Manny Ruiz, 52, has spent the last nine years as a Gulf Coast League scout, logging 30,000 miles a year in his dented 2016 F-150, eating gas station burritos, and sleeping in motel rooms that smell like old cigarette smoke and fabric softener. His biggest flaw, the one his late sister used to nag him about every Thanksgiving, is that he’s spent the eight years since his wife Maria died treating any flicker of interest in another person like a betrayal. He keeps a photo of Maria in his wallet, tucked behind his scouting license, and hasn’t so much as bought a woman a drink since her funeral.
It’s 10 PM on a sweltering July Tuesday, the air thick enough to drink, salt blowing off the Pensacola beach a block away, and he’s perched on a wobbly tiki bar stool going over his notes on a 19-year-old shortstop from Tampa who hits .348 and can throw a runner out at second from deep in the hole. The bar’s speakers hum low old reggaeton, the Modelo in his hand is sweating so much it leaves a ring on the sticky pine bar top, and he’s just about to call it a night when someone slides onto the stool next to him, their denim cutoffs brushing his faded league polo jeans as they shift to flag the bartender.
He glances over, and his jaw tenses. It’s Lila Marquez, ex-wife of Jake Carter, the league GM he’s butted heads with for a full decade. Jake’s the kind of guy who drafts prospects based on their social media following instead of their slugging percentage, and he’s made it clear more than once he’d love to find an excuse to yank Manny’s scouting contract. Lila’s wearing a faded tie-dye tank top, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with one silver strand at the temple, and she smells like coconut sunscreen and jasmine lotion. She smirks when she catches him staring, and nods at the notebook open in front of him. “You’re scouting Javi, right? That kid’s my nephew. Don’t let Jake know I’m here, he still thinks I live in Tallahassee.”
Manny almost closes his notebook and leaves right then. Messing with Jake’s ex is the kind of stupid move that gets you blacklisted from every minor league team in the southeast. But then she orders a frozen margarita, and when she reaches for the napkin roll next to his elbow, their hands brush. He feels the rough callus on her index finger, from repotting palm fronds at the coastal nursery she’s run since she left Jake three years prior, and the warmth of her skin sends a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt in years. He stays.
They talk for an hour. She tells him about the 12-foot banyan tree she just delivered to a beach house down the coast, he tells her about the kid he scouted last year who grew up picking oranges and cried when he got his first signing bonus. When a group of drunk spring breakers yell so loud the glasses rattle on the bar, she leans in closer to hear him, her shoulder pressing firm to his bicep, and he can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of his shirt. He’s hyper aware of every point of contact, the way her knee brushes his every time she shifts on the stool, the way her dark eyes hold his a beat too long when she laughs at his bad joke about Jake’s terrible haircut. That old guilt twists in his chest, sharp and familiar, and he almost makes an excuse to go back to his motel. But then she mentions Maria’s pork tamales, the ones she brought to the 2014 league picnic, and he freezes. No one has brought up Maria in casual conversation in years.
“I used to sit next to her at those stupid league dinners,” Lila says, soft, her hand resting light on his knee, not pushing, just there, her thumb brushing the frayed edge of his jeans. “She told me once if anything ever happened to her, she’d kick your ass if you spent the rest of your life alone.”
Manny stares at her, and for the first time in eight years, that guilt doesn’t feel like it’s weighing him down. It feels like it’s lifting, just a little. He knows if Jake finds out they’re talking, he’ll ruin his career. He knows a part of him still feels like he shouldn’t be sitting here, enjoying the way she looks at him like he’s the only person in the bar. But he also knows Maria would have hated seeing him turn into the kind of guy who spends every night alone in a motel room, eating cold burritos and talking to no one but the radio.
He closes his scouting notebook, tucks it into the pocket of his flannel shirt tied around his waist, and asks her if she wants to get al pastor tacos at the 24-hour stand three miles down the beach. She grins, so bright it makes the string lights strung across the tiki roof feel dim, and slides off her stool. She plucks his truck keys out of his hand before he can reach for them, her fingers brushing his palm, and says she’s driving, since he’s had two beers.
He follows her out of the bar, the warm salt air sticking to his damp skin, the sound of the waves crashing faint a block away. He doesn’t even think about Jake, or the scouting report tucked in his pocket, for the first time in 8 years.
