Ray Voss, 52, a minor league baseball scout for the Cincinnati Reds farm system, perches on a scuffed vinyl bar stool in The Dugout, the only dive within 10 miles of the southern Ohio high school field he’d camped at all day. The AC died an hour earlier, the ceiling fan above creaking and sticking every third rotation, wafting warm air that smells like stale beer and roasted peanuts. His tattered spiral scouting notebook splayed open next to his half-empty bourbon on the rocks, edges crinkled from 10 years of being stuffed in the back of his work truck, smudged with grass stains and sunblock. He’s stubborn to a fault, refuses to use any of the new scouting apps the front office keeps shoving at him, still writes every player’s swing speed, fielding percentage, even how they react to striking out, in messy cursive no one but him can read. He’d planned to finish his drink and hit the road by 9, until he saw the local athletic director, the guy who’d blocked him from accessing a top prospect’s MRI records two years back over a petty booster club disagreement, leave with a crew of coaches, yelling something about a late school board meeting.
She walks in 10 minutes later, bare legs glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, flip flops slapping against the sticky linoleum floor. He recognizes her immediately: Lena, the AD’s wife, the woman he’d seen lingering at the concession stand at every home game for the last three years, the one who always brought him a free bottle of water when the sun was beating down, even when he pretended not to notice. She’s wearing a faded denim cutoff shirt, thin enough that he can make out the faint outline of her nipples through the fabric, no bra, and a pair of cutoff jean shorts, a faint grass stain on her left knee from kneeling to take photos of her nephew’s JV game earlier that afternoon. She’s carrying a stack of crumpled concession receipts, forgotten at the admin office, and pauses when she sees him, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth before she slides onto the stool two spots over, out of his personal space, like she knows he hates being crowded.
She orders a margarita on the rocks, no salt, and when the bartender sets it down in front of her, she nods at his notebook. “You still writing all that stuff by hand?” she asks, her voice low, rough from yelling at the umpire earlier that day over a bad call at second base. Ray tenses at first, ready to brush her off, still holding that grudge against her husband, until she snorts and says, “Don’t worry, I don’t pass anything along to that jackass I’m married to. I know he blocked your access to the pitcher’s MRI last year. Total power trip, he does that to everyone he thinks is smarter than him.” The corner of Ray’s mouth ticks up, and he takes a sip of his bourbon, the burn warm going down his throat. He watches her stir her margarita with a plastic straw, her fingers long, nails painted a deep burgundy, chipped a little on the thumb from working in her vegetable garden over the weekend. When she reaches across the bar to grab a stack of napkins next to his notebook, her forearm brushes his, cool from holding her cold glass, and she smells like coconut sunscreen and lime, so vivid he can almost taste it. She doesn’t pull away immediately, holds his eye contact for three full beats, like she’s waiting for him to say something.
The bartender announces he’s heading to the back to restock the beer cooler, and the door clicks shut behind him, leaving the two of them alone. She shifts one stool closer, her knee brushing his under the bar, the denim of her shorts rough against his khaki work pants. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for months,” she says, leaning in a little, her breath warm against his ear, and he can smell the tequila on her breath, sweet and sharp. “I see you at the diner every Tuesday, eating those chocolate chip pancakes with extra syrup. Never had the nerve to walk over. Figured you’d blow me off because of my husband.” Ray’s chest feels tight, his internal monologue screaming that this is a bad idea, that hooking up with the AD’s wife will get him banned from every high school field in the district, that he’s never been the kind of guy to go after someone married. But her hand is resting on his thigh now, her thumb rubbing slow, soft circles through the fabric, and he can’t remember the last time anyone looked at him like he wasn’t just a grumpy old scout who lived out of his truck. He’d spent so long clinging to that grudge, so long shutting everyone out who even smelled like the AD, he’d missed how easy this felt, how much he’d wanted it, even when he wouldn’t admit it to himself.
She pulls a keychain out of her pocket, dangles it between them, the little plastic baseball charm on it glinting under the bar’s neon lights. “He’s staying at his sister’s tonight,” she says, grinning, the corner of her mouth twisted in a teasing little smirk. “Got a whole file of every player’s medical records you’ve ever asked for in the home office. And a bottle of 18-year bourbon he hides in his desk, thinks I don’t know about it.” Ray slams his notebook shut, shoves it in the back pocket of his jeans, slaps a 20 down on the bar to cover both their drinks. He stands up, holds out his hand to her, and she laces her fingers through his immediately, her palm a little sweaty, warm against his. “I don’t care about the files or the bourbon,” he says, and she laughs, loud and bright, as they walk out into the sticky July night, the humidity wrapping around them like a blanket. His beat up Ford F150 is parked two spots down from her minivan, and he opens the passenger door for her, waits for her to climb in before he rounds the front of the truck.
He slides into the driver’s seat, turns the key in the ignition, and the radio cuts on to a 90s Alan Jackson track he hasn’t heard since he was playing rookie ball in Kentucky, the windows rolling down automatically to blow warm air through the cab. He reaches across the seat to brush a stray strand of hair off her face, his fingers brushing her cheek, soft and warm.
