Rico Ruiz, 53, has scouted high school baseball prospects for the Rangers’ farm system for 18 years, and the only rule he’s never broken is fraternizing with players’ families. It’s not just league policy—it’s a line he drew for himself after his own shot at the majors died in a doctor’s office, when he hid a rotator cuff injury for six months to avoid being benched, and his wife left the same week he got the surgery note, saying he cared more about a roster spot than he did about letting someone help him carry the load. He’s stubborn to a fault, would sleep in his truck for three days before he’d ask a stranger for a couch, and he’s spent the last three months actively ducking Marisol Torres, the widowed 48-year-old mom of the shortstop he’s had ranked number one in the state since April.
He’s perched on a splintered picnic table at the town’s weekly beer garden, peanut shells crunching under the scuffed leather of his work boots, when he spots her, the late July sun turning streaks of her dark hair gold, cutoff denim frayed at the hem, faded UT Longhorns shirt dotted with taco grease from the stand she runs off Main Street. She’s carrying a sweating plastic cup of iced tea, and when she meets his eye across the crowd, she doesn’t look away like he expects. She walks straight over, drops her bag on the bench across from him, and sits so close her bare knee brushes his under the table, the warm press of her skin seeping through the thin denim of his work jeans.
The fiddle player in the corner is twanging through an old George Strait track, the air smells like smoked brisket and citronella candles, and Rico’s first instinct is to grab his scouting notebook and bolt. He’s avoided every event he thought she’d be at, turned down free tacos from her stand three times, because the last thing he needs is a rumor getting back to the league office that he’s messing around with a top prospect’s mom. Marisol smirks like she can read his mind, taps the edge of his notebook with a manicured nail painted the same deep red as the salsa she sells by the jar. “Relax. Manny committed to TCU last week. He’s not draft eligible for another two years. You’re not risking your fancy little scout badge talking to me.”
Rico blinks, heat crawling up his neck. He’d been so wrapped up in lining up scout meetings for Manny that he’d missed the commitment announcement, too busy running numbers on exit velocity and fielding percentage to pay attention to the kid’s social media. He opens his mouth to say something, and Marisol reaches across the table to move his sweating beer bottle out of the way of her iced tea, her calloused fingers brushing his where they’re curled around the neck. He flinches like he’s been burned, and her smirk softens, just a little. “You don’t have to be so jumpy. I’m not gonna ask you to pull any strings for him. He’s good enough he doesn’t need it.”
He knows she’s right. Manny Torres has the fastest infield arm he’s seen in 10 years, hits for power, runs like a deer, would have been a first round pick out of high school if he hadn’t opted to play college ball first. The knot in his chest loosens a little, but he still doesn’t relax, his shoulders hunched up like he’s waiting for someone from the league to pop out from behind the brisket stand and bust him. Marisol leans forward, elbows on the table, and he can see the faint tan line of a swimsuit around her collarbone, the smudge of salsa on the edge of her jaw, she smells like coconut sunscreen and lime. “I saw you sitting out in the rain at Manny’s game back in April, your umbrella busted, taking notes like you didn’t even notice you were soaked. Brought you carnitas tacos after, remember? You acted like I was handing you a bomb.”
Rico nods, his throat tight. He’d eaten those tacos sitting in his truck later, the grease soaking through the paper wrapper, and he’d thought about her for three days after, the way she’d laughed when he fumbled a thank you, the way her hair had been stuck to her neck from the rain. He’d told himself he was being stupid, that getting involved with anyone connected to his job was a mistake, that he was better off alone, no one to let down, no one to leave him when he messed up.
She shifts again, her knee pressing harder into his, and he doesn’t pull away. “I’m not looking for a ring, Ruiz. I’ve been alone five years, you’ve been alone twelve, from what I hear around town. The rodeo’s in town next weekend. I’ve got extra tickets. No strings, no drama, no one has to know unless you want them to. You don’t even have to buy the funnel cake.”
He hesitates for half a second, the voice in his head screaming that this is a bad idea, that he’s gonna mess up Manny’s shot, mess up his own career, mess up whatever quiet, lonely life he’s built for himself. Then Marisol reaches across the table, brushes a fleck of brisket crumb off his cheek, her thumb lingering on the rough stubble of his jaw for a beat longer than necessary, and that voice goes quiet. He nods, and she grins, bright enough to outshine the string lights strung over the picnic tables.
She stays for another two hours, telling him stories about Manny’s first Little League game, how he broke three windows in their neighborhood practicing his swing, how she works 12 hour days at the taco stand to save up for his college textbooks. Their knees stay pressed together the whole time, and when she stands up to leave, she grabs a pen out of his notebook, scribbles her cell number on the back of Manny’s scouting report, right next to the line where he wrote 90 mph infield arm, first round lock. She winks, tucks the pen back in his shirt pocket, her fingers brushing his chest through the thin cotton of his Rangers tee. “Don’t wait three months to call, okay? I don’t have time to chase stubborn old baseball guys.”
He watches her walk across the beer garden, flip flops slapping against the asphalt, waving at a group of her regular customers by the food truck. He picks up the scouting report, runs his thumb over the messy red digits of her number, and tucks it into the inner pocket of his work vest, right next to the photo of his 10-year-old granddaughter he carries with him everywhere. He takes a long sip of his now-warm beer, already mapping the route to the rodeo grounds in his head, and for the first time in 12 years, he doesn’t feel like running.
