Moe Rutledge, 52, minor league baseball scout for the Cincinnati Reds farm system, pushes through the screen door of Mac’s Tap just after 8pm on a sweltering mid-July Tuesday. He’s got 17 pages of scouting notes crumpled in the pocket of his faded windbreaker, a cramp in his trigger finger from holding a radar gun for six straight hours, and a grudge against anyone named Carter he’s nursed for 18 years, ever since his wife left him for a rival scout from the Cleveland organization. The bar smells like fried bologna and citrus dish soap, the AC huffing just hard enough to keep the humidity from sticking to the back of his neck. He grabs the last empty stool at the far end of the bar, nods at Mac, the owner, who he’s known since he started scouting the Ohio high school circuit, and orders a Pabst Blue Ribbon, draft, no ice.
He’s halfway through the beer, scribbling a note about a 17-year-old lefty from Lima with a 94 mph fastball and a terrible habit of tipping his curve, when a woman slides into the space behind the bar where Mac usually stands. Her name tag says Lila, last name Carter printed in faded sharpie in the corner, and Moe’s jaw tightens so hard he hears a click in his ear. She’s got sun-bleached brown hair pulled back in a messy braid, freckles across her nose, calloused, paint-stained hands, and a silver horse charm on her wrist that clinks against the beer tap when she leans over to grab his empty glass. “Mac left early to pick his kid up from the ER,” she says, her voice rough like she smokes a pack a day, grinning like she already knows exactly who he is. “Said you’re good for it. Also said if you give me any trouble, I can hit you with the baseball bat he keeps under the register.”
Moe freezes, half-tempted to grab his notebook and bolt. He hasn’t spoken to anyone with the last name Carter since he ran into Jake at a showcase in 2006 and told him to go to hell. But Lila’s already refilling his beer, leaning across the bar so close he can smell lavender hand cream mixed with the faint tang of horse manure on her jeans, and she doesn’t pull back when her forearm brushes his as she sets the glass down. “I know who you are,” she says, nodding at the scouting notebook open in front of him. “Jake never shut up about how you were the only scout in the whole circuit that didn’t lie about a kid’s stats to make himself look good. Left him three years ago, for the record. Cheated on me with a college intern from the front office. Asshole.”
The tension leaks out of Moe’s shoulders slow, like air out of a flat tire. He laughs before he can stop himself, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months. Lila stays leaned against the bar across from him, even when there are other customers to serve, popping back over every time she’s free to ask questions about the kids he’s scouting, to make fun of the terrible 90s country on the jukebox, to pass him free fried pickles she says are leftover from the lunch rush. Their knees brush under the bar when she bends down to grab a bottle of bourbon from the lower shelf, and she doesn’t move away, just holds eye contact for a beat too long, a tiny, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
By 11pm, the last of the other customers have left, the neon “open” sign flipped off, the door locked behind the last regular. Lila grabs the bottle of bourbon and two paper cups, nods at the back door, and Moe follows her without asking questions. The backyard is overgrown with clover, crickets chirping loud enough to drown out the distant hum of the highway, the sky still pale pink at the edges from the sunset. She sits down on an old plastic lawn chair, passes him a cup half-full of bourbon, and tells him stories about Jake trying to learn to ride a horse to impress her when they first started dating, falling off three times in ten minutes and breaking two ribs. Moe tells her about his son, now 24, playing independent ball in Texas, and how he hasn’t missed a single one of his games since he was 5, even when he had to drive 12 hours through a snowstorm to make it to a little league playoff.
He doesn’t realize how close they’re sitting until she reaches over to brush a stray piece of gray hair off his forehead, her palm warm against his skin, and he doesn’t flinch. That’s the thing about the grudge he’s carried for almost 20 years, he thinks. It kept him safe, sure, but it also kept him from noticing people like Lila, who laugh loud enough to make their sides hurt, who know exactly what it’s like to have your whole life flipped upside down by a selfish asshole, who still get excited talking about the horses they train on their farm outside of town.
“I’m heading to a horse show in Lexington next weekend,” she says, pulling a crumpled ticket out of the pocket of her flannel shirt, pressing it into his hand. Her fingers linger on his for a few seconds, calloused and rough, and he can feel his pulse jump under his skin. “There’s a high school showcase 20 minutes from the show grounds the same weekend. Mac said you’ve been talking about scouting that circuit for months. Extra bed in my trailer if you don’t mind snoring and a dog that thinks she’s a lap cat.”
Moe doesn’t even hesitate. He’s spent 18 years overthinking every choice, turning down every invitation, holding onto anger like it was the only thing he had left. He tucks the ticket into the front of his scouting notebook, right next to the polaroid of his son’s first little league home run, and nods. Lila grins, leans in, and kisses him slow, the bourbon sweet on her lips, the crickets chirping loud enough to drown out any last stupid, lingering thoughts about grudges or the past. He wraps one hand around the back of her neck, the silver horse charm on her wrist clinking against his cheek when she pulls him closer.
