Manny Ruiz, 51, is a minor league baseball scout for the Cincinnati Reds farm system, a man who’s spent the last 18 years letting work consume every corner of his life to outrun the guilt of missing his daughter’s high school graduation for a playoff game in Iowa, the final straw that ended his marriage. His worst flaw is habitual avoidance: he bails on conversations the second they stray from player stats, hasn’t been on a second date in 11 years, carries a crumpled photo of his daughter’s college graduation (which he also missed) in his wallet and hasn’t worked up the nerve to call her in six months.
He hunches over a chipped Formica bar top at The Slider, a dive a block from the small Ohio high school hosting the end-of-summer showcase he’s been camped at for three days. Frost from his Pabst Blue Ribbon mug soaks through the thin paper coaster, leaving a dark ring next to his crumpled scouting sheet, scribbled with red ink notes on left-handed pitchers and underrated catchers with quick pop times. The air smells like fried bologna sandwiches and worn leather, the jukebox spitting out 90s country deep cuts loud enough to drown out the rowdy group of teen players hooting in the back booth. He’s halfway through scribbling a note about a 17-year-old pitcher who hits 94 mph with a slider that breaks like a dropped glass when someone slides onto the stool next to him, the wood scraping loud enough to make him glance up.
She’s 48, he guesses, salt streaked through her dark brown hair pulled back in a loose braid, wearing a faded high school baseball hoodie and jeans that fit just right, silver hoop earrings catching the neon Coors Light sign over the bar. She orders a pinot grigio, and when she reaches for the glass the bartender slides her way, her shoulder brushes his, warm and solid, and he catches a whiff of lavender shampoo and spearmint gum. She nods at his scouting sheet, her elbow brushing his when she leans in a fraction. “That lefty you’ve got three stars next to? My nephew. Threw a no-hitter last month against the top team in the state.”
Manny blinks, surprised he’s not annoyed. Usually he brushes off anyone who interrupts his note-taking, packs up and moves to a different spot, but he finds himself leaning in too, pointing at the line where he scribbled “needs work on pickoff move”. “Kid’s got the arm for double A by 20, but he’s lazy holding runners on. Saw three guys steal second off him in the first inning today.”
She laughs, a low, warm sound, and shifts to let a server carrying a tray of burgers squeeze past, her knee brushing his under the bar for a full three seconds before she pulls back. “You’d be lazy too if your mom was screaming so loud in the stands you could barely hear the catcher’s signs. I’m Carla, by the way. I run concessions for these showcases. Seen every scout that’s come through here the last eight years. You’re the first one that hasn’t tried to flirt his way to free hot dogs.”
Manny snorts, taking a sip of his beer, the cold bitter taste cutting through the warmth building in his chest. He hasn’t flirted with anyone since his divorce finalized, hasn’t even tried. “Fair. I don’t even like hot dogs. Hate the relish.”
They talk for 45 minutes, slowly drifting closer until their stools are almost touching, their arms brushing every time one of them reaches for their drink. He tells her about the time he was playing A-ball in South Carolina and got ejected for arguing a call so bad he threw his cleat into the stands, hit a guy’s cooler full of beer. She tells him her husband, the high school’s athletic director, is off at a coach’s conference in Cleveland, the same one he’s gone to every year for the last five, the same one she found out last month he’s been bringing the new varsity cheer coach to, not even bothering to lie about it anymore.
Manny’s chest tightens. He knows the unwritten rule—scouts don’t mess with anyone connected to the showcases, not even casually, not if they want to keep their jobs. He also knows he’s got a 12-page scouting report due to the front office by midnight, most of it still untyped in his notebook. He’s half tempted to grab his stuff, mumble an excuse, bolt back to his motel room like he always does when things get too personal, too messy. But then she rests her hand on his forearm for a beat when she laughs at his cleat story, her palm warm through his thin flannel shirt, and he can’t bring himself to move.
She nods toward the door, the streetlight glowing orange through the smudged window. “The lake’s three blocks from here. Full of fireflies this time of year. I usually walk it after the showcase wraps. Wanna come?”
Manny hesitates for two full seconds, glancing at his scouting sheet, then back at her, the way she’s biting her lower lip like she’s half expecting him to say no. He shoves the notebook into the pocket of his worn jeans, slams back the last of his beer, nods.
They walk through the quiet residential streets, crickets chirping loud in the oak trees lining the sidewalk, the air cool enough to make the hair on his arms stand up. When they step off the curb to cross the street to the lake entrance, she slips her hand into his, her fingers calloused from hauling boxes of concessions for 10 hours that day, warm and soft at the same time. He doesn’t pull away. They walk along the water’s edge for 20 minutes, watching fireflies blink on and off over the dark water, not talking much, just their shoulders brushing every few steps. She stops at a weathered wooden bench, sits down, pulls him down next to her, leans her head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around her, the faint smell of lavender filling his nose again, and for the first time in 11 years, he doesn’t think about scouting reports, or missed milestones, or the guilt he carries around like a stone in his pocket. A firefly lands on the back of her hand, and he reaches out slowly, his finger brushing the soft skin of her wrist as he cups his palm over the tiny glowing bug for a second before letting it drift away.
