Rudy Galvan, 52, has spent 18 years crisscrossing Indiana, Ohio, and Illinois in a dented 2016 Ford F-150, scouting teen baseball prospects for the Midwest League. He’s got a scar slashing across his left eyebrow from a 1994 minor league line drive, a habit of chewing peppermint gum until it disintegrates, and a hard rule he hasn’t broken in 8 years: no romantic involvement with anyone even tangentially connected to his work. The rule popped up six months after his ex-wife left him for a suburban financial advisor, right after he’d spent three months pulling extra shifts to pay for her master’s degree. He’d decided vulnerability was a sucker’s bet, especially when his career was finally picking up steam, a shot at a major league scouting gig dangling just out of reach.
He’d rolled into the small-town LaPorte County Fair at 3 PM, sweat sticking his worn St. Louis Cardinals cap to his sunburnt forehead, notebook stuffed in his back pocket, to check in on Javi Mendez, a 19-year-old left-handed pitcher who’d hit 96 mph at a showcase the week prior. Javi was working the ring toss booth that weekend, helping his aunt cover shifts while she recovered from a broken wrist, and Rudy had leaned against the splintered wooden fence at the edge of the booth for 20 minutes, pretending to scroll through his phone while he watched Javi’s shoulder movement when he handed rings to kids. The air smelled like fried dough and diesel from the Ferris wheel, the clink of plastic rings against glass soda bottles mixing with the tinny pop of the fair’s speaker system playing 2000s country.
He didn’t notice the woman behind the booth staring at him until she leaned over the counter, tattooed forearm resting on the chipped Formica, and called out. “You gonna buy a ring, or just lurk there all afternoon like a creep?” She was 48, with streaks of silver in her dark wavy hair, a smudge of gold glitter on her left cheekbone from painting kids’ faces earlier that day, and a neon pink cast on her right wrist. Rudy felt his face heat up, something he hadn’t experienced since he was a 19-year-old rookie trying to ask out a bat girl. He fumbled for his wallet, pulled out a five dollar bill, and explained he was a scout there to check on Javi. She laughed, the sound rough and warm, and handed him three rings, their fingers brushing when she passed them over. The contact was light, but he felt it zing up his arm, straight to his chest. Her name was Clara, she said, Javi’s mom’s younger sister, and she’d been the bat girl for the Fort Wayne Wizards back in 1994, the year Rudy played there.
They talked for 15 minutes, her leaning across the counter, him leaning in so he could hear her over the fair noise, their faces only a foot apart for most of the conversation. She teased him about the scar on his eyebrow, said she still had a photo of him getting stitched up in the dugout after that line drive, tucked in a scrapbook at her house. He found himself leaning in closer, forgetting he was supposed to be watching Javi, until a group of screaming kids ran past, slamming into his back and shoving him into Clara. His hip pressed against hers for three full seconds, the heat of her body seeping through the thin denim of her cutoff shorts, and she didn’t pull away, just held his gaze, her smile softening into something less teasing, more hungry. Rudy’s stomach flipped. He knew the league rules: any personal contact with a prospect’s family, even something as innocent as a coffee, could be framed as improper recruiting leverage, get him suspended, kill his shot at the major league gig he’d spent half his life chasing. He also knew he should say goodbye, walk back to his truck, and drive to the next showcase like he’d planned.
Javi yelled from the back of the booth that he was heading to his corn dog shift, and Clara turned to Rudy, her thumb brushing the edge of his notebook peeking out of his pocket. “I’ve got a 10 minute break. The edge of the fairgrounds by the cornfield is quiet. We don’t have to talk about baseball.” Rudy hesitated for half a second, then nodded. They walked past the Tilt-a-Whirl and the livestock barns, the noise of the fair fading into the hum of crickets and the rustle of corn stalks in the warm August wind. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky pink and orange, and Clara stopped at the edge of the field, turning to face him. Before she could say anything, he leaned in and kissed her, her lips tasting like cherry Sno-Cone and mint gum, her good arm wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. He didn’t care about the rule, didn’t care about the promotion, not in that moment.
When they pulled apart, he pulled out his phone, pulled up the email he’d drafted to his boss that morning, formal offer of a minor league contract for Javi, no strings attached, and hit send. He showed the sent notification to Clara, so she’d know there was no catch, no leverage, no fine print. She laughed, leaning up to kiss him again, and asked him if he wanted to meet her at the dive bar downtown after the fair closed at 11, said she’d be wearing his Cardinals cap so he could spot her. He agreed, walking her back to the ring toss booth, his chest lighter than it had been in 8 years. He didn’t know if it would turn into anything long term, didn’t care to overthink it right then. He tucked his notebook back into his jeans pocket, already mentally rearranging his scouting schedule for the next week to make time for dinner at her house that Saturday.
