Manny Ruiz, 53, has spent the last three weeks crisscrossing Florida in a dented 2017 Ford F-150, scouting left-handed pitching prospects for the Akron RubberDucks. His left knee throbs from 12 hours of driving straight home, the old scar from a 1998 torn ACL pulling tight with every step. He’d planned to blow straight past the downtown food truck rally, until the smell of hickory-smoked brisket wrapped around his truck cab and yanked the wheel out of his hand. He’s stubborn to a fault, a flaw his ex-wife spent 12 years nagging him about, one that made him miss his daughter’s high school graduation 10 years prior because he refused to cut a scouting trip short for what he’d dumbly considered a “routine” milestone. He still carries that guilt like a rock in his jacket pocket, avoids most town events where he might run into parents of his daughter’s old friends.
He grabs a brisket sandwich first, leans against a lamppost to eat it, sweat beading under the brim of his faded 1995 Cleveland Indians cap. The sun’s beating hard, and he spots a bright royal blue popsicle stand tucked between a homemade jewelry booth and a dog rescue adoption table. He figures a cold treat will take the edge off the swelling in his knee, so he ambles over, wiping barbecue sauce off his stubbled chin with the back of his hand.
The woman behind the counter laughs before he even opens his mouth, loud and warm, the kind of laugh that makes people turn their heads. “Manny Ruiz. I’d know that beat-up cap anywhere.” He squints, takes in the sun streaks in her wavy brown hair, the smudge of raspberry syrup on her left cheek, the calloused fingers wrapped around a stack of popsicle molds. He can’t place her, until she taps a small framed photo taped to the side of the stand: it’s her, 12 years old, covered in grass stains, sitting on his old coach’s shoulders at a high school baseball playoff game. “Lila Marlow. Coach’s kid. You used to leave extra sunflower seeds in my backpack when my dad made me sit through practice.”
The jolt hits him square in the chest, followed immediately by a hot flush of shame. The last time he saw her, she was throwing rocks at the dugout fence and calling him a dummy for striking out in the championship game. Now she’s wearing a cut-off denim shirt tied at her waist, a white tank top that shows a faint smattering of freckles across her collarbone, and he’s noticing it, which feels like a betrayal of the man who taught him everything he knows about baseball, about loyalty. He fumbles for something to say, ends up muttering something about how big she got, and she snorts, leaning over the counter to grab a mango popsicle from the freezer. Their fingers brush when she passes it to him, warm callus against his rough work-worn knuckle, and he feels a zing shoot up his arm, all the way to the base of his neck. She smells like coconut sunscreen and cherry Kool-Aid, not the bubble gum body spray he remembers.
She asks about his scouting trips, remembers he used to tell her stories about bus rides through the Midwest, eating gas station hot dogs for breakfast, the time a rain delay forced his team to play cornhole in the outfield for 3 hours. He mentions his knee, offhand, and she leans further over the counter, eyes narrowing. “You’re limping. I do PT assistant work part time at the clinic down the street, I’ve got extra bandages in my bag. Sit down, I’ll wrap it for you.” He immediately protests, says he’s fine, he can do it at home, and she rolls her eyes, the same way her dad used to when Manny tried to play through an injury. “Coach always said you were too stubborn to accept help even when you were bleeding through your uniform. Sit. I won’t charge you.”
He caves, perching on the folding chair behind the stand. She kneels down in front of him, pulling an elastic bandage out of her canvas tote, and her hair falls in his face when she leans in to adjust the wrap around his knee. He can smell the faint sweet tang of raspberry syrup on her wrist, and her thumb brushes the old ACL scar when she pulls the bandage tight. “I remember that,” she says, soft, like she’s talking more to herself than to him. “You got that the same day I fell off my bike at the field. You carried me to the car even though you could barely walk.” He freezes, because he’d forgotten that, forgotten that day, how she’d cried into his shoulder and snot all over his jersey. For a second, the noise of the rally fades out entirely: the band playing in the gazebo, the kids screaming chasing the ice cream truck, the dog rescue volunteers bickering over treats, all of it goes quiet. He can hear her breathing, soft and steady, and when she looks up at him, their eyes lock, no one looks away for three full beats. She’s got the same crooked grin she had when she stole his whole bag of sunflower seeds before a game, and the guilt warring with the warm hum in his chest fades, just a little. He hasn’t felt this seen in years, not since his divorce, not since his daughter moved to Seattle and stopped answering his calls for six months after the missed graduation.
She finishes wrapping the knee, taps it gently with the palm of her hand. “Good as new. Popsicle’s on the house, by the way. Payment for all those sunflower seeds, and the piggyback ride.” He tries to hand her a five dollar bill, she shakes her head, pushing his hand away, and slips a second strawberry popsicle into his other hand. “For later. And if you ever want to come talk to the after school program I run at the library about baseball? The kids would lose their minds. My dad always said you’d be the best person to teach them that having fun matters more than winning.”
He nods, standing up, testing the knee, which already feels steadier. He tucks the strawberry popsicle into the cooler he keeps behind his truck seat, pulls out his phone while he walks to the parking lot. He texts his daughter first, says he’s buying a plane ticket to Seattle next month, no scouting trip, no excuses, he just wants to see her new apartment and meet her cat. Then he types a reminder in his notes app: stop by library Tuesday, bring sunflower seeds for the kids. He bites into the mango popsicle, sweet and cold, and laughs when he realizes there’s a single strand of Lila’s sun-streaked brown hair stuck to the collar of his faded work flannel.