Moe Pritchard, 53, has spent 22 years as a minor league baseball scout, logging 40,000 miles a year in his beat-up Ford F-150, sleeping in cheap motels, eating gas station burritos, and avoiding any connection that would require him to stay in one place longer than three days. His wife left him 18 years ago for a high school math teacher who ate dinner at home every night, and he’d taken that as a sign that commitment wasn’t for him, turning down a front office promotion last year just so he wouldn’t be stuck behind a desk 40 hours a week. He’s sharp, dryly funny, and carries a beat-up spiral notebook full of scribbled scouting notes and a permanent coffee stain on the lower right corner.
He’s at the Auglaize County Fair in west-central Ohio on a sticky late August night, fresh off watching 19-year-old left-handed pitcher Jax Rainer throw seven shutout innings for the county all-star team, when he ducks into the beer tent to escape the swarm of kids chasing each other with glow sticks. The tent smells like fried dough, stale lager, and cut grass, the distant whine of the Tilt-A-Whirl mixing with the twang of a cover band playing old Alan Jackson tracks. The only empty seat is at a wobbly picnic table next to a woman in cutoff denim shorts and a faded John Deere t-shirt, her dark hair pulled back in a braid streaked with a single strand of silver.
She shifts to let him sit, her bare knee brushing his denim-clad calf, and he catches a whiff of clover honey and lemon furniture polish, a lot better than the stale beer and fried onion smell coming off the guy two tables over. She nods at the lanyard around his neck, the MLB logo peeking out from under the collar of his worn navy scout jacket, and smirks. “You here to scope out my boy, I bet.”
Moe freezes for half a second. Fraternizing with a prospect’s immediate family is a fireable offense, the kind of thing that gets you blacklisted from every minor league front office in the country. He almost lies, says he’s just here for the beer and the deep-fried Oreos, but then she holds up a plastic bucket full of individually wrapped honey sticks, and he spots the small tattoo of a bee on her wrist, same as the sticker on the bucket. “Elara Rainer. I sell honey here every year. Jax is my only kid.”
He admits he’s there to watch Jax, and they fall into easy conversation, her teasing him about scribbling notes in that beat-up notebook like he’s working a top-secret government job, him teasing her about charging three bucks a pop for honey sticks that cost her ten cents to make. She passes him a free wildflower honey stick, their fingers brushing when he takes it, and a jolt runs up his arm, sharp and warm, nothing like the hollow, casual lust he’s gotten used to with one-night stands in motel bars. When a group of drunk teens yells as they run past the table, she leans in close to be heard, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, and he can feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of his jacket.
He’s torn, the logical part of his brain screaming that he needs to pay his tab, drive back to his motel, file his scouting report, and leave town first thing in the morning, no strings attached, no risk of getting fired or getting attached. But the other part of him, the part he’s buried under 18 years of road food and empty motel rooms, is curious, giddy even, like he’s a kid sneaking into the ballpark after hours again. She mentions she’s been single for six years, her ex-husband leaving her for a 22-year-old waitress from the diner in town, and she hasn’t bothered dating since, too busy running her beekeeping operation and driving Jax to travel ball tournaments across the state.
When the beer tent closes at 10, the bartenders flipping the lights on to usher everyone out, she tucks the bucket of honey sticks under her arm and nods toward the Ferris wheel, still spinning slow at the far end of the fairgrounds. “You wanna walk? The line’s almost dead now.”
He almost says no, almost makes up an excuse about needing to finish his notes before he forgets the spin rate on Jax’s curveball, but then he spots the smudge of honey on her lower lip, and the words die in his throat. He nods instead.
They walk past the shuttered food stalls, the crumbs of elephant ears and cotton candy sticking to the pavement under their shoes, until they reach the Ferris wheel, only a handful of people left in line. When they get in the car, the attendant slamming the metal gate shut behind them, she sits close, their thighs pressed together, and when they reach the top, the ride stops for a minute, the whole fair spread out below them, golden lights twinkling against the dark cornfields stretching out to the horizon. He leans in before he can overthink it, kissing her soft, and she tastes like honey and the spiked hard cider she’d been sipping all night, her hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck, calloused from lifting beehive boxes.
They spend the night at her small farm 10 minutes outside town, the quiet hum of beehives from the backyard drifting through the open bedroom window. He leaves before the sun comes up, tucking his scouting notebook into his duffel bag, and leaves a note on her kitchen counter next to the coffee pot, telling her Jax has the best curveball he’s seen all season, that he’s gonna put in a good word with the Dayton Dragons front office, and that he’ll be back in two weeks to watch Jax pitch again.
He tucks a jar of her wildflower honey into the side pocket of his duffel bag before he pulls out of the driveway, already counting the days until he’s back.
