Rafe Marquez, 53, had been a minor league scout for the Texas Rangers for 19 years, and his biggest flaw was that he never took a shot he couldn’t map out three moves in advance. Six years prior, he’d passed on a lanky left-handed pitcher from Laredo who’d gone on to throw a no-hitter in his third major league start, and Rafe had carried that caution like a worn leather glove ever since, never letting impulse win out over process, even when the process was boring as hell. He was in a dim, beer-sticky bar outside New Braunfels on a Tuesday night, rain streaking the cinder block windows, post-game, nursing his second Shiner Bock, when she slid onto the stool two down from him.
He’d noticed her an hour earlier, standing by the gym doors after the high school playoff game, holding a hoodie for the 17-year-old shortstop who’d turned two unassisted double plays that afternoon. She was 42, he guessed, jeans cuffed at the ankle, white tee peeking out under a faded rodeo jacket, dark hair pulled back in a loose braid. She leaned over the bar to flag the server, and her forearm brushed his, warm, sun-kissed, the faint scent of coconut shampoo and fried onion rings curling off her shirt. He held his breath for a beat, then went back to scribbling notes in his coffee-stained scout notebook.
She ordered iced tea, then turned to him, nodding at the notebook. “You the Rangers scout that was sitting behind the dugout all game?” Her voice was low, a little rough from yelling at the umpires, he guessed. He nodded, not offering more, used to parents pitching their kids, begging for a shot, but she didn’t launch into a speech about her son’s work ethic. Instead, she laughed, tapping the edge of his notebook where he’d scrawled “chases high fastballs, fixable” next to her son’s name. “He’s been doing that since he was 10. I keep telling him to lay off, he says he can hit anything.”
They talked for an hour, the bar clearing out around them, the rain tapping harder on the roof. She shifted to the stool next to him at one point, her knee brushing his under the bar, neither of them moving away. He told her about the pitcher he’d passed on, the regret that still gnawed at him when he saw the guy’s highlights on SportsCenter. She told him she’d split from her son’s dad three years prior, ran a horse boarding facility on the edge of town, hadn’t gone on a date in two years because every guy in the county either wanted a free horse or to talk about her son’s baseball prospects.
Rafe knew the rules. Fraternizing with a prospect’s family was a line you didn’t cross, could get him written up, could make people think he was giving her son an unfair spot, could tank the career he’d spent half his life building. The logical part of his brain screamed at him to finish his beer, pay the tab, drive back to his motel, stick to the plan. But when she said her old pickup wouldn’t start, the battery dead from leaving the lights on, he offered to drive her home before he could think twice.
The drive to her place was 10 minutes down a dark, potholed county road, the radio playing scratchy old George Strait, the smell of wet asphalt and wet oak drifting through the cracked window. Her house was a small ranch on 10 acres, lights off inside, her son already crashed at a friend’s house after the game. They stood on the porch, rain dripping off the awning, and she leaned in, her shoulder pressing against his, to fish her keys out of her jacket pocket. He could feel the heat of her through their coats, see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes when she looked up at him, held his gaze three beats longer than polite. That was the split second where he could have stepped back, said goodnight, played it safe like he always did. Instead, he leaned down and kissed her, soft, no pressure, ready to pull back if she pushed him away.
She kissed him back, one hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over the Rangers logo stitched on his windbreaker. When they pulled apart, she was smiling, and he blurted out the truth before she could say anything, told her he was going to recommend her son for the farm system regardless of this, that he never mixed work and… whatever this was, that he wasn’t going to cut corners. She laughed, tilting her head back, the porch light gilding the edges of her braid. “I knew who you were before I walked into that bar. My son wouldn’t stop talking about the scout with the beat-up cowboy hat that took notes on every single play. I came in looking for you, not just the glove he left in the dugout.”
He stayed for coffee, then stayed longer, the regret that had been sitting in his chest for six years loosening a little, the weight of always playing it safe lifting for the first time in as long as he could remember. The next morning, he sent his scouting report on her son to the front office, marked with a top priority tag, no notes attached that weren’t about the kid’s swing speed and fielding range. When he left the motel that afternoon, he had a text from her, a photo of her son holding the printed scouting report she’d snuck off his kitchen counter, grinning like he’d just hit a walk-off home run. He texted back that he’d be back in town in two weeks for the next playoff game, and to save him a seat at the horse barn for dinner after. He tucked his phone back in his pocket, turned the key in his truck, and pulled out of the parking lot, not overthinking the next move for the first time in years.
