch house, the porch light glowed soft gold through the sheets of rain. They stood under the small awning for a minute, their jackets dripping dark spots onto the weathered wooden planks, and she leaned in so close he could taste the bourbon and spearmint gum on her breath when she kissed him, her cold hand curling around the back of his neck, still damp from holding her beer earlier. He didn’t pull away, didn’t overthink what it would mean for his reputation, didn’t make up an excuse about having to hit the road early the next morning to make a scouting event in Indianapolis.
He left an hour later, his cheeks still pink from where she’d kissed them, a crumpled note with her phone number tucked into the pocket of his jeans. When he climbed into his truck, he saw three unread texts from his daughter, asking him to drive four hours to help her pick up a new sectional couch next Saturday, a plan he’d already agreed to last week. He sat there for a minute, the wipers slapping steadily against the windshield, then typed a reply, told her he was busy, that she could ask her brother for help, that he had plans of his own for the first time in a very long time.
