Elias Voss, 57, minor league baseball scout, slides onto the scuffed vinyl bar stool at 8:17 PM, his boots half-dusted with red infield dirt from 9 hours of tramping high school bleachers in 92-degree Tampa heat. His left hand still aches from clutching a radar gun, faded Ohio State cap pulled low over his sunburnt forehead. He’d turned down three offers to grab dinner with other scouts an hour prior, sick of the same old war stories about prospects that never panned out, endless griping about league budget cuts, the way no one ever talked about anything that didn’t tie back to batting averages or signing bonuses. He’d been married once, 12 years, she left 8 years back when he missed their 10th anniversary because a kid in Alabama threw a no-hitter that made his chest tight enough he couldn’t leave. He hasn’t so much as asked a woman out for coffee since, convinced the only thing he was any good at was spotting raw talent before anyone else did, that any other part of his life was already broken beyond repair.
He orders bourbon on the rocks, the bartender nods, sets the glass down hard enough a drop sloshes over the edge onto the sticky bar top, he licks it off his thumb without thinking. Two stools down, a woman slides into the seat closest to his, denim jacket slung over her arm, chipped mint green nail polish, legs long under cutoff shorts, a smudge of grass stain on her left knee. The bartender slides her the exact same drink, she laughs, low and warm, and says “Great minds, huh?” Elias nods, doesn’t say anything, reaches for the bowl of salted peanuts sitting between them at the exact same time she does. Their fingers brush, his calloused from 30 years of holding clipboards and baseball bats, hers soft, a little cold from the water bottle she’d been carrying, she doesn’t pull away for half a beat longer than she has to, a faint grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.
She’s 42, he guesses, streaks of gray in her wavy brown hair, smells like coconut sunscreen and cherry lip balm, even though there’s no cigarette smoke clinging to her, even though half the bar reeks of menthols. She says she saw him at the game earlier, scribbling in a notebook every time number 22 got up to bat, asks if he’s a scout. Elias freezes, thumb hovering over the rim of his glass. The league has strict rules about fraternizing with player family members, step-parents count too, he’d seen a guy get suspended for six months two years back for buying a prospect’s mom a beer at a game, lost his shot at a major league scouting gig over it. He hesitates, then nods, says yeah, number 22’s got a swing that could get him drafted in the top three rounds if he fixes his stance a little. She grins, says that’s her stepson, she’s been driving him to games across the state every weekend for two years, her husband left her six months ago, the games are the only thing that doesn’t make her feel like she’s just treading water, waiting for something to happen.
She shifts on her stool, leans in a little closer, her knee brushing his under the bar, he can feel the heat of her skin through his worn denim jeans, doesn’t move his leg away. He knows he should get up, leave, go back to his hotel room, eat the frozen burrito he’s got stashed in the mini fridge, finish his scouting report, go to bed alone, do the right thing, keep his job, keep the only thing he’s got left. But she’s talking about how her stepson wants to study mechanical engineering if baseball doesn’t work out, how she used to play softball in high school, how she’s never had a bourbon that didn’t taste a little like regret, and he finds himself laughing, telling her about the time he scouted a kid in Mississippi who could throw 98 miles an hour but couldn’t hit a ball off a tee if his life depended on it, about the sunburn he got last month at a game in Arizona that made his skin peel for two weeks.
She checks her watch, says her stepson’s staying with his dad tonight, she’s only in town for one more night, she knows the rules, she wouldn’t do anything to mess up his job or her stepson’s shot, she just doesn’t want to go back to her hotel room alone either. Elias stares at his glass, swirls the amber liquid around, thinks about 8 years of empty hotel rooms, 8 years of frozen dinners, 8 years of telling himself he didn’t need anything else besides scouting, that he was fine alone. He slams back the rest of his bourbon, signals the bartender, pays for both their drinks, says he’s got a beat up old Ford rental parked out back, there’s a waterfront spot 10 minutes west of here where you can watch the dolphins jump at dusk, no other scouts go there, no one they know will be there.
She grins, grabs her denim jacket, slings it over her shoulder, when she stands up her hand brushes his arm, light, intentional, just enough to send a jolt up his spine he hasn’t felt in years. He tucks his notebook into the back pocket of his jeans, follows her out the door, the humid Florida night wrapping around them both like something soft and long overdue.
