Ray Voss, 53, has scouted minor league baseball prospects for the Atlanta Braves for 19 years, and he’s got a scar across his left eyebrow from a foul ball he didn’t duck fast enough in 2017 to prove it. His biggest flaw, the one his sister yells at him for every Thanksgiving, is that he’s avoided even casual conversations with women he’s attracted to since his ex-wife left him for a timeshare salesman eight years prior. He’s convinced every single woman his age is only after his retirement fund, the one he’s been stashing away since he was 22, the one his ex tried to drain halfway during their divorce settlement. He’s in the middle of a week-long trip through western North Carolina, checking on a 17-year-old lefty with a 94 mph fastball and a curveball that makes batters trip over their own feet, when the sky splits open halfway through the kid’s game, dumping red mud all over Ray’s favorite work boots.
He ducks into the only BBQ joint within 10 miles, jeans caked at the cuffs, scouting notebook crumpled in the inner pocket of his waterproof jacket, and slides into a cracked vinyl booth at the back of the dim, smoke-scented room. He orders pulled pork with extra vinegar sauce, a side of briny dill pickles, and sweet tea so sweet it makes his teeth ache just thinking about it, and is halfway through wiping the rain off his wire-rimmed glasses when the waitress sets his glass down on the table. Her elbow brushes his forearm, light enough that he thinks it’s an accident at first, and he catches a whiff of cedar candle and vanilla lotion over the thick, smoky smell of hickory in the air. He looks up, sees a tiny silver nose ring glinting above her lip, paint smudges of blue and yellow on the knee of her faded Levi’s, and a name tag that reads Lila. She smirks, nods at the edge of his notebook peeking out of his jacket, and says she saw him yelling at the umpire in the third inning, when the guy called a perfect curve a ball.
He’s still kicking himself for opening his mouth and asking her to sit down for two minutes when she mentions she’s the ex-wife of the high school’s head baseball coach, the same guy Ray is supposed to meet tomorrow morning to negotiate access to the lefty for summer showcases. The gossip around town is loud enough that even Ray heard bits of it at the gas station earlier: the coach cheated on her with a PTA mom three years prior, then spent the next year telling everyone in the county she left him for a 22-year-old college student. Ray tenses up immediately, half ready to apologize and change the subject, but she just laughs, leans against the edge of the booth so her knee is inches from his, and says the coach is an overgrown man child who still can’t load a dishwasher without breaking half the plates. He’s torn, every logical part of his brain screaming that flirting with her will tank his shot at signing the best prospect he’s found in three years, but he can’t look away from the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs, the rough callus on the edge of her palm from holding paintbrushes when she teaches middle school art three days a week.
The rain gets louder, hammering on the tin roof so hard it drowns out the old Johnny Cash playing over the speakers, and the power cuts out halfway through their third story about terrible exes, leaving only the faint red glow of the emergency lights above the walk-in cooler. The last few customers bolt for their cars, and Lila shrugs, hops over the counter, and pulls a jar of homemade pecan pie out from under the register, says the generator takes 10 minutes to kick on, and they might as well eat something sweet while they wait. They sit on the edge of the linoleum counter, legs swinging, pie crumbs sticking to their fingers, and she tells him she hasn’t been to a baseball game since the divorce, even though she grew up going to Braves games with her dad, still has a 1995 World Series hat tucked in the back of her closet. He tells her about the time he met Hank Aaron at a spring training game, how he still has the autograph tucked in the front of his scouting notebook, and she leans in so close her shoulder presses against his, her knee brushing his thigh through their damp jeans. When she brushes a stray rain droplet off his cheek with her thumb, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t make up some stupid excuse about work to leave early like he usually does.
The generator kicks on 10 minutes later, flooding the room with warm yellow light, and he asks her if she wants to come to the makeup game tomorrow, sit with him in the stands, he’ll buy her a cotton candy and the worst cheap beer the concession stand sells. She grins, writes her phone number on a napkin with a blue marker she pulls out of her apron pocket, and says she’ll wear the 1995 Braves hat, no exceptions. He walks out to his beat-up pickup truck 10 minutes later, the rain slowed to a soft drizzle, and leans against the door for a second, breathing in the smell of wet pine and leftover BBQ on his shirt. He pulls his scouting notebook out of his jacket, flips past the pages of stats on the lefty, and scribbles her phone number on the blank back page, his hand only shaking a little.
