Elias Voss, 53, has spent the last 19 years as a minor league scout for the Midwest League, logging 40,000 miles a year in his beat-up Ford F-150, sleeping in motels with threadbare sheets, and eating more gas station burritos than he’d ever admit to his doctor. His biggest flaw is that he’s dug into his loner status so deep since his wife left him for a high school football coach eight years prior, he’d rather sit through a four-hour rain delay at a rookie ball game in Peoria than attend any of the “low-pressure” community mixers his older sister badgers him about every off-season. He’d only agreed to stop by the local fire department’s annual chili cook-off because his 16-year-old niece was running the dessert table, and he’d promised he’d sample her chocolate chip cookies before bailing.
He’s 20 minutes in, bowl of five-alarm chili sweating through the paper in one hand, half-eaten cookie in the other, and already plotting his escape out the side gate when someone slams into his elbow hard enough to slop chili down his left wrist. He bites back a sharp curse, wiping at the mess with the hem of his faded Dayton Dragons hoodie, before he looks up and meets the eyes of Maeve Carter, the 38-year-old county park ranger who ticketed his truck for illegal parking at the lakeside boat launch back in July. He’d yelled at her for 10 minutes that day, insisting he’d only pulled over to watch a teen left-handed pitcher who lived in the trailer park across the road play catch with his dad, and she’d written the ticket anyway, smirking the whole time like she thought his tantrum was funny.
She’s wearing her forest-green ranger uniform, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, sun-bleached auburn braid slipping over one shoulder, a stack of paper plates tucked under one arm. She’s already pulling a crumpled paper napkin from the cargo pocket of her pants, leaning in close enough that he can smell cedar shampoo and peppermint lip balm, no fancy perfume, just the sharp, clean smell of someone who spends 10 hours a day outside. She dabs at the chili on his wrist before he can protest, her fingers cold from carrying the stack of chilled paper plates, calloused at the pads from years of trail maintenance and chainsaw work. “Sorry about that,” she says, and she’s still smirking, like she knows he’s two seconds from snapping at her again. “For the elbow bump, not the ticket. You still definitely parked where you weren’t supposed to.”
He snorts, surprised into a laugh, and shakes his head. He’s about to make a snarky comment back about revenue farming for the county, but then she shifts her weight, leaning against the cinder block wall next to the beer tent, and he finds himself leaning too, a foot of space between them at first, then six inches, when a group of drunk firemen bumps past yelling about chili scores. No one pays them any mind over the noise of the announcer calling out winners, the clink of beer cans, the kids screaming as they chase each other around the bounce house. She tells him she grew up just outside of town, moved back three years prior after a stint working as a ranger in Yellowstone, and he finds himself telling her about the road, the weird small towns he passes through, the 17-year-old shortstop from Iowa he’s convinced will make the majors in four years.
When she laughs at a story about a team mascot who got stuck in a port-a-potty during a rain delay, she leans into his arm for half a second, warm through the fabric of his hoodie, before pulling back like she didn’t notice she did it. She doesn’t move away, though, their shoulders brushing now every time one of them shifts. He notices a thin, silvery scar snaking up her left forearm, asks about it, and she holds her arm out so he can see it better, her wrist resting lightly against his when he leans in to trace the edge of the scar with the tip of his index finger. “Chainsaw slip last winter, clearing downed trees after that ice storm,” she says, and her voice is lower than it was a minute ago, no smirk now, just steady eye contact that makes the back of his neck feel hot.
For 10 seconds he’s at war with himself, the part of him that’s spent eight years avoiding any kind of connection screaming that this is a bad idea, that everyone in this tiny town will talk if they see the grumpy loner scout leaving with the park ranger half his age, that he’ll be gone for 10 months come March and it’s not fair to either of them to start something he can’t finish. But the other part of him, the part that’s forgotten what it feels like to talk to someone who actually listens instead of just asking when he’s going to settle down, is louder. He can see faint freckles across the top of her chest where her uniform shirt is unbuttoned one button too low, the way she bites at the corner of her lower lip when she’s waiting for him to say something, the callus on her thumb from gripping a trail map all day.
She doesn’t ask him if he wants to come over. She just says she’s got a six pack of his favorite IPA in the cooler in her truck, her roommate is out of town for the weekend, and her back porch has the best view of the Ohio River sunsets this side of the county. She nods toward the street, like she already knows he’s not going to say no, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t overthink it. He tosses his empty chili bowl and napkin in the trash can next to the wall, wipes his hands on the side of his jeans, and says, “Lead the way.”
The November air is sharp enough to make his cheeks sting when they step off the firehouse lot, the sky streaked pink and orange at the edges as the sun dips low over the trees. She’s half a step ahead of him, braid swinging when she walks, and she reaches back to tap his wrist once, light and quick, no grand gesture, just a small, quiet signal that she’s glad he didn’t bail after all.
