Rafe Marquez, 53, minor league baseball scout for the Kansas City Royals farm system, rolled into the West Texas VFW parking lot at 7:17 PM, his 2016 Silverado kicking up a cloud of red dust that stuck to the sweat on his forearms. He’d spent four hours in bleachers that afternoon watching a 17-year-old lefty from Abilene throw 94 mile an hour fastballs with a curve that dropped like a cinder block, and his back ached, his hat was crusted with sunscreen and sweat, and the only thing he wanted was a cold beer and 10 minutes to go over his scouting notes with Coach Hale, the kid’s high school coach, before he drove 3 hours back to his motel for the night. His biggest flaw, as his older sister never tired of pointing out, was that he’d spent the 8 years since his ex-wife left him for a 41-year-old real estate broker treating any romantic interest from women more than 5 years younger than him like a contagious disease. He mocked guys his age who chased 30-somethings, called them midlife crisis clowns desperate to prove they still had it, and refused to let himself become that punchline.
He was halfway to the picnic table where Coach Hale was flipping brisket on a rusted charcoal grill when a woman stepped in front of him, holding a stack of paper plates, and he almost spilled the black coffee he’d been nursing since noon. She was 38, he’d later learn, Coach Hale’s niece Lila, ran a mobile pet grooming business out of a converted van she’d painted sky blue, and she was grinning like she’d already read the scouting report he kept tucked in his back pocket. “You’re the Royals guy, right?” she said, holding out a plate, and when their fingers brushed, he felt a jolt go up his arm that had nothing to do with the static from the dry West Texas air. Her nails were chipped with pale pink polish, there was a smudge of lavender dog shampoo on her left wrist, and she was wearing cutoff jean shorts and a faded 2005 UT Longhorns national championship shirt that fit snug across her shoulders. He nodded, mumbled a thank you, and tried to step past her, but she leaned in, her shoulder brushing his bicep as she pointed to the duct tape holding his leather scouting notebook together. “That thing look like it’s seen more games than Nolan Ryan,” she said, and her laugh was warm, rough around the edges, cut right through the mesquite smoke and the George Strait track playing on the VFW jukebox inside.
He stuck to Coach Hale’s side for the next hour, talking fastball velocity and pitch sequencing and the kid’s grades, but he kept catching Lila looking at him from across the picnic table, her eyes dark, crinkling at the corners when he made a joke about the umpire that afternoon who’d missed 12 straight strike calls. She brought him a second beer without him asking, set it down next to his notebook, and her hand brushed his forearm when she pulled away, lingering half a beat longer than polite. He felt his chest tighten, half desire, half sharp, hot disgust at himself for even noticing. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d spent years making fun of. He was 15 years older than her, had a bad knee, a truck with 180,000 miles on it, and spent more nights in cheap motels than he did in his own apartment in Tulsa. She had a business, a golden retriever she posted about constantly on her Instagram he’d glanced at when she showed him a photo of a poodle she’d groomed that morning, and probably had guys her own age lining up to take her out. He told himself he was being an idiot, finished his beer, and told Coach Hale he was gonna head out.
He was unlocking his truck when he heard her voice behind him. “Leaving so soon?” she said, and he turned around to see her leaning against the tailgate, holding two cans of cheap lager, one held out to him. He hesitated, then took it, hopped up on the tailgate next to her. The air was cooling off, crickets were chirping in the mesquite trees at the edge of the parking lot, and the light from the VFW neon sign cast a pink glow across her cheeks. She asked him about the best prospect he’d ever scouted, and when he told her about a shortstop he’d found in rural Iowa back in 2018 who’d just made his major league debut last month, she listened, actually listened, didn’t interrupt to ask how much money the kid made, asked about the way he carried himself off the field, the little tells Rafe looked for that no stat sheet could capture. “I thought scouts only cared about how fast you throw,” she said, and shifted closer, her knee pressing against his. He could smell coconut shampoo on her hair, the lime from the Corona she’d been drinking earlier, the faint smell of diesel from the truck. He wanted to kiss her, and the thought made him feel sick, made him think of his ex-wife’s note saying she needed someone who still had “energy for new things.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, soft, and he froze. “You think you’re gonna be that guy, the 50-something creep hitting on the coach’s niece. Everyone in there is gonna talk about you tomorrow.” He stared at her, shocked she’d read him that well, and she laughed, leaned in a little more, her hand resting on his thigh, warm through the worn denim of his jeans. “Who cares what they think? You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who gives a damn what other people say about him anyway.” The silence stretched for 10 seconds, 15, and he didn’t pull away, didn’t make some dumb excuse about having to drive back to the motel. He asked her if she liked pancakes, said there was a diner 10 minutes down the road that served pecan pancakes big enough to cover a plate, that he was gonna be in town for one more day to watch the kid play again. She smiled, leaned in, and kissed him first, slow, no rush, the faint taste of lime and beer on her lips. He tucked a stray strand of hair that had escaped her braid behind her ear, and for the first time in 8 years, he didn’t feel like he was making a mistake.
