Maceo Ruiz, 57, has spent the last 22 years crisscrossing the Southeast as a minor league baseball scout, logging 30,000 miles a year in his beat-up 2017 F-150, his notebook stuffed with scouting reports, sunflower seed shells, and old ticket stubs. His biggest flaw, one he’s owned since his wife left him for a real estate agent in 2015, is that he avoids all unnecessary small talk like it’s a bad slider that’s gonna hit him in the ribs. He’d come to the Asheville fall festival pop-up that crisp October evening for one reason only: to grab a cold hazy IPA from the local brewery tent before hightailing it back to his cabin in the hills, no detours, no conversations. That plan goes out the window the second he spots Lila Marquez behind the apple butter stand.
He’s talked to her exactly twice before, both times outside the dugout after her 16-year-old son Javi’s games, both conversations strictly professional, sticking only to Javi’s swing mechanics, his fielding percentage, how he handles pressure with bases loaded. He’s thought about her far more than that, though. Thought about the way she laughs loud when Javi hits a home run, the way she tucks a strand of dark curly hair behind her ear when she’s focused, the callus on her left index finger he spotted the first time they shook hands, from stirring 10-gallon pots of apple butter for her small business every weekend. The beer tent is packed, so when he tries to skirt past her stand to avoid drawing attention, a group of drunk college kids bump him hard from behind, sending him stumbling forward, his palm brushing the soft curve of her hip for half a second before he catches himself on the edge of her table.
He apologizes so fast his words run together, face hot, ready to bolt, but she snorts, wiping a smudge of cinnamon from her cheek with the back of her hand, and tells him to relax, it’s not like he broke a $12 jar of spiced apple butter. She grabs a cracker off the stack next to her cast iron pot, dips it in the warm apple butter, and holds it out to him, the line of her arm sun-kissed, a tiny silver tattoo of a baseball on her wrist he’s never noticed before. When he reaches for the cracker, their fingers brush, and he can feel the rough texture of that familiar callus against his knuckle, the warmth of her skin seeping into his for a split second that feels way longer than it should. The crowd presses closer, a group of kids chasing a golden retriever almost knock over a stack of jars, so she steps around the table to get out of the way, ending up pressed right up against his side, their shoulders touching, her vanilla and cinnamon perfume wrapping around him so thick he can almost taste it, the bluegrass band on the main stage playing a slow, twangy 90s country track he hasn’t heard in years.
She teases him first, says she’s never seen him at any of the team cookouts, never seen him talk to anyone other than coaches at the games, asks if he’s some kind of undercover baseball spy. He laughs, a rough, rusty sound he doesn’t make often, and says his job is to watch kids hit balls, not make small talk about casserole recipes. She leans in a little then, her mouth right next to his ear so he can hear her over the crowd, and says she’s watched him, too, watched him stay 20 minutes after every game to take notes on Javi’s post-practice swings, watched him help a kid pick up his spilled gear after a loss last month, says he’s not as much of a grump as he pretends to be. Her hand rests light on his forearm when she says it, and when he looks down at her, their eyes lock for three full seconds, no jokes, no small talk, just the quiet hum of the festival around them. He knows the league’s rulebook says he can’t fraternize with a player’s immediate family, that even asking her out could get him suspended, could cost Javi the minor league contract he’s been planning to offer next week, that he should walk away right now. He asks her if she wants to get dinner at the taco truck down the street once she’s done packing up her stand instead.
She blinks, then grins, so bright it makes his chest feel tight, and says she’s done in 45 minutes, meet her by the big gnarled oak tree at the edge of the festival grounds, don’t be late. He nods, turns and walks away, his boots crunching on fallen maple leaves, his heart beating so fast he can feel it in his throat, the same way it did when he was 19 and waiting for his first prom date to come down the stairs. He leans against that oak tree 45 minutes later, sipping a second beer, when he spots her walking over, wearing a soft gray sweater instead of the stained t-shirt she had on earlier, jeans scuffed at the knees, holding a glass jar of apple butter tucked under her arm. She says it’s for him, no charge, special batch with extra bourbon, and when he reaches for it, his hand covers hers for a long second, neither of them pulling away. She says she’s been waiting for him to ask her out since the first game she saw him at, back in April, when he stayed in the rain for 10 minutes just to tell Javi he had the best swing he’d seen all year. He tucks the jar into the pocket of his hoodie, gestures toward the street where the taco truck’s neon sign glows pink in the growing dark, and she slips her hand into his, her palm warm and calloused against his, as they start walking, the sound of the bluegrass band fading behind them, crickets chirping in the woods off the side of the road.
