Manny Ruiz, 52, has spent the last 18 years driving 30,000 miles a year across the Midwest as a minor league baseball scout, sizing up 16-year-old pitchers, eating gas station burritos, and avoiding any social event that requires wearing a collared shirt. His biggest flaw, his daughter will remind him, is that he’s hidden behind that scouting job like a shield since his wife died three years ago, turning down every invitation to cookouts, holiday parties, even the occasional date his coworkers tried to set up. He’d shown up to the town’s annual rib cookoff only because his daughter begged, saying her sorority’s lemonade stand needed extra hands hauling ice, and he couldn’t say no to her.
He’s perched on a splintered picnic table bench at the far edge of the park, half-empty plate of dry ribs in front of him, when Lila Marlow drops her own tray across from him, so close her bare, sunscreen-slicked arm brushes his when she sits. He freezes. He’s known Lila for 30 years, first as the cheerleader dating Jake Marlow, his all-state baseball rival back in high school, then as the wife of the first prospect he ever signed for the farm system, then as the woman who posted a photo of her divorce papers on Facebook six months prior, captioning it “Finally threw the bum out.” She smells like coconut tanning oil and smoked paprika, wears cutoff jean shorts and a faded local high school softball hoodie, has the same tiny scar above her left eyebrow that he remembers from 1998, when Jake accidentally hit her with a line drive during a backyard barbecue and didn’t even pause to ask if she was okay.
She teases him first, nodding at the sun-faded radar gun tucked in the pocket of his scouting vest, asking if he’s clocking how fast the rib vendors are slinging sauce. He laughs, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t used for anyone but his daughter in months. They talk for 45 minutes straight, first about the mess Jake made of his post-playing career, then about her new job as the high school’s JV softball coach, then about the lanky 17-year-old left-handed pitcher Manny has been trailing for the last two months, the kid who throws a changeup so nasty it makes college batters trip over their own cleats. When she passes him a crumpled paper napkin to wipe sauce off his chin, her fingers brush his knuckles, and he feels a jolt of static he’d forgotten was even possible, sharp and warm all at once. She leans in when he tells a story about the kid striking out 18 batters in a single game, her knee pressing into his under the table, and she doesn’t move away when he doesn’t shift back.
He’s fighting two conflicting urges the whole time: to lean in closer, to brush that stray blonde hair out of her face, and to run for his truck, because this feels like cheating, like he’s breaking some unspoken rule he set for himself the day his wife’s funeral ended, plus Lila was Jake’s wife for 20 years, off limits for longer than he can remember. The crowd roars when the first firework goes off, red light painting the whole park, and someone shoves into Lila from behind, making her stumble. She grabs his bicep to steady herself, and he reaches out automatically, his hand settling on her waist, calloused fingers pressing lightly through the thin fabric of her hoodie. They stay that way for 10 full seconds, neither of them moving, as blue and purple fireworks burst above their heads. She says she’s been wanting to corner him for months, was scared he’d turn her down, and he admits he’s been so scared of feeling anything again that he’s been living like a ghost for three years, but this, right here, doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like the first thing that’s made sense in a very long time.
The last firework fades to smoke, and the crowd starts dispersing, kids yelling, coolers clinking as people haul them back to their trucks. She tilts her head at him, asks if he wants to come back to her place for a cold beer, says she has a whole binder of game footage of that lefty pitcher he’s been scouting that he might want to see. He says yes, no hesitation, no second guessing. He picks up both their empty rib plates to toss in the trash on the way out, follows her through the crowd, the faint, sweet smell of coconut sunscreen sticking to the cuff of his scouting vest long after they’re out of the park.
