Manny Ruiz, 52, minor league scout for the Reds, had been parked at the cracked Formica bar of the Key Largo tiki joint for 47 minutes when the monsoon hit. He’d just finished writing up notes on a 17-year-old lefty with a 94 mph fastball and a terrible habit of tipping his curveball, beer sweating through the paper coaster under the bottle, when the wind picked up and sent palm fronds skittering across the parking lot. The bar’s tiki roof rattled, patrons squeezed closer together, and a woman slid onto the stool next to him so fast her bare knee brushed the side of his denim-clad thigh.
She smelled like coconut sunscreen and brine, a faint smudge of sea turtle rescue logo paint on her left wrist, silver hoops glinting even in the dim neon of the beer sign. “Sorry about that,” she said, nodding at the spot where their legs had touched, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners like she spent half her life laughing. “Rain caught me mid-grocery run. I’d rather sit in here than watch my sourdough loaf turn to mush in the car.” Manny grunted in response, habitually leaning away a half inch, the way he always did when strangers got too close. Eight years on the road, seven of those fully single after his ex-wife finalized their divorce back in Toledo, had taught him to keep distance between himself and anything that could distract from his job.
He sipped his beer, pretending to stare at the Marlins game playing on the fuzzy TV above the bar, but he kept catching glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye. She ordered a rum punch, stirred it with a plastic sword, and when she reached past him to grab a handful of salted peanuts from the bowl on the bar, her forearm brushed his, warm and sun-kissed, and he felt a jolt he hadn’t felt in years. “You here for fishing?” she asked, nodding at the baseball cap he wore, embroidered with the Reds’ minor league affiliate logo. He hesitated. Scouting protocol said he wasn’t supposed to identify himself to anyone related to a prospect, not until the team was ready to make an official offer.
“Work,” he said, noncommittal. She laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the rumble of thunder. “I know that hat. My son’s the lefty that pitched the complete game over at the high school today. You scouts have been hovering at the bleachers all month.” Manny’s stomach dropped. That was the hard line, the non-negotiable no. Fraternizing with a prospect’s family was an automatic fine, could even get him suspended if the league office caught wind. He tensed, ready to mumble an excuse and leave, even if the rain was coming down so hard he’d be soaked to the bone before he got to his beat-up Ford F-150.
She must have seen the panic on his face, because she held up a hand, grinning. “Relax. He signed his letter of intent to play at FSU last week. Draft eligible in 2026, you’ve got plenty of time to wine and dine him later. No conflict of interest here.” Manny exhaled, slow, the tightness in his chest unwinding. He’d spent so long operating by the rulebook, so long avoiding anything that could risk the one thing he’d cared about since his rotator cuff tear ended his own playing career, that he’d forgotten what it felt like to not be on guard.
They talked for an hour, the rain slowing to a soft drizzle against the tiki roof. She told him about running the local sea turtle rescue, the time a 300-pound loggerhead had tried to nest in the parking lot of the nearby Publix. He told her about growing up in south Texas, playing ball until he tore his shoulder junior year of college, how he’d fallen into scouting after the divorce, how he spent 300 days a year on the road, sleeping in cheap motels, eating gas station burritos for half his meals. When a clap of thunder shook the building, his beer sloshed over the edge of the bottle onto his wrist, and she grabbed a napkin from the stack next to her, dabbing at the wet spot on his arm, her fingers lingering on his skin for a beat longer than necessary. Her eyes were dark, no pretense, no silly games, just unguarded curiosity, and Manny found himself leaning in, the scent of her sunscreen wrapping around him, the noise of the bar fading into background static.
The bartender yelled that they were closing up, the rain had let up enough for people to head out. She offered to walk him to his truck, parked at the far end of the lot, and he didn’t argue. They stepped under the awning, the air thick with rain and jasmine from the bushes lining the walkway, and she stopped, tilting her head up at him. “You’re not as much of a grump as you look, you know that?” she said, and before he could think of a snarky response, she leaned in and kissed him, soft, the taste of rum punch and lime on her lips, her hand on the side of his face, calloused from years of hauling turtle cages up the beach. He kissed her back, slow, the knot that had been sitting in his chest for eight years loosening a little more.
When they pulled apart, she fished a pen out of her purse, flipped open the scout notebook sticking out of his jacket pocket, and scribbled her number on the back of the page where he’d written notes on her son. “Call me when you’re back in town next month,” she said, tapping the number with the end of the pen. “And for the love of god, don’t talk about curveballs for the first hour of our date.” He laughed, a real, full-bellied laugh, the kind he hadn’t let out in years, and nodded.
He watched her walk back to her hatchback, her rain-soaked tank top clinging to her shoulders, and he tucked the notebook back into his pocket, already pulling up his calendar on his phone to clear the first weekend of next month. The rain started up again, soft, tapping against the windshield of his truck, and he didn’t even mind that he’d have to drive all the way back to his motel in the wet.
