Javi Mendez, 52, minor league baseball scout for the Midwest League, had been dragged to the town’s annual fall chili cookoff against his will. Eight years post-divorce, he’d perfected the art of skipping community events, preferring his quiet lakefront ranch, cold beer, and stack of scouting reports to small talk with people he’d known since high school. His buddy who owned the local dive had bribed him with a free case of his favorite IPA to show up, so he’d slung on a faded flannel, laced up his scuffed work boots stitched with tiny baseballs along the side, and showed up an hour late, already mentally tallying the minutes until he could leave.
The air reeked of cumin, charred meat, and hickory smoke from the fire pit off the gazebo, where a bluegrass trio plucked through a fast, twangy rendition of “Rocky Top”. Crunching over scattered oak leaves to the far end of the snack table, he grabbed a paper bowl of three-alarm chili from the stand run by the volunteer fire department, took one bite, and immediately felt sweat bead at his hairline. He was fumbling for a napkin when a woman’s shoulder slammed into his forearm, sending a dribble of chili down the toe of his boot.
She stepped back immediately, apologizing so fast the words ran together, then leaned in before he could say he didn’t care, dabbing at the leather with a crumpled paper napkin. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose braid, a few strands falling forward to brush her cheek, and she smelled like jasmine and lemon furniture polish, a scent so far removed from the gas station burritos and motel coffee he lived on half the year it made his chest feel tight. When she looked up at him, hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, he froze. He’d seen her around town before, the new county librarian who’d moved in three months prior, but he’d never been close enough to notice the tiny silver star tattoo behind her left ear, or the way her fingers brushed his shin when she wiped the last of the chili off his boot.
He made a dumb joke about the chili being strong enough to strip paint, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was embarrassed. She said she recognized his boots, that her dad had been a minor league relief pitcher in the 80s, that she’d grown up going to small-town ballparks eating stale popcorn and begging the players for autographs. He told her about the 17-year-old lefty he’d scouted the month before out of central Iowa, who threw 95 miles an hour but cried every time his golden retriever showed up to his games, and she leaned in so close her elbow pressed against his ribs, like she didn’t want to miss a word.
They talked for 40 minutes, standing so close their shoulders kept brushing, and every time their hands reached for the same cornbread muffin or cup of spiced cider at the same time, his skin prickled like he was a kid again, fumbling to hold a girl’s hand behind the bleachers. He was half-disgusted with himself for how giddy he felt, how he kept finding dumb excuses to make her laugh, how he’d completely forgotten he’d planned to leave 20 minutes prior. He’d spent so long telling himself dating at his age was a waste of time, that anyone nice would be turned off by his 220 days a year on the road, his habit of leaving baseball cards scattered across every surface of his house, his permanent scowl when he was grading scouting reports.
When the bluegrass trio slowed down into a wobbly, warm cover of Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line”, she tilted her head at him, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half-smile. “You dance?” she asked. He almost said no, almost made an excuse about a bad knee he didn’t actually have, almost bailed like he’d bailed on every possible chance at connection for the last eight years. Instead he nodded, wiped his sweaty palm on the side of his jeans, and rested his hand light on her waist when they stepped onto the patch of flattened grass people were using as a dance floor.
They didn’t really dance, just swayed back and forth a little, their faces inches apart, and he could feel her breath on his jaw, taste the cinnamon cider on her when he leaned in and kissed her, soft, like he was scared she’d pull away. She didn’t pull away. She kissed him back, her hand coming up to rest on the scar on his left cheek, the one he’d gotten from a flying baseball bat when he was 19, like she’d been staring at it earlier and wanted to feel it.
When they pulled back, she grinned, and told him she’d been wanting to do that since she saw him at the hardware store last month, hauling a new screen door to his truck looking so grumpy she’d almost walked over and teased him then. He laughed, a real, loud laugh he hadn’t pulled out in years, and offered to walk her to her car when she said she had to head home to feed her two rescue cats. She handed him a crumpled slip of paper with her phone number scrawled on it when he opened her car door, told him she expected a full scouting report on all the best hidden burger joints within a 30 mile radius by the end of the week. He tucked the paper into the inner pocket of his flannel, pressed it flat with his palm, and walked back toward the cookoff, already listing the burger spots in his head, the free case of IPA completely forgotten.
