Javier Mendez, 52, has been a minor league baseball scout for 19 years, and he’s got a rule he’s never broken: no fraternizing with players’ families. It’s not just a league policy, it’s self-preservation, a habit he picked up after his wife left him eight years ago, complaining he cared more about 19-year-old shortstops than he did about her. He’s built walls thick enough to stop a 95 mile per hour fastball, and he likes it that way, no messy feelings, no risk of getting burned again.
He’s leaning against a splintered pine picnic table at the small-town Ohio beer garden fundraiser for the high school baseball team when it happens. The air smells like charcoal, citrus IPA, and cut grass, the hum of 200 people chattering mixing with the crackle of the speaker playing old Tom Petty tracks. He drove three hours for the event, told his boss he was there to build goodwill with the community, but really he wanted to size up 17-year-old Leo Ruiz, a left-handed pitcher with a curveball that drops like a stone and a fastball that already hits 92.
Marisol Ruiz trips over a folding chair leg ten feet away from him, a tray of homemade empanadas held out in front of her, and he moves faster than he has in years, catching her elbow before she hits the gravel. The tray tilts, one beef empanada slaps against the knee of his dark wash jeans, leaving a splotch of red sauce. Her hand wraps around his wrist for three full seconds before she pulls back, flustered, laughing so hard her shoulders shake. She smells like jasmine and fried dough, a wisp of dark hair falling across her face, a tiny pink rose tucked behind her ear from the flower shop she owns downtown.
He teases her about ruining his only pair of jeans that don’t have a team logo stitched on the pocket, and she teases him back, saying she’s heard all about the “mystery scout” Leo won’t stop rambling about, the one who sat in the stands for three straight games last month taking notes in a tattered spiral notebook. They end up sitting at the far end of the picnic table, away from the crowd, their knees brushing every time a group of teens runs past chasing a stray beach ball. She tells him Leo’s dad left when he was 10, that she worked three jobs for four years to pay for his travel ball fees, that she still can’t believe her kid might actually get to play baseball for a living. He tells her about his ex-wife, about the empty house he comes home to between scouting trips, about how he hasn’t even had a first date in six years.
He’s fighting it the whole time, that low, warm hum in his chest he hasn’t felt since he was in his 30s. He knows what this looks like. He knows if anyone from the league sees him laughing with a prospect’s mom, leaning in so close he can feel the heat off her shoulder through his flannel, he could lose his job, and Leo’s draft stock could take a hit for no reason. He feels sick with himself for even entertaining it, for wanting something that’s so clearly off limits, but every time she smiles, every time her hand brushes his when she passes him a napkin, that disgust fades a little, replaced by something sharper, brighter, something he thought he’d killed off years ago.
The sun dips below the tree line by 8:30, the air turning crisp enough that he pulls his flannel tighter around his shoulders. She stands up to leave, holding the empty empanada tray, and he walks her to her beat-up silver pickup parked at the edge of the lot. She stops by the driver’s side door, turning to face him, and says she’s got a secret: Leo already committed to the local junior college, he won’t be eligible for the draft for another two years, so there’s no conflict of interest, no rule he’d be breaking if he wanted to see her again.
He freezes for half a second, then reaches out, brushing a stray petal from the rose behind her ear, his fingers grazing her cheek. She doesn’t flinch, leans into the touch just a little, her eyes never leaving his. She scribbles her phone number on the back of a crumpled travel ball schedule she pulls from her purse, shoves it into his hand, and tells him to call her when he’s back in town next week, no pressure, no strings, if he wants.
He tucks the paper into the inner pocket of his jacket, watches her pull out of the lot, her taillights fading into the dark down the two-lane road. He pulls out his phone, opens a new contact, and types her name in before he can talk himself out of it.
