Rafe Sorrento, 53, minor league baseball scout for the Appalachian League, nursed his second old fashioned at the scuffed Formica bar of The Rusty Tiki, his work boots still crusted with red Georgia clay from 10 days bouncing between high school baseball fields across the southeast. He’d been coming here every Wednesday for six years, ever since his wife packed her bags and left for Portland with a landscape architect she’d met at a community garden, and he’d perfected the art of keeping to himself: head tilted slightly toward the bluegrass band, eyes fixed on the condensation dripping down his glass, no small talk with strangers, no exceptions. He’d built his entire career on the same rigid adherence to rules, too—22 years working his way up from part-time scorekeeper to full-time scout, zero reprimands, zero fraternization with players’ families, per the league handbook he’d practically memorized.
The bell above the door jingled at 9:17 PM, rain dripping off the brim of a faded denim jacket, and he looked up before he could stop himself. He recognized her immediately: Lila Marquez, mom of the 19-year-old shortstop he’d signed two weeks prior, the kid who’d hit three home runs in a scrimmage in Macon even though he’d had a fever of 101. She was holding a crumpled paper grocery bag in one hand, silver hoop earrings glinting in the tiki torch light, strands of gray streaked through the dark braid slung over her shoulder. She spotted him right away, smiled, and he felt his chest tighten. He knew he should grab his jacket and leave. He knew the league would fire him in a second if they caught him so much as having a drink with a player’s parent. But he didn’t move.
She sat two stools over at first, ordered a margarita on the rocks with extra salt, then waved when the bartender slid her drink over, and walked over to him, the paper bag clutched to her chest. “Jesse asked me to drop this off for you,” she said, setting the bag down on the bar between them, her fingers brushing his when he reached to pull the bag toward him. Her skin was cold from holding the frozen margarita glass, and he caught a whiff of jasmine shampoo and lime. “Said it’s his first little league home run trophy. Wants you to have it, said you were the only person who ever thought he was good enough to go pro.”
She sat down on the stool next to him before he could invite her, their knees brushing under the bar because the stools were crammed so tight against each other. He wanted to shift away, to tell her he couldn’t do this, that it was against the rules, but she started talking before he could get the words out: about working three jobs to pay for Jesse’s travel ball fees, about sleeping in her car for three days during a national tournament in Florida because she couldn’t afford a hotel room, about how she’d almost made him quit baseball when he was 16 because they couldn’t afford new cleats. He found himself leaning in, listening, for the first time in eight years not counting the minutes until he could go home to his empty house. He told her about his ex-wife leaving, about how he’d stopped going to family cookouts and birthday parties because he couldn’t stand watching other people’s happy families. He told her he’d almost quit scouting three years prior, when a kid he’d signed got injured in his first pro game and never played again.
The fiddle player finished his set at 10:30, the bar clearing out fast as the rain picked up, tapping hard against the tin roof. She leaned in to tell him a story about Jesse hitting that first little league home run, her mouth inches from his ear so he could hear her over the sound of the rain, and when a group of college students stumbled past her, she jolted forward, her lips brushing the edge of his jaw. She pulled back immediately, cheeks flushed, and started to apologize, but he reached up before he could think better of it, brushing a stray strand of hair off her face, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her cheek. He knew he was risking everything: his job, the reputation he’d spent 22 years building, the carefully constructed quiet life he’d built to keep from getting hurt again. But for the first time in as long as he could remember, none of that mattered.
He walked her to his truck when they left, holding a frayed plaid umbrella over her head so the rain didn’t soak through her jacket, the trophy tucked in the paper bag on the seat between them. He drove her to her small cottage on the west side of town, the porch strung with fairy lights, and when she turned to him in the driveway, asking if he wanted to come in for coffee, he said yes without hesitation. When she reached for his hand to lead him up the porch steps, he didn’t let go.
