Elias Voss, 51, has spent the last 27 years crisscrossing the Midwest as a minor league baseball scout, living out of motel rooms with threadbare bedspreads and mini fridges that hum too loud, his most prized possession a tattered leather notebook he scribbles pitch speeds and batting averages in until the pages tear. His worst flaw, the one his sister yells at him for every Thanksgiving, is that he holds grudges longer than he keeps baseball cards, still bitter about the 1994 MLB strike, still mad at the college coach who cut him sophomore year, still seething over the girl who left him two weeks before their high school graduation to move to Florida with a cocky third baseman who couldn’t hit a curveball if it bounced off his chest.
He’s in the tiny Ohio town he grew up in for an 18U showcase, ducking into the same dive bar he snuck into with a fake ID at 17, the linoleum still sticky under his boots, the jukebox still blaring 90s country, the air thick with the smell of fried pickles and stale beer and cigarette smoke that’s seeped into the walls for 40 years. He slides into the back booth he used to claim every Friday night, nursing a cold Bud Light that leaves a ring of condensation on the cracked vinyl, flipping through his notebook, when a shadow falls over the table.
He tenses up first, ready to make a snide comment about Florida and lousy third basemen, but she laughs before he can, the same rough, throaty laugh that used to make his chest feel tight, and admits she bailed on the third baseman six months after they moved, caught him cheating with a waitress at a beach bar, drove straight back to Ohio and never left. She leans in when she talks, her elbow brushing the peanut bowl between them, her knuckles grazing his wrist when she reaches for a handful, and he doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t yank his hand back like he expects to. The scar on his wrist, the one he got when they snuck out to cliff jump senior year, catches the warm yellow light above the booth, and she taps it gently with her index finger, says she still has the polaroid of him covered in mud after he climbed back up the cliff, grinning like an idiot even though he was bleeding all over his favorite jersey.
The grudge he’s carried for 30 years feels stupid suddenly, heavy as a lead bat in his jacket pocket, all that sharp anger melting away when she tucks a strand of gray-streaked auburn hair behind her ear, her nail polish chipped pale blue, the exact same shade she wore to their prom. Their knees brush under the table when she shifts closer, and he doesn’t move his leg, lets the warmth of her worn jeans seep through his. She tells him she’s been to every one of his old high school team’s reunion games, watched him pitch the alumni game three years in a row before he stopped coming back to town, always wanted to say hi but was too scared he’d turn on his heel and walk away.
The bar empties out around them, the bartender wiping down the counter with a ragged rag, flipping the neon ‘open’ sign off so only the string lights strung above the booth are left on. She slides her hand across the vinyl, rests it on top of his, her palm calloused from handling dog brushes and hauling 50 pound bags of kibble, and he laces their fingers together without thinking, no awkward fumbling, no hesitation, just like they used to when they’d walk between classes. She asks if he’s got plans after the showcase tomorrow, says she has a fresh peach pie in her fridge from the farmers market that morning, the same kind he used to beg his mom to make for his birthday every year, and a porch swing that overlooks the lake they used to park at when they wanted to be alone.
He tells her he was planning to drive out first thing tomorrow, to head to a showcase in Indiana, but he can reschedule, can push the Indiana trip back a week. He walks her to her rusted Ford F150 in the gravel parking lot, the cool autumn air stinging his cheeks, the same George Strait song they danced to at prom playing low on her radio when she turns the key in the ignition. He tosses his scout notebook on the dashboard, climbs into the passenger seat, and rests his hand on the worn gear shift between them, and for the first time in 30 years, he doesn’t feel the urge to rush out of town before sunrise.
