Rafe Mendez, 53, had spent 25 years as a minor league baseball scout, crisscrossing the southeast in a dented 2018 F-150, surviving on gas station burritos and lukewarm beer, his rotator cuff still throbbing when the humidity spiked like it did that Tuesday in northern Alabama. He’d walked away from his AA career at 28 after a fastball to the shoulder shredded the tendon, and stubbornly refused every offer to move into a cushy front office job since; he liked the grit of the small town fields, the crack of the bat under the lights, no stuffy board meetings to suck the joy out of the game. His biggest flaw, one his ex-wife had yelled at him about for 12 years before she left 8 years prior, was that he refused to let anyone get close enough to see the soft parts under the gruff, sunburnt exterior. He’d sworn off dating entirely after the divorce, called it a waste of time that would only distract him from the job he’d poured his whole life into.
He was slouched at the scuffed linoleum bar of a dive two blocks from the high school showcase he’d just left, rain lashing the fogged windows, a half-drunk draft beer at his elbow and a notebook full of scribbled scouting reports spread out in front of him, when her hand brushed his reaching for her glass of pinot noir. The touch was warm, calloused, rough around the fingertips in a way that didn’t match the red polish on her nails, and when he glanced up she was already looking at him, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, a faint blue tattoo of a baseball stitch curling around her left wrist. She was close enough that he could smell cedar and lavender on her coat, rain damp on the wool, her elbow resting an inch from his on the bar.
“Lefty with the 92 mile per hour fastball?” she nodded at his notebook, where he’d scrawled the kid’s name in all caps three times. “I saw him pitch last week. Looks like he’ll blow out his elbow by 22 if he doesn’t fix his release.”
Rafe froze. He’d had the exact same thought that afternoon, hadn’t written it down yet, hated admitting when promising high school kids had flaws that would tank their careers before they started. He knew who she was before she said it: Lena Voss, 46, ex-wife of the new league GM, who’d pulled him aside his first day on the new contract two months prior and explicitly told him not to fraternize with anyone in his family, no exceptions, not even the ex. The warning had been sharp, clear, Rafe’s entire contract hinging on staying in the GM’s good graces, no slip ups allowed. He’d nodded then, told him he didn’t mess around with that kind of thing, had meant it at the time.
But she kept talking, telling him about growing up coming to these small town fields with her dad, who’d coached Babe Ruth ball for 30 years, how she’d started her pottery studio a mile down the road after she left the GM three years prior. Their knees bumped under the bar when she shifted to face him, denim on denim, and when she spilled a drop of wine on her wrist he passed her a napkin, their fingers brushing again when she took it. The jukebox in the corner played old Johnny Cash, low enough that they had to lean in to hear each other over the rattle of the rain on the roof. He was torn so sharply he could almost feel it: one half of him was disgusted with himself for even entertaining this, for risking the job he’d worked for decades to build, for breaking a rule he’d agreed to without hesitation. The other half hadn’t felt this awake, this seen, in 8 years, no one pestering him about his shoulder pain or his divorce or how many miles he drove a week, just talking about baseball, about the way clay feels when it’s wet and spinning under your hands, about the stupid things their exes had done that drove them crazy.
She leaned in close after an hour, close enough that he could smell the red wine on her breath, her hair falling forward to brush his forearm. “I know the rule,” she said, quiet enough that only he could hear it. “He’s out of town till Sunday. Doesn’t have to be anyone’s business but ours.”
He hesitated for half a second, staring at her dark brown eyes, crinkled at the corners when she smiled, then covered her hand with his, his own palm calloused from 25 years of holding radar guns and hauling gear bags, felt her lace their fingers together. He thought about the empty house he had back in Tennessee, the stack of frozen dinners in his freezer, the way he’d spent every Saturday night for 8 years alone watching old game tapes. He thought about the GM’s warning, about the contract, about how easy it would be to say no, go back to his hotel, fall asleep watching TV.
He shoved his notebook into the pocket of his waterproof jacket, flagged down the bartender to pay his tab, and followed her out into the rain. The parking lot was flooded in spots, her old silver pickup caked in mud, and she opened the passenger door for him, shaking rain out of her hair, strands of it stuck to the side of her neck. He climbed in, the seat warm from where she’d been sitting earlier, and she reached across him to adjust the heat vent, her hand brushing his thigh for half a second longer than necessary before she turned the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the wet, empty street.
