Raymundo “Ray” Mendez, 53, has scouted shortstop prospects for the Texas Rangers minor league system for 22 years, and his most unshakable flaw is that he holds grudges long after everyone else has forgotten what the fight was even about. His truck’s floor is littered with scouting reports and sunflower seed shells, and he hasn’t had a second date since 2019. For 12 years, he’d refused to set foot at the annual New Braunfels summer cookoff, ever since his ex-wife left him for the local high school defensive coordinator mid-potato sack race. He’d spent those years sticking to the dive bar off I-35, eating gas station brisket tacos, and avoiding every community event his ex volunteered for, until 18-year-old Javi Ruiz made him pinky promise he’d show up to watch Javi accept the small town’s youth athlete of the year award.
He’s leaned against the dented steel beer cooler for 20 minutes when she steps up beside him, sun glinting off the silver streaks woven through her thick braid, a half-healed bee sting red on the soft of her left wrist. She’s Lila, his ex’s younger cousin, the beekeeper who runs 40 hives out in the Hill Country 20 minutes west of town, and he hasn’t spoken more than two words to her since the divorce. She reaches past him for a Shiner Bock, her bare arm brushing his sunburnt forearm, and he catches the sharp, sweet scent of wild honey and lavender hand cream clinging to her skin. A kid running with a blue raspberry snow cone bumps her from behind, and her shoulder presses firm to his chest for half a second before she steadies herself, tipping her head up to meet his eye, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I thought you swore you’d rather sit through a 12-hour rain delay at a Single A game than come to one of these, Mendez.”