Rafe Mendez, 51, minor league baseball scout who’s logged 120,000 miles on his 2019 F-150 in the last two years alone, stared into his paper bowl of three-alarm chili and told himself he was only at the small-town Ohio fire department fundraiser for one reason: to get a read on how 19-year-old shortstop Javi Ruiz handled himself off the diamond. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit to anyone, was that he’d built a brick wall around any part of his life that didn’t involve radar guns, spray charts, and fast food drive-thru menus ever since his wife left him eight years prior, complaining she’d spent more anniversaries talking to his voicemail than his face. He’d turned down three promotions to MLB scouting roles just to keep his nomadic, no-strings schedule, convinced any kind of permanent tie would make him soft.
The September air hung thick with wood smoke and the sharp, savory tang of cumin, kids screaming as they chased a golden retriever across the baseball diamond adjacent to the fire station. He was reaching for a stack of napkins on the hood of the truck next to him when another hand brushed his, warm, calloused at the fingertips, smelling like lemon dish soap and the cinnamon gum she was chewing. He looked up. It was Lena Ruiz, Javi’s stepmom, the woman he’d seen in the stands at every one of Javi’s home games this season, always sitting three rows back from the dugout, never yelling, always taking notes in a beat-up spiral notebook. He’d heard from the team manager she was 48, worked as a physical therapist at the local clinic, had been married to Javi’s dad for seven years before they split amicably last spring.
She leaned against the truck bed next to him, her shoulder a half-inch from his, close enough he could see the flecks of amber in her dark brown eyes, the faint silver streaks threading through the braid slung over her left shoulder. “You’re the scout that sits through the entire pre-game warmup, right?” she said, grinning, and took a sip of her iced tea. “Javi says you’re the only one who doesn’t spend the whole game scrolling TikTok in the press box. He’s been nervous all week you’d show up to this thing and think he’s an idiot for doing the kids’ grounder demo.”
Rafe’s throat went dry. He knew the unwritten rule better than anyone: you don’t fraternize with a prospect’s family, not even a little. Any hint of favoritism could tank Javi’s draft stock, could get Rafe fired on the spot if the league office caught wind. He should mumble a polite excuse, grab his chili, go sit in his truck and eat alone, like he always did. But she was still smiling, her knee brushing his when she shifted her weight, and he hadn’t talked to someone who wasn’t a coach or a 19-year-old kid who thought a 95 mph fastball was the answer to every problem in months.
He found himself leaning in a little, matching her quiet tone, the noise of the cookoff fading into background static. “Kid’s got a good arm. Even when he’s tossing to 8-year-olds, he’s keeping his elbow up. That’s the stuff you can’t teach.” She laughed, a low, warm sound, and when she reached across him to grab a packet of hot sauce off the hood, her hair brushed his cheek, soft, smelling like coconut shampoo.
They talked for an hour, standing there against the truck, her inching closer every few minutes until their arms were pressed together from shoulder to wrist, his skin prickling every time she moved. She told him she’d seen him eating a peanut butter sandwich before every game, always with the crusts cut off, and he found himself telling her about his mom cutting his sandwiches the same way when he was a kid playing Little League, something he hadn’t told anyone since his ex-wife left. The sun started to dip below the trees, painting the sky pink and orange, and she leaned in so her mouth was almost to his ear, her breath warm against his neck. “Javi’s staying with his dad this weekend. My cottage is a block away. I baked sourdough this morning. You want to come over? No one from the team is gonna see us.”
Rafe hesitated for half a second, all the rules he’d lived by for eight years screaming at him to say no, to get in his truck and drive to the next town, to keep his life simple, uncomplicated. But he looked at her, at the way she was biting her lip like she was nervous he’d turn her down, at the smudge of chili on her left wrist, and he nodded.
She took his empty chili bowl and tossed it in the trash can next to the truck, her fingers brushing his for half a second when she passed him, and they started walking down the sidewalk, slow, no rush, the sound of the cookoff’s country band fading behind them. The screen door of her cottage creaked when she pushed it open, and the air that drifted out smelled like lavender and warm bread, and when she stepped inside, she turned to him, holding out her hand to take his windbreaker to hang by the door.
