Milo Rourke is 57, a minor league scout for the Cincinnati Reds farm system, 22 years on the job, with sun-cracked knuckles and a permanent kink in his lower back from sleeping in the cab of his beat-up Ford F-150 half the nights of the year. His biggest flaw? He’s spent the 12 years since his wife left him for a Fort Wayne used car salesman treating casual human connection like a wild pitch: something to duck out of the way of before it clocks him in the jaw. He’s at the Vigo County Fair on a humid July Tuesday, scouting a 17-year-old lefty from the local high school who throws 92 miles an hour with a curveball that drops off the edge of the earth.
The beer garden is strung with faded Christmas lights, the air thick with the smell of fried Oreos and cut clover, the low rumble of the demolition derby bleeding over from the grandstand two fields over. He’s nursing his second Pabst, condensation from the can dripping down his wrist and pooling on the edge of the plastic table, scribbling notes in a frayed spiral notebook, when a woman drops onto the plastic bench two feet to his left, close enough that he catches the warm mix of coconut shampoo and spiced rum on her before she even speaks. She nods at the embroidered Reds logo on his faded ball cap, then at the notebook, and says she heard the kids on the dugout steps whispering about a scout hanging around all afternoon.
Her name’s Lena, 42, an elementary school art teacher, Jase the lefty’s aunt, filling in for his mom who had to pick up an extra shift at the hospital. She’s got a smudge of neon blue paint on the side of her wrist, leftover from a summer camp craft project that morning, and a laugh that cuts through the fair noise like a knife through butter. When she lifts her drink to take a sip, her elbow brushes his bicep, and he feels the contact burn all the way down to his ribs. He twists the worn 2015 league championship ring on his left hand, a nervous tick he’s never been able to break, and tells her she’s right, he’s here to see if Jase is worth bringing up to the rookie league camp next spring.
They talk for an hour, leaning in closer every few minutes like they’re sharing classified information instead of griping about small town traffic and overpriced fair corn dogs. When a group of screaming teens bolts past the tent, chasing each other with cotton candy sticks, she lurches sideways to avoid them, her palm landing flat on his thigh for three full seconds before she yanks it back, cheeks pink, and apologizes. He tells her not to worry about it, his mouth suddenly dry, the spot where her hand was still thrumming like a live wire.
Every logical bone in his body is screaming to leave, to drive back to the budget motel off the interstate, file his scouting report, not risk his reputation or Jase’s shot at the majors by fraternizing with the kid’s family. The league’s unwritten rule is clear: scouts don’t get personal with prospects’ relatives, not if they want to keep their jobs and not get the kid labeled as having a skewed support system. He’s disgusted with himself for even entertaining the idea of sticking around, for letting a pretty woman’s smile make him forget every rule he’s lived by for two decades. But he can’t make himself stand up.
When she asks if he wants to walk the fairgrounds with her to catch the fireworks after the derby wraps, he hesitates for half a second, then says yes. They weave past the Ferris wheel line and the pig racing pen, stopping at the split-rail fence at the far edge of the property, far enough from the crowd that the only noise they hear is the distant hum of the fair and the crickets in the cornfield behind them. The first firework goes off, bright red, painting the sky and her face the same warm shade, and before he can say anything, she’s leaning in, kissing him, her hands tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He kisses her back, his hand resting light on the small of her back, can feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her yellow sundress. For the first time in 12 years, he doesn’t overthink it. Doesn’t worry about the rulebook, or the scouting report, or the fact that he’s got a 6 hour drive to Peoria first thing tomorrow. He just exists, for a minute, as a guy who’s not alone, who’s not just a notebook and a road atlas and a stack of gas station receipts.
They stay leaning against that fence through the whole 12 minute fireworks show, her head on his shoulder, their fingers laced together, no more words needed. When the last silver firework fades to smoke against the dark sky, she pulls her phone out of her crossbody bag, types her number into his, and says she’s heading to Louisville for a teacher’s conference in two weeks, asks if he’s going to be passing through anytime soon. He tells her he is, he’s scouting a high school summer tournament there the same week. She squeezes his hand, grins, and walks back to her minivan parked by the entrance.
He stands there for another minute, twisting his championship ring, the taste of her vanilla lip gloss still on his mouth. He pulls his notebook out of his back pocket, jots her phone number right next to his note about Jase’s curveball control, then turns and walks toward his pickup, the faint sound of the derby’s final horn fading behind him.
