Rafe Mendez, 53, a minor league scout for the Cincinnati Reds with 19 years on the circuit and a scar across his left eyebrow from a college line drive, ducked into the thatch-roofed tiki bar off Florida’s Route 441 when the summer storm split open without warning. His work boots were caked with red clay from the high school field he’d just left, a crumpled scouting report for a 17-year-old lefty with a 94 mph fastball stuffed in the back pocket of his khakis, and he was half-convinced the entire trip was a wash until he grabbed the last open bar stool and signaled the bartender for a frozen margarita with extra salt. The tin roof drummed so loud with rain he could barely hear the low Bob Marley track playing over the speakers, the humidity clinging to his forearms thick enough to sip.
He was three sips in when she leaned past him to grab a stack of napkins from the caddy behind his seat, her sun-warmed bare arm brushing his so lightly he almost thought he imagined it, until she laughed and apologized when a drop of her rum punch sloshed over the rim of her glass and spotted the edge of his scouting notebook. She was 49, he guessed later, dark brown hair threaded with silver strands that caught the neon pink tiki torch light strung above the bar, nails painted pale coral, a small diamond wedding band winking on her left hand. She held eye contact for two beats longer than politeness required when she handed him a napkin to wipe the mess, and Rafe’s gut twisted when he placed her: she was Elara, the wife of the county’s athletic director, the same man who’d blocked his access to three top prospects last year over a petty argument about post-game interview rules.
He should have moved stools. Should have paid his tab and driven back to his roadside motel, eaten the gas station burrito he’d stashed in his cooler, watched the 1990 World Series rerun he’d seen 12 times already. But she leaned in closer, her knee brushing his under the bar, firm and deliberate not accidental, and asked if he’d been at the west side high game last month where her stepson hit a walkoff home run. The smell of coconut sunscreen and fried conch fritters from the kitchen wrapped around him when she spoke, her voice low and rough like she’d spent the day yelling at ballplayers too, and Rafe found himself talking, admitting he’d driven three hours for that game, that the kid was on his short list for next year’s draft. She told him her husband was at a three-hour school board meeting across town, that they hadn’t sat down for a meal together that didn’t involve spreadsheets or parent complaints in 11 months, that she’d snuck out of the house 20 minutes prior just to breathe.
They talked for 45 minutes, the rain tapering off to a fine drizzle against the windows, and when she reached across the bar to tap the radar gun reading scribbled on his scouting report, her hand rested on his forearm for three full seconds, warm and heavy, and he didn’t pull away. He knew the risk. If anyone saw them together, the AD would lock him out of every high school program in a 60-mile radius, kill his shot at the promotion to major league scouting he’d been gunning for for three years. He’d spent almost two decades building a reputation as a no-nonsense, by-the-book guy, had turned down more than one advance from players’ family members before, had chosen scouting trips over his ex-wife’s birthday dinners so often she’d left seven years prior, but he couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like he was more than a guy with a clipboard and a stopwatch, like the scar on his eyebrow and the chipped coffee mug he carried to every game mattered.
When the bartender rang the last call for frozen drinks, she slid off her stool, her shoulder brushing his chest as she passed, and said her Airbnb was two blocks away, that her husband wouldn’t be home until after midnight. Rafe hesitated for 10 long seconds, staring at the half-empty margarita glass in front of him, then left a $20 bill tucked under the rim, stuffed his scouting report back in his pocket, and followed her out into the damp, pine-scented air. She stopped halfway across the gravel parking lot, turned, and kissed him first, the taste of rum punch and lime on her lips, her hands tangling in the curly gray hair at the nape of his neck.
He didn’t check his work phone until he was walking back to his truck three hours later, the clay from his boots smudged faint on the toes of her white sneakers still visible on the cuff of his jeans. There was an email from the athletic director, sent 20 minutes prior, saying he’d cleared Rafe for exclusive one-on-one time with the lefty pitcher all next week, no restrictions, no chaperones required. He smiled, unlocked his truck, and tossed his scouting notebook on the passenger seat before turning the key in the ignition.
