Elias “Eli” Mendez, 51, has spent the last nine years as a Carolina League minor league scout, logging 42 weeks a year bouncing between rickety small-town ballparks from Danville to Myrtle Beach. His ex-wife left him a year into the job, saying he loved evaluating curveballs more than he loved her, and he’s never bothered to argue the point. His core flaw is that he refuses to fraternize with anyone affiliated with the teams he covers—no drinks with coaches, no small talk with front office staff, no post-game cookouts. He keeps to himself, sleeps in his beat-up Ford F-150 half the time, restores vintage leather baseball gloves in the cab during rain delays.
The August storm rolls in fast over the Burlington ballpark, dumping sheets of rain that flood the third base dugout in 10 minutes, and Eli ducks into the only lit corner of the concourse: the concession stand, where the new manager is wiping butter off the popcorn machine glass. He knows who she is, even if they’ve never spoken: Lila, 39, the general manager’s ex-wife, who left him three months prior and took the concession job to cover rent while she finishes her paralegal degree. The entire league has an unspoken rule: don’t even look at her too long, or the GM will yank your credentials before you can finish a scouting report.
He orders a domestic beer, leans his hip against the chipped Formica counter, tucks the 1972 Reggie Jackson glove he’s been re-lacing under his arm. She passes the cold bottle over, condensation already beading down the glass, their fingers brushing for half a second, and he’s surprised by the callus on the pad of her index finger, like she plays guitar or works with her hands for fun. She holds his gaze for two beats longer than polite, one corner of her mouth tugging up, and he notices the faint silver scar slicing through her left eyebrow, leftover from a college softball collision, he bets.
The rain hammers the tin roof so loud he can barely hear the PA announcer say the delay will last at least another hour. She leans across the counter, close enough that he can smell coconut shampoo mixed with the faint, sweet tang of menthol cigarette on her shirt, and nods at the glove under his arm. “That’s the third vintage glove I’ve seen you carry this week. You sell them, or just hoard them?”
His first instinct is to mumble a non-answer and leave. He knows the risk: if the GM catches him here, flirting with his ex, he loses the only job he’s ever cared about. But she’s still looking at him, no expectation in her face, just curiosity, and he finds himself telling her about the restoration side gig he runs out of his Asheville garage, how he fixes gloves for kids who can’t afford new ones on the side.
The power cuts out right then, the entire concourse going dark except for the faint glow of the emergency exit sign above the door. He hears her laugh, soft, and she leans in further to grab the Zippo lighter she keeps on the counter right next to his elbow, her shoulder pressing firm against his chest for three full seconds. She flicks the lighter on, the golden flame catching the flecks of amber in her eyes, and she whispers, so quiet he almost misses it over the rain, “I’ve seen you sitting alone in the stands every game this homestand. You don’t have to be alone all the time, you know?”
The power flickers back on a second later, but neither of them moves. She slips a scrap of paper with her phone number scrawled on it under the edge of his glove, her thumb brushing his wrist as she pulls away. “I get off an hour after the game ends. My place is 10 minutes from here. No one has to know.”
He tucks the paper into the pocket of his flannel shirt, nods, and walks back out to the stands when the PA announces the rain has passed. He sits down in his usual spot behind home plate, pulls the glove out of his bag, and runs his finger over the fresh stitching, a faint, unfamiliar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
