Raymundo “Ray” Mendez, 53, has scouted shortstop prospects for the Texas Rangers minor league system for 22 years, and his most unshakable flaw is that he holds grudges long after everyone else has forgotten what the fight was even about. His truck’s floor is littered with scouting reports and sunflower seed shells, and he hasn’t had a second date since 2019. For 12 years, he’d refused to set foot at the annual New Braunfels summer cookoff, ever since his ex-wife left him for the local high school defensive coordinator mid-potato sack race. He’d spent those years sticking to the dive bar off I-35, eating gas station brisket tacos, and avoiding every community event his ex volunteered for, until 18-year-old Javi Ruiz made him pinky promise he’d show up to watch Javi accept the small town’s youth athlete of the year award.
He’s leaned against the dented steel beer cooler for 20 minutes when she steps up beside him, sun glinting off the silver streaks woven through her thick braid, a half-healed bee sting red on the soft of her left wrist. She’s Lila, his ex’s younger cousin, the beekeeper who runs 40 hives out in the Hill Country 20 minutes west of town, and he hasn’t spoken more than two words to her since the divorce. She reaches past him for a Shiner Bock, her bare arm brushing his sunburnt forearm, and he catches the sharp, sweet scent of wild honey and lavender hand cream clinging to her skin. A kid running with a blue raspberry snow cone bumps her from behind, and her shoulder presses firm to his chest for half a second before she steadies herself, tipping her head up to meet his eye, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I thought you swore you’d rather sit through a 12-hour rain delay at a Single A game than come to one of these, Mendez.”
He’s flustered at first, defensive, the old stubbornness flaring as he nods toward the stage where Javi’s messing with the microphone cord, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he does before every game. “Only here for the kid. Promised I’d be.” She laughs, the sound warm over the twang of the country cover band playing off to the side, and says she knows—she’s Javi’s next door neighbor, he helps her lift 50-pound hive boxes every Saturday for extra cash to save up for his first car. They fall into easy conversation, and he learns she never took his ex’s side, thought the other woman was an idiot for leaving a guy who’d drive 3 hours every weekend to make it to her son’s Little League games, even when he wasn’t the biological dad. She feeds him a bite of the smoked brisket she’d entered in the cookoff, her fingers brushing his lip when she passes him the fork, and he feels a buzz in his chest he hasn’t felt since he was 20 years old, sneaking into minor league stadiums after hours with his college girlfriend.
When Javi gets called up to the stage, he waves wildly at Ray, and Ray waves back, so focused on the kid he doesn’t notice Lila stepping closer until her hand brushes his, calloused from years of handling hive tools, warm even through the thin fabric of his ratty Rangers hoodie. After the award, she tugs him around the side of the food tent, out of view of the crowd and his ex, who’s passing out potato salad at the main table. She says she’s had a crush on him since he first moved to town 18 years ago, but he was married to her cousin, so she never said a word. He freezes for a second, the old rules screaming in his head—don’t mess with ex’s family, don’t get tangled up in small town drama, don’t let yourself care again—but then she leans in, her breath smelling like peach iced tea and beer, and brushes a strand of wind-tousled hair off his forehead, her thumb grazing his cheekbone. All that stubborn resentment he’s carried for 12 years melts away, stupid and small next to the way she’s looking at him, like she sees every part of him he’s spent a decade hiding.
They make plans to meet at his place the next night, she says she’ll bring her famous honey butter cornbread, the kind she makes with honey from her hives and extra pickled jalapeños he’s always loved. He watches her walk back to her beat-up Ford F-150, mud caked on the tire wells, and she waves over her shoulder as she climbs in. He twists the cap off his second Shiner, smiles for the first time in months, and doesn’t even glance over at his ex when she yells his name across the field.
