Manny Ruiz, 53, folds his rain-soaked scouting notebook under his arm as he shoves through the screen door of The Rusty Bat. The slap of wet rubber on weathered wood draws a few quick glances from the crowd packed into the small southern Indiana bar, but no one holds them long. He’d sworn he’d never step foot in the town’s annual chili cookoff after his ex-wife took over organizing it 10 years prior, but the rain washed out the low-A doubleheader he was supposed to scout 45 minutes north, and his truck’s wipers were frayed so bad they were smearing more water than they cleared.
He grabs a draft PBR from the bar, nods at the bartender he’s known since high school, and claims a wobbly stool tucked against the back of the dessert table. The air smells like smoked brisket chili, neon beer sign ozone, and the damp wool of half a dozen work coats hung by the door. That’s when he spots her. Lena, the new librarian who moved to town six months back, who shows up to every other home game, always perched in the same bleacher seat 10 rows up from the dugout, scribbling in a beat-up leather notebook. She’s wearing a faded 1986 Mets jersey that hangs loose past her hips, cuffed dark jeans, and scuffed white sneakers caked with mud from the square’s grass. She looks up, catches him staring, smirks, and holds up a plate of chocolate chip cookies still steaming from the oven.
He stands, crosses the three feet between them slow, like he’s approaching a skittish draft prospect who might bolt if he moves too fast. She teases him first, asks if he’s here to scout chili recipes instead of 19-year-old shortstops, and he huffs a laugh he didn’t know he had in him. She tells him she’s been posting clips of his scouting reports on the library’s local sports display, that he’s the only scout in the league who writes about the kids’ volunteer work at the local rec center instead of just their fastball velocity and arm slot. No one’s ever noticed that part of his work before, not even his ex. He reaches for a cookie at the same time she does, their knuckles brushing, her skin warm and soft, and he feels a jolt run up his arm he hasn’t felt since he was 20, sneaking his high school girlfriend into the stadium after dark.
His ex-wife walks over then, holding a stack of judging sheets, and cracks a snarky joke about him finally crawling out of his road trip hole long enough to show his face. He tenses, ready to snap back, but Lena cuts in first, says his reports are the most checked-out material in the library’s sports section, that the kids in town collect them like trading cards. His ex blinks, nods, and walks away without another word. Manny’s torn then, the old familiar resistance rising up, telling him he’s too busy, too scarred from his last marriage, that he spends 120 days a year on the road, that he’ll mess this up before it even starts.
The rain picks up outside, rattling the windows, and the power cuts out. The bar erupts in good-natured yelling, and a bartender starts passing out beeswax candles a minute later. They’re standing so close their shoulders bump every time someone moves past, the candlelight gilding the edges of her hair, and she leans in, her breath warm against his ear, says she’s been wanting to ask him out for months, but she heard he was still hung up on his ex, thought he’d turn her down. He admits he’s been an idiot, holding onto a grudge that stopped mattering years ago, that he’s noticed her too, every time she cheers loudest for the left fielder who’s been struggling with his swing all season. He reaches up, brushes a stray strand of damp hair off her forehead, and her hand wraps around his wrist for half a second, light, like she’s checking he’s real.
The power flickers back on 10 seconds later. His ex walks over, holding a dented brass first place chili trophy, says his old neighbor dropped off his entry that morning, knew he’d never bring it himself, that it was the clear winner by 12 points. She tells him she’s glad he’s here, that she’s sorry for the jab earlier, and walks away before he can respond. He asks Lena if she wants to split the trophy’s accompanying $100 bar tab on chili and beer, then drive up to the county overlook once the rain clears to watch the sunset. She grins, takes a bite of the cookie still in his hand, and says yes.
They sit on his stool, split a bowl of his award-winning chili, and she flips through his waterlogged scouting notebook, laughing at the doodles of hound dogs he draws in the margins when games get slow. He takes a bite of the cookie she passes him, the dark chocolate melting warm on his tongue, and for the first time in 10 years, he doesn’t feel a desperate urge to get back on the road before the sun comes up.
