Late August in southern Ohio sticks to your skin like a bad secret. Manny Ruiz, 53, minor league scout for the Kansas City Royals farm system, swipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his sunburnt arm, the crinkle of his plastic beer cup loud over the roar of the small-town BBQ cookoff crowd. He’s got a scuffed leather scout notebook tucked in the back pocket of his work jeans, crammed with notes on the left-handed high school pitcher he watched throw six innings that afternoon, red clay dust caked in the tread of his work boots from the dugout steps. He’d planned to grab brisket to go, drive the two hours back to his rental, fill out his report, and fall asleep to a rerun of a 2003 World Series game, same as he does every night on the road. That plan goes out the window when someone jostles his shoulder hard enough to slosh beer down his wrist.
He turns, ready to laugh it off—old habit, he’s spent 20 years avoiding conflict even when he’s in the right, ever since his ex-wife left him for a golf pro because he “never fought for anything that mattered” —and comes face to face with the woman he’d seen yelling at the home plate umpire in the fourth inning. She’s mid-laugh, dimples deep in her sun-kissed cheeks, a smudge of hickory BBQ sauce streaked along the line of her jaw, curly auburn hair pulled back in a messy ponytail strung with fake sunflower beads. She’s Clara Hale, he remembers, ex-wife of the local high school athletic director, the guy who’d cornered him before the game to warn him not to “waste a scholarship offer” on the lefty, who he claimed had “a bad attitude.” The whole town’s got her labeled as trouble, loud, too sharp for the small-town gossip mill to handle.
The line for brisket shifts, and she’s pressed shoulder to shoulder with him now, her bare arm warm against his, the scent of coconut sunscreen and smoked paprika curling into his nose, sharp and sweet. She catches him staring at the sauce on her jaw, lifts one dark eyebrow, and he fumbles in his front pocket for a crumpled napkin, his hands clumsy for no good reason. When he holds it out, her fingers brush his, a little static jolt that makes him jump, and she snorts, wiping the sauce off her face with a grin. “Saw you scribbling in that little notebook all game,” she says, nodding at the bulge in his back pocket. “You gonna make that kid’s dream come true, or break his heart?”
His first instinct is to give the safe, polite answer, the one that doesn’t rock any boats, the one he gives every curious parent and local coach. Instead, he says, “He’s got a 92 mph fastball that could make it to AAA in three years, but he chokes so bad when there’s runners on second he might as well be throwing underhand.” She laughs so hard she snorts again, and a group of older ladies at the next table over glance their way, disapproving. He spots her ex across the fairgrounds, leaning against the beer tent pole, glowering right at them, and his chest tightens, old people-pleaser alarm bells going off in his head. He should make an excuse, leave, avoid the drama. He doesn’t.
They get their orders of brisket, piled high with pickles and coleslaw, and she jabs her thumb at a rickety picnic table tucked under a giant oak tree at the edge of the grounds, far from the loudest crowds. “My friends bailed on me,” she says, no preamble, no apology. “You wanna sit?” He nods before he can overthink it, ignoring the sharp look her ex shoots him as they walk past the beer tent. The grass under the table is soft, still cool from the shade, and when they sit, her knee presses against his, warm through the denim of both their jeans, and he doesn’t shift away.
He tells her about the time he scouted a 19-year-old kid in the Dominican who gave him a live chicken as a thank you for getting him a tryout, how he had to keep the bird in his hotel bathroom for three days before he found a local family to take it. She leans in when he talks, elbows on the table, her eyes locked on his, no looking away, no playing games. When he finishes laughing at the memory of the chicken pooping on his favorite baseball cap, she reaches across the table, her thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek as she wipes a fleck of brisket rub off his skin, her touch lingering for half a second longer than it should. “You’re not like the other scouts that roll through here,” she says, soft, like she’s sharing a secret. “Most of them are stuck-up assholes who think they’re too good to talk to anyone who doesn’t have a major league contract.”
