Milo Rourke, 53, has spent the last 18 years as a minor league baseball scout, logging 40,000 miles a year in his beat-up 2019 Ford F-150, eating more gas station hot dogs than he cares to admit, and stubbornly refusing to get the knee replacement his doctor has been badgering him about since 2022. He’s a creature of habit, keeps the same stack of scouting reports in his center console, listens exclusively to 90s country on the radio, and hasn’t so much as flirted with a woman since his wife Karen died of breast cancer eight years prior. He’d told himself romance was a waste of time, that his job was enough, that the quiet of empty ballparks beat the awkwardness of small talk over dinner any day.
He was leaning against the cinder block wall of the concession stand outside a southern Ohio high school diamond in late May, rubbing the sharp ache out of his left knee, when it happened. The stands had emptied out twenty minutes prior, most parents herding their kids to minivans for post-game ice cream, the only noises left the distant chirp of crickets and the clink of concession workers tossing empty soda cans into trash bins. He’d come to watch Javi Morales, a 17-year-old shortstop with a cannon for an arm and a bad habit of overthrowing first base, and he’d stayed late to avoid limping to his truck in front of the crowd, too proud to admit he could barely put weight on the joint. The cold root beer in his hand was sweating through the paper napkin he’d wrapped around it, dripping onto the scuffed toe of his work boot, when he heard a sharp yelp.
The woman tripped over a discarded cleat left by the dugout, her arms windmilling as she stumbled forward, and she grabbed his bicep to steady herself before she face-planted into the gravel. His first thought was to step back, keep the professional distance he’d clung to for years, but her weight landed solid on his arm, her palm warm through the thin fabric of his scout’s jacket, and he found himself reaching out to wrap one hand around her elbow to hold her upright. She laughed, a low, rough sound, and brushed a strand of gray-streaked dark hair out of her face, and he realized he recognized her: she’d been sitting two rows in front of him at the last three Javi Morales games, yelling encouragement every time the kid stepped up to the plate. She said her name was Elena, that she was Javi’s mom, that she ran the used bookstore on Main Street downtown, and that she’d noticed him scribbling in his clipboard every time her son made a play.
He tensed up immediately, ready to lie about who he worked for, ready to make an excuse and limp to his truck, but she grinned, the corner of her eye crinkling, and said she didn’t care if he was scouting, that Javi had been checking the bleachers for him every game for a week, nervous he’d mess up in front of the guy who could get him out of this small town. She smelled like lavender hand lotion and burnt buttered popcorn, her nails chipped with the same navy blue polish as the high school’s team uniforms, and when she brushed a fleck of dirt off the front of his jacket, her knuckle grazed his chest, and he felt a heat he hadn’t felt in almost a decade crawl up the back of his neck. He should have said thank you, said goodbye, gotten in his truck and driven to the next game three hours west. Instead, when she pointed out the hole in the elbow of his jacket, said she could mend it for free if he stopped by the store tomorrow before he left town, he said yes before he could talk himself out of it.
He spent the rest of the night in his motel room, kicking himself, going back and forth between feeling like he was betraying Karen and feeling stupid for being so flustered over a ten minute conversation. He’d always told himself he was fine alone, that he didn’t need anyone else, that the job was all the fulfillment he required. But he couldn’t stop replaying the way her hand felt on his arm, the sound of her laugh, the way she’d teased him about eating three bags of peanut M&Ms during the first inning of the last game.
He showed up at the bookstore at 10 a.m. the next day, the knee still aching but not as bad, a half dozen donuts from the bakery down the street in his hand as a peace offering. The store was tiny, floor to ceiling shelves packed with dog-eared paperbacks, the air thick with the smell of old paper and burnt coffee, a tabby cat curled up on a stack of poetry collections by the front door. She was behind the counter, mending a torn children’s book, and she waved him over, taking the donuts with a grin. She sewed the hole in his jacket while he flipped through a beat up copy of *The Boys of Summer*, a book he’d read a dozen times as a kid, and they talked: about Javi’s dream to play college baseball, about how she’d moved to town after her divorce three years prior, about how Karen used to keep score at every game he scouted before she got sick.
He admitted he’d been scared to even talk to her, that he’d felt guilty for even wanting to, and she leaned across the counter, their faces six inches apart, the gold flecks in her brown eyes visible in the sunlight filtering through the front window, and touched the back of his hand. She said no one expected him to be lonely forever, that Karen would probably be annoyed he’d wasted eight years moping instead of living. He didn’t pull away. For the first time in almost a decade, the guilt sitting in his chest felt light, not heavy, like he could let it go if he wanted to.
He stayed for an hour, drank two cups of her terrible coffee, bought the copy of *The Boys of Summer*, and made plans to meet her for dinner after Javi’s game the following weekend. He walked out to his truck, the knee barely throbbing, tucked the book in the passenger seat next to his stack of scouting reports, and texted his contact with the Carolina League that Javi was worth a second look. He turned the key in the ignition, grinned when he saw her waving through the bookstore window, and pulled out onto Main Street with the windows rolled down, the warm spring air sticking to the back of his neck.
