Manny Ruiz, 53, has spent 19 years crisscrossing the Midwest scouting high school and DIII baseball prospects for the Cincinnati Reds’ farm system, so he’s used to sun-faded bleachers, lukewarm gas station beer, and avoiding small talk with overbearing travel ball dads who swear their 16-year-old son is the next Pete Rose. He’d skipped the annual Maplewood Park community picnic for 12 straight years, ever since his ex-wife left him mid-scouting trip in Florida for a Buick salesman with a waterfront condo, but he showed up this year because his old high school teammate was being honored for 20 years coaching the local little league all-star team. He’s leaning against the cinder block beer cooler, picking at a loose thread on his frayed scout’s jacket covered in stitched patches from every small town team he’s ever recruited from, when he smells coconut shampoo mixed with charcoal smoke and grilled bratwurst.
He recognizes her before she turns around, because she’s got the same thick dark curls as her cousin, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Lila, 38, travels the country working as a traveling physical therapist for injured minor and major league athletes, and she’s in town for a week helping her mom recover from a total knee replacement. She reaches past him for a lime seltzer from the cooler, her bare arm brushing his, and the cold of the aluminum can seeps through the thin cotton of his t-shirt under the jacket. “Manny Ruiz,” she says, grinning, and her teeth are white with a tiny chip in the front she got crashing a golf cart at a family cookout when she was 16, a story he’d heard a dozen times back when he was married. “Thought you boycotted these things for life. Figured you’d be camped out in a motel parking lot somewhere watching a 17-year-old throw fastballs.”
He laughs, shifts his weight so his scuffed work boot scuffs the dusty park grass, and they make small talk at first, about her mom’s physical therapy schedule, about the kid he just scouted in Fort Wayne who throws 97 mph but can’t hit a curveball to save his life. The picnic noise swells around them, kids screaming on the playground, the raffle announcer yelling out ticket numbers over a crackling PA system, so she leans in closer when he talks, her shoulder pressed firm to his bicep, and he can feel the heat of her skin through his shirt. Part of him tenses up immediately – this is his ex-wife’s first cousin, everyone in this park knows everyone’s business, if someone sees them talking too close it’ll get back to his ex before the sun dips below the oak tree line. The other part of him, the part that’s eaten too many gas station burritos alone in hotel rooms for 12 years, can’t remember the last time a woman looked at him like she actually cared what he had to say, instead of just asking when he’d be home next.
They move over to a folding table off to the side, away from the crowd of neighbors stopping by to congratulate his old teammate, and when they both reach for a stack of paper napkins next to a plate of pickled eggs and spicy mustard, their hands knock together, and she doesn’t pull away for a full three seconds, her fingers calloused from working on pro athletes’ swollen joints, warm against his rough, sun-exposed knuckles. She teases him about the faded Reds logo on the brim of his dirt-stained hat, says she always thought it was stupid his ex made him take his framed 1995 World Series ticket down off the wall in their old living room, and he blinks, because he never told anyone that. “She complained about it to me every Thanksgiving,” she says, picking at a loose splinter on the table edge, rolling her eyes. “Said it clashed with her stupid shiplap farmhouse decor. I always thought you should’ve hung it above the damn mantel, right next to your championship plaque from high school.”
That’s when the tight knot of resentment he’s carried in his chest for 12 years loosens, just a little. He’s spent so long hating every part of his old life tied to his ex, he forgot there were people in that orbit who saw what happened, who thought he got screwed over too, instead of just buying the story she told everyone about him being “married to baseball more than her.” The sun dips lower, painting the sky streaks of pink and tangerine, and she nods toward the empty minor league field adjacent to the park, the one he used to play second base on when he was a kid. “Wanna go sit in the old press box?” she says, tilting her head, and he doesn’t even hesitate to say yes, no overthinking, no worrying about who might see them leave together.
They walk across the overgrown outfield grass, crickets starting to chirp under the bleachers, and when he holds the rusted press box door open for her, she brushes her hand across his lower back, light, deliberate, not an accident this time. The press box smells like old dust and sunflower seed shells and stale beer, the window cracked open so they can hear the picnic’s cover band playing a slow 90s country track drifting across the field. She sits on the edge of the old dented metal desk, and he leans against the wall next to her, their knees knocking when she shifts to face him. She reaches up, brushes a stray piece of outfield grass off his jacket sleeve, and he doesn’t overthink it, just leans in, and when she kisses him, he can taste the cherry seltzer she’s been drinking, and the faint salt of the soft pretzel she ate 20 minutes earlier. No one yells from the field, no one snaps a photo to send to his ex, and for the first time in 12 years, he doesn’t feel like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
