Manny Ruiz is 52, a Midwest League minor league scout who’s logged 270,000 miles on his beat-up F-150 in the last six years, eating more gas station burritos than home-cooked meals and sleeping in more Super 8s than his own bungalow outside Des Moines. His biggest flaw? He’s shut down every romantic advance since his wife left him for a soybean futures broker eight years ago, convinced anyone showing interest only wants his free season pass to every ballpark within 300 miles or the petty cash he carries for prospect per diems. He only lets himself one regular indulgence: Tuesday night carnitas tacos at El Bait Shop, the dive bar off I-80 exit 106, where the jukebox still plays Selena and the beer is $2 a pint before 8pm.
The city council’s new dumbass loitering rule went into effect three days prior, a half-baked attempt to curb downtown panhandling that extended to all city-licensed bars, requiring unaccompanied adults to leave by 9pm on weeknights. Manny didn’t even hear about it until the bartender, Jake, leaned over the sticky Formica bar at 8:58, wiping his hands on a grease-stained towel, and nodded at the cop lingering by the door. “Sorry, man. Gotta kick you out unless you’re with someone.”
Manny was mid-bite of taco, grease dripping down his wrist, when he felt a soft elbow brush his left forearm. He looked up, and there she was, two stools over, holding a margarita on the rocks with salt crusted around the rim, chipped pale pink nail polish catching the neon beer sign light. He recognized her instantly: Lena, the mom of that 17-year-old shortstop he’d scouted last spring, the kid who tore his ACL sliding into second at a regional playoff game. Manny had sat with him in the ER for three hours while Lena drove in from her night shift, forgotten that detail until she smiled, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a way that made the scar along her left cheek crinkle.
“Hey,” she said, leaning in just enough that he could smell coconut shampoo and mint gum over the bar’s mix of fried pork and old beer. Her knee brushed his under the bar, warm through her worn denim jeans, and he froze, unused to anyone that close who wasn’t a 19-year-old kid rambling about his fastball speed. “We’re together. Don’t worry about him.” Jake snorted, nodded, and walked away to serve the group of construction workers at the other end of the bar.
Manny’s first instinct was to push back, say he didn’t need her charity, that he could just go home and eat cold cereal. But she didn’t give him a chance, sliding her stool a foot closer so their thighs were pressed together from hip to knee, the heat seeping through his worn scout team hoodie. “I’ve been coming here every Tuesday for three months hoping I’d run into you,” she said, holding eye contact for three beats too long, not looking away when he shifted awkwardly. “I never got to thank you for sitting with Javi in the ER. No one’s ever done that for us before.”
He’d spent so long assuming every woman who talked to him wanted something, he almost didn’t believe her. He fumbled for his beer, took a too-big sip, and some of it sloshed down his chin. She laughed, soft, and reached up to wipe it off with the back of her hand, her skin cool against his stubble. That was the breaking point, the split second where the voice in his head that screamed this is wrong, she’s 14 years younger, your job has unwritten rules about fraternizing with prospects’ families, you’re too old for this shit got drowned out by the quiet buzz of the jukebox playing “Como La Flor” and the way her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth before she pulled her hand away.
They talked for two hours, the cop leaving at 10pm, the bar clearing out except for the two of them and the bartender wiping down glasses. She told him she was divorced, worked as a dental hygienist, Javi was back to playing ball, committed to a junior college next fall, she’d kept the note Manny left with Javi in the ER that said the injury didn’t change how good he was, he still had a shot. He told her about the road trips, the way he slept with a radio on in hotel rooms because the silence was too loud, how he’d stopped letting anyone get close because he thought he was too set in his ways to be worth anyone’s time.
When they left the bar, the air was crisp, October wind biting at his cheeks, and he walked her to her beat-up Toyota Tacoma parked two spots down from his truck. She leaned against the door, her hands tucked into the pockets of her leather jacket, and smiled again, that same crinkly smile that made his chest feel tight. He didn’t overthink it, didn’t run through a list of reasons he shouldn’t, just leaned in and kissed her. She tasted like tequila and lime, her hands coming up to tangle in the graying hair at the nape of his neck, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel like he was just passing through.
He pulled away, fished a crumpled playoff ticket out of his wallet, scribbled his cell number on the back, and pressed it into her palm. “I’m scouting the west side high school game Friday at 7. You should come. We can get chili dogs after.” She took it, folded it into the back of her phone case, and nodded, leaning in to kiss him one more time, quick and soft, before she climbed into her truck. He stood there until her taillights turned the corner at the end of the parking lot, lifting a hand to touch his lip where her cherry lipstick left a faint pink smudge.
