Moe Petrakis, 53, had spent the last 12 years of his life avoiding small-town community events like the local fire department’s annual chili cook-off like they were a 95 mph fastball headed straight for his ribs. A minor league scout for the Cleveland Guardians, he spent eight months out of every year bouncing between high school fields and DIII dugouts across the Midwest, living out of a scuffed duffel bag stuffed with sunflower seed packets, scout notes, and half-empty bottles of pain reliever for his bad knee. His flaw, the one his old college roommate ribbed him about every time they grabbed a beer, was that he’d locked down his emotional life so tight after his ex-wife left him for a pharmaceutical rep that he couldn’t even bring himself to return a friendly wave from a neighbor without overthinking it for an hour afterward.
He’d only shown up to the cook-off because his childhood buddy, now the fire chief, had threatened to tow his pickup from the station parking lot if he bailed again. He was perched on the edge of a splintered picnic table, picking at a bowl of five-alarm chili that burned the tip of his tongue so bad he’d already gone through three paper cups of root beer, when he spotted her. Maren Hale, the 48-year-old plant nursery owner who’d moved into the ranch two houses down from him three months prior. He’d only spoken to her once before, a quick exchange at the mailbox when she’d asked if he knew where the nearest hardware store was, and he’d mumbled an answer and practically ran back to his house like a flustered teen.
She was wearing a faded green flannel, scuffed work boots, and there was a smudge of dark potting soil on the edge of her jaw that she clearly hadn’t noticed. She was laughing at a terrible joke the fire chief was telling about chili and burnt hot dogs, her head thrown back, and the late October wind pulled strands of her light brown hair loose from the braid slung over her shoulder. Moe froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth, and told himself to look away, that he was too old for this kind of stupid schoolboy crush, that he had a stack of scout reports waiting for him on his kitchen counter that were way more important than some woman who grew peonies for a living.
She spotted him before he could look away. She waved, bright and easy, and started walking toward him, weaving through clusters of kids chasing each other with glow sticks. The air smelled like charcoal smoke, cinnamon, and the sharp, savory tang of chili, and when she stopped in front of him, she was close enough that he could smell pine sap and vanilla lotion mixed in under the faint smell of dirt from her nursery. “Thought that was you,” she said, holding up a paper cup of spiced cider. “I recognized the Guardians hat. Bold move, wearing that in Reds country.” She held his gaze when she said it, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, and Moe felt his face heat up like he’d been caught staring at a cheerleader at a high school game.
She held out a small paper sample cup of white chicken chili toward him, and when he reached for it, their fingers brushed. It was a stupid, tiny, accidental touch, but he felt a jolt run up his arm, the same kind of sharp, warm zing you get when you grab a metal bat that’s been sitting in the sun for three hours. He took a bite of the chili, and it was perfect, creamy, just spicy enough, with little bits of roasted corn and green chile. “This is way better than the five-alarm garbage I’ve been eating,” he said, and she laughed, leaning in a little so she could hear him over the Tom Petty song blaring from the speakers by the fire truck. Her shoulder brushed his, and she didn’t move away.
For the next 45 minutes, they talked. He told her about the 17-year-old left-handed pitcher he’d found in rural Kentucky a month prior, who threw 94 mph but whose parents were dead set on him going to med school instead of signing a contract. He fully expected her to zone out, the way almost every woman he’d talked to in the last decade did when he brought up work, but she asked follow-up questions, wanted to know what made a good pitcher different from a great one, laughed when he told the story about a kid who’d thrown a no-hitter then threw up on the catcher’s shoes afterward. He told himself he shouldn’t be enjoying this, that he was setting himself up to get hurt again, that he was too set in his ways, too used to being alone, to make space for someone else in his life, but he couldn’t make himself stop talking.
The fire department set off the first round of small fireworks right as the sun dipped below the treeline, bright red and gold bursts lighting up the darkening sky. The temperature dropped fast, and Moe saw her shiver, her arms wrapping tight around her torso. He hesitated for half a second, then pulled off the old wool scout jacket he’d had since he first got hired in 2001, the one with the Guardians patch sewn on the left breast, and held it out to her. She took it, grinning, and slipped it on. It was too big, the sleeves falling past her wrists, and she rolled them up twice as she leaned into him, pointing up at a blue firework that burst into the shape of a star. Her hand rested on his forearm, warm through the thin fabric of his long-sleeve shirt, and she didn’t move it.
“Hey,” she said, turning to look at him, her face lit up pink and orange from the fireworks. “I found a vintage baseball glove in the attic when I moved into the house. Looks like it’s from the 70s, no idea if it’s worth anything. You wanna come over tonight and take a look? I got a bottle of bourbon stashed away, too.” Moe knew it was an excuse. He knew she didn’t care about the glove, that she’d asked him over because she wanted to spend more time with him, and for a split second, the old stubborn part of his brain screamed to say no, to go home to his empty house and his scout reports and his routine that had worked for 12 years. But then she smiled, and he smelled that vanilla lotion again, and he couldn’t think of a single good reason to say no.
They left the cook-off ten minutes later, Moe carrying the leftover container of her chili she’d insisted he take, following her rusted blue pickup down the street to her house. Her porch light was on, and the air smelled like lavender from the potted plants lined up along her steps. She unlocked the front door, then turned to him, her hand brushing his as she reached for the container of chili in his hand. He stepped over the threshold right behind her, the door clicking shut softly behind them.
