Manny Ruiz, 52, has been a Midwest League minor league scout for three months, spent the prior 20 years coaching high school baseball outside Des Moines, his ex-wife left him for a rival high school athletic director in 2005, and he’s lived out of a duffel bag half the year ever since, turning down every date, every invitation to cookouts, every chance to let someone get close, convinced any distraction would tank the scouting career he’d spent decades lobbying for. He’s got a scar above his left eyebrow from a line drive that got past a catcher in 2019, chews peppermint gum so hard his jaw aches most nights, and never leaves his truck without a folding chair, a radar gun, and a stack of extra leather gloves to hand out to kids who show up to showcases with beat-up hand-me-downs.
He’s parked himself at the last empty stool in the county fair beer tent on a sticky late August evening, just finished scouting a 17-year-old lefty with a 92 mph fastball and a slider that drops off a table, planning to chug one cold IPA before the two-hour drive back to his temporary rental outside Peoria. The tent is packed, 4H kids herding prize goats past the entrance, a cover band cranking 90s country loud enough to vibrate through the wooden stool under him, the air thick with the smell of fried Oreos, cut alfalfa, and charcoal from the nearby rib cookoff.
He’s halfway through his first sip when a woman slides into the empty space next to him, so close her linen sundress brushes his work boot. He recognizes her immediately: Clara Hale, 46, wife of the team’s new general manager, the guy who signs his paychecks. He’s only met her twice, both at stuffy office mixers, where she stood quiet in the corner wearing heels and a blazer, smiling while her husband rambled about ticket sales to boosters. Tonight she’s barefoot, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, chipped terracotta nail polish on her fingers, a smudge of clay on her wrist he recognizes from the pottery classes she mentioned once, in passing, at the last mixer.
She reaches for her cherry seltzer at the exact same time he reaches for his beer, their knuckles brushing hard enough to make a little foam slosh over the rim of his cup. She laughs, a low, rough sound, and doesn’t yank her hand away right away, her skin warm from hours in the sun. “Sorry,” she says, leaning in so he can hear her over the band, her shoulder pressing into his bicep to avoid a group of teens sprinting past with cotton candy stuck to their shirts. “Snuck out of the booster tent ten minutes ago. If I have to listen to one more guy complain about the price of hot dogs at the stadium, I’m gonna scream.”
Manny nods, takes another sip of beer, his chest tight. He knows the rules. Fraternizing with the GM’s wife is a one-way ticket to unemployment, and he’s got less than six months in the role to prove he’s worth keeping. But she’s asking him about the lefty he was watching earlier, she knows what spin rate is, she asks if the kid’s mechanics are solid enough to avoid elbow surgery down the line, and no one who isn’t paid to care about baseball has asked him about his work in 18 years. He finds himself telling her about the custom wood bats he turns in his garage in the off-season, the ones he gives away to kids who can’t afford $300 composite models, and he doesn’t even realize he’s rambling until she leans in closer, her arm pressed fully to his, the scent of lavender and cut grass coming off her hair.
A kid chasing a runaway chicken slams into her back a minute later, sending her lurching forward into his chest. He catches her by the waist, his hands splayed over the soft linen of her dress, and she rests her hand on his forearm to steady herself, leaving it there long after she’s balanced again. She doesn’t apologize, just looks up at him, her brown eyes bright, and says she recognized him earlier when he handed a new glove to the 12-year-old who’d been hanging over the dugout fence all game, watching the older kids play. “My husband would have told the kid to buy one at the team store,” she says, her voice low enough only he can hear, her thumb brushing the scar above his eyebrow before she pulls her hand back.
He knows he should leave. He knows any second a booster could walk through the tent door, see them sitting so close they’re practically sharing a stool, and his career is over before it even really started. He hates the idea of being the guy who messes with a married woman, hates the guilt that’s already coiling in his gut, but he can’t make himself stand up. He puts his hand on her knee, just above the hem of her dress, no pressure, just resting there, and she covers his hand with hers, her fingers lacing through his calloused ones.
She checks her phone ten minutes later, sighs, and says her husband is texting her that he’s headed to their car to leave. She pulls a crumpled business card for her pottery studio out of her purse, scribbles her cell number on the back in blue ink, and tucks it deep into the pocket of his frayed league hoodie. She squeezes his hand once, stands up, and slips her flip flops back on, not looking back as she weaves through the crowd toward the tent exit.
Manny sits there for another ten minutes, finishing his beer, the card pressed against his chest through the thin fabric of his hoodie. He pulls it out, runs his thumb over the smudged ink of her number, already knowing he’s going to call her tomorrow, right after he files his scouting report on the lefty. The band starts playing a Garth Brooks song he used to dance to with his ex-wife at their wedding reception, but for the first time in 18 years, it doesn’t make his chest ache. He tucks the card back into his pocket, drops his empty cup in the trash by the door, and walks toward his truck, the cool evening air stinging the scar on his forehead.
