The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  The backpack slung over his shoulder looks almost as big as the top half of his body. His small stature, along with his too-short jeans and the sneakers that have a tiny hole at the toe, means he is often made fun of. For a moment I think this is what he wants to talk about. I’m wrong.

  “Thank you for bringing the bag by my house last Friday.”

  I smile, relieved that he isn’t here to discuss more. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you found it.”

  “Well, see,” he swallows and looks around the room. At my computer, at my desk, at the floor. At everything but me. It’s the common sign of insecurity, isn’t it? Being unable to look people in the eye. If more people could make eye contact and couple it with the truth, there might be less hurt and more understanding in this world.

  It isn’t until he shifts from one foot to the other that I finally notice it; he’s holding a hand to his middle. Pressing. Cradling. My heart sinks into my stomach; this isn’t the first time I’ve seen him this way. I can’t believe I didn’t hear the noises coming from his stomach before now. “My brother found it before I did, and . . .”

  He looks out the window, his mind locked inside a recent memory. One he has likely revisited a hundred times in the past forty-eight hours.

  “You need something to eat?”

  At my words, his gaze flicks back to me. “Do you have anything?”

  It’s nine thirty in the morning. Lunch is hours away, and breakfast was over a long time ago. I stand from my desk and make my way to the cabinet across the room.

  “Yes, I do. Do you want to eat in here or take it next door?” There’s a parent room next to mine, one that mothers and the occasional father use to plan parties, help with bulletin board cutouts, organize take-home folders for children. In the morning, it’s always empty.

  “Here, if that’s okay,” he says. “I promise not to get in your way.”

  His tiny voice breaks my heart a little. Something tells me Avery is often made to feel inferior. It’s an emotion I recognize. Taking a deep breath, I produce a blue and pink floral bag that holds the hummus wrap, bag of pretzels, and apple that would have served as my own lunch later in the day and hand it to him. I’ve already checked the calendar. Cafeteria taco day isn’t my favorite, but it will work.

  “Of course I don’t mind. You can sit right here next to me.”

  When his eyes go wide, I smile.

  Avery reaches for the bag and smiles back, then unloads the contents onto the desk in front of him. While he digs in, I sit down at my desk, feeling much heavier inside than I did just a few short minutes ago, the black cloud firmly hovering over my head once again. Avery has done nothing to deserve the life he’s been given, nor the situation he’s been saddled with.

  Brothers.

  Why is it that so many unfair things in life point back to them?

  Will

  Sweat slides into my eye for the second time in as many minutes, but there’s not much I can do to stop the burning sensation it creates. I remove my cap and swipe at my forehead with my forearm, only to have a fresh stream slide over my eyebrow and drip off my eyelashes. I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting a brief wave of blackness. The heat is nearly unbearable. Despite the early evening hour, the sun still manages to beat down on me with a fervor that has me feeling like I’m roasting in hell’s oven. A couple more inches on the horizon, and the sun will finally disappear under the stands behind me. Thank God. It’s the end of May in Dallas, and I have no idea how I’ll survive living here and playing on this field for an entire summer. For miles around, there are no hills, no trees, no nothing but wide open spaces. Just an amusement park next door that somehow only adds to the sweltering conditions. Probably all that pavement. Or the mass of smelly, sweat-covered bodies walking around, holding roasted corn and funnel cakes. The only saving grace: this time next week we’re in Seattle. It’s at least twenty degrees cooler there. I’ve already checked the forecast.

  I slip my cap on and glance up for a second, and that’s when I spot a flash of long blonde hair that has my heart both dropping with dread and skipping from interest. Funny how the sight of a woman can give me those simultaneous reactions—especially a hot one, even if she’s a bit weird. I squeeze one eye shut to see a little better.

  It isn’t her, just some other girl with pretty hair who doesn’t interest me in the least. With a shrug of irritation, I swallow a wave of disappointment and face home plate again. Why doesn’t that girl in the stands interest me? More importantly, why does Olivia, my crazy cat-lady neighbor?

  Olivia.

  The name bounces around my insides like a swarm of newly freed butterflies. I shake my head. What am I doing? Mentally writing poetry over a whacked-out chick who probably doesn’t understand anything about baseball or the importance of the game? Disgusted with myself, I roll my eyes and imagine flinging those butterflies into the dirt. There. Now they’re immobile. Every last one of them.

  I banish Olivia from my mind and focus on the game in front of me.

  My throwing hand still hurts a little from the fire I put out a few nights ago, but pain has a way of lessening with a loss on the line. And right now we’re down by two in the bottom of the fifth—both unfortunate runs caused directly by player error. Namely mine. At the bottom of the fourth, I overthrew a ball. An unusual mistake on my part, but completely defenseless. It sailed right over Blake’s glove and ricocheted off the rail behind him, where it rolled and rolled until he scrambled to retrieve it and tossed it to first. That move stopped the bleeding, but not before major damage was done. Two runners in with men on at second and third. I can blame the heat, the injury, the errors that keep stacking up against us tonight, including a foul ball that could have been easily caught by our first baseman but wasn’t—but if we go down tonight, the loss will be on me.

  Everyone blames the pitcher. Almost always rightfully so.

  I fully expect to be pulled at any moment.

  I rub a sweaty hand on my pants leg and shift on the pitcher’s mound, then glance at the scoreboard. Wishful thinking doesn’t change the facts. Blake drops a hand between his knees, gives me the signal, then watches for my nod. I hear my name shouted from the stands—some supportive, a couple not so much—then force the cries of the crowd to fade into the background as I study the batter. I cock my arm back and throw with so much power that the ball flies past the swinging bat in front of me and straight into the catcher’s mitt. I relish the sound the ball makes when it hits the palm of Blake’s hand. I live for that sound. Often I even dream of it.

  That’s strike two. One more of those and we have the chance to redeem ourselves.

  As long as I don’t screw up again.

  Blake points one finger, giving me the signal once more. He’s asking for a fastball, but I want to throw a curveball. This guy hasn’t hit one all night, and I’m confident a curve will close this inning out with no more damage done. I shake my head, and he flashes the signal again. I’m not happy about it, but it’s his call. Sweat trickles into my eyes again as I look left, look right, grip the ball in my fist, and throw. It sails toward home plate. But this time I don’t blink.

  Not when the ball connects with the bat.

  Not when it sails over my head.

  And over the back wall.

  Not when one runner and another make it home.

  This keeps happening, over and over.

  I’m pulled before the inning is over. That keeps happening too.

  When the game ends and we lose by five, I’m blinking like a cursor sitting idle.

  I keep telling myself to suck it up, that I’m a man’s man, for God’s sake. Blinking rapidly is the only way to hold the tears in, where they belong.

  Chapter 6

  Olivia

  I’ve managed to make it all week without seeing him—Will, the player next door with a brain the size of a pea. I know a thing or two about sporty types, and trust me they don’t have much else going for them. Certainly not smarts. And again—I
haven’t seen him all week. So of course I would run into him now when I’m on my way to my car and he’s just climbing out of his brand-new black Lexus.

  I try not to notice that I like his shoes.

  Or how nice he looks in his designer jeans.

  Or how his hair falls just in front of the expensive sunglasses that shield what I remember to be very nice blue eyes.

  Or the way he reaches up to brush that wavy brown hair off his forehead.

  Or the way my fingers suddenly itch with a desire to do it for him.

  Or the way he flashes a brilliant smile in my direction when he notices me standing there.

  Or the way he so casually tucks a worn copy of Atlas Shrugged under his arm.

  So many things not to notice, but that one’s the toughest.

  Of course he would be reading one of my favorite books of all time, completely invalidating my thought from only seconds ago. I pull my purse straps a little higher on my shoulder and move to walk around him.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he says. That voice. Is it too much to ask for it to be a little less husky and alluring?

  “I’m going out with friends.” I hate the way my own words wobble. The way I have to clear my throat to make sure my voice works the next time I’m forced to use it.

  “Like that?”

  My spine stiffens, and I look him straight in the eye. Suddenly I have no doubt my voice will work just fine. “Like what?”

  He nods toward my head as if the gesture makes perfect sense. “With your hair pulled back so tight. You should wear it down. It looks nice that way.”

  The nerve. “As opposed to the way it looks now?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing wrong with the way it looks now. It just doesn’t scream girl out for a good time.”

  My jaw drops and I respond before I think the better of it. “I’m not looking for a good time. I’m just going out to eat with friends.”

  I hate the way he smiles. I hate the way I like it.

  “Then . . . perfect,” he says, ruffling every hidden feather on me. “And I’m impressed. A date one weekend and out with friends the next? You’re a busy girl.” He reaches into the trunk for a suitcase, one I wish to grab and use to hit the top of his head. He doesn’t have to say the word date so sarcastically or imply that tonight is equally unbelievable. Maybe he’s right about the fake date, but I am going out. So what if it’s completely against my will?

  “Extremely busy, for your information. My schedule for June is entirely full already, and the summer hasn’t even started.”

  He raises an eyebrow and closes the trunk of his car. “It must be a pretty good schedule, then. You and the furball headed to the beach?”

  I straighten my shoulders. “No, we’re not headed to the beach.” I want to grab those defensive words and swallow them back down the minute they’re out. Instead, I narrow my gaze and try to look unaffected. “And for your information, I have other friends besides just him.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that he’s your only friend, just that you seem a bit busier than usual. That’s not a bad thing.”

  Okay, that bothers me. “How would you know anything about my normal schedule? We just met last weekend.”

  His small laugh catches me off guard. “We might have just met in person, but I’ve seen you around. Nearly every day when I’m in town. You’re the lady with the Handi Wipes you use on your car every afternoon. The lady who forces that poor fat cat to walk on a leash each afternoon. Right?”

  “Perry is not fat, and I don’t force him.”

  He switches his duffel bag to the other hand, and I see a flash of his number monogrammed on the side. My indignation deflates a bit and I take a step back. Why does that have to be his number?

  “Forgive me,” he says. “Chubby. And hairy.”

  For a moment I forget what we’re talking about, but then it all comes rushing back and I’m angry again. “For your information—”

  “Also, you like to use that phrase.”

  This stops me. “What phrase?”

  “‘For your information.’ You use it a lot. I’ve counted at least three times in the few minutes we’ve talked. It’s your fallback. Your go-to. Interesting.”

  “There’s nothing interesting about it. I don’t have a fallback or a go-to.”

  He slips off his sunglasses and hangs them from his shirt collar. “You have several. That phrase is just one of them.”

  “What are the others?” Why did I ask that, and why did my voice shake?

  “You love the color blue, you hate imperfections, you grab the ends of your hair when you’re nervous . . .”

  I drop my hand from its grasp on my ponytail and hurl mental insults at my navy blouse. Whatever. It’s time to go, anyway. Jocks not only have tiny brains, they also have next to zero manners. Plus there’s the fact that he thinks I’m crazy, so why does his opinion matter?

  “Listen, I’d love to stand around and let you analyze me for the rest of the night, but I have plans. And I’m late.”

  This time he winks at me, cocky and confident, like we’re sharing a secret. “Well, don’t let me keep you from getting started on that schedule of yours.” He takes a step back and gestures toward my car door.

  I walk around him, actually thankful Kelly talked me into going out and careful to hold my breath against the scent of his cologne. My mouth waters when I inhale a mix of mint and evergreen. It’s like he’s chewing gum in the middle of a Christmas tree farm. What kind of human smells like that?

  “By the way, what restaurant are you going to?”

  I keep my back to him, but my pulse is racing. “For your—” I pause, internally cursing the fact that he’s right. I have a go-to phrase. “I’m meeting a friend at the Owner’s Box in fifteen minutes.”

  “One of my favorite places to go, probably because of the name.”

  That makes me smile slightly, though I’m glad he can’t see it. “I guess it would be, considering your profession.” I open my door, then twist my head a bit to look at him in an effort to be polite. Plus, I just want to see him one more time. All in all, he isn’t that bad, despite his arrogant attitude. “Have a nice night.”

  “You too.” He tucks a hand inside his pocket and turns toward his apartment. “I’ll see you around.”

  I shut my door, then catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. My hair is so tight. Almost severe. It’s pulling my eyebrows up too far. How come I’ve never noticed before? I reach up and slide the elastic down the length of it before I realize what I’ve done. I can’t believe that man talked me into changing my appearance. With a resigned sigh, I shake the curls free and let them fall past my shoulders, telling myself I wanted it that way anyway. Telling myself I would have restyled my hair even if he hadn’t said he liked it this way. Telling myself I will never be seeing that maddening man again . . . that I’m glad about it.

  But that’s the thing about lying to yourself.

  It hardly ever works.

  Will

  “Why the heck are we here?” Blake asks the question for the second time, grabbing another roll and slathering it with butter. “Obviously it isn’t to pick up women, since I’m married and you’ve done nothing but sit in that corner staring at nothing since we got here. I think you dragged me here under false pretenses. We haven’t even ordered and I’m starving.” He looks over his shoulder, then back at me. “What are you staring at, anyway?”

  There’s no way I’m answering that question. Instead, I gesture to the crowd around us. “What false pretenses? All I said was I wanted to eat. And as far as women go, you’ve got the best one so I don’t know why you’re complaining. You have something right there.” I tap the indent below my lip and watch as he swipes a napkin across his chin. The place is crawling with women, both figuratively and literally. Across the room, there’s a woman clutching the wall, doing some kind of dance against it that looks incredibly interesting even if it is weird. I stare for a seco
nd, then look away to scan the room again.

  You came all this way, man. What now? I pick up the salt shaker and move it to the other side of the pepper shaker. Checkmate.

  Maybe I was just curious. Maybe a part of me wanted to torment Olivia a bit. Maybe it was that my mind couldn’t reconcile the idea of Olivia hanging out in a bar because the idea seemed so ridiculously out of character from the very little I know about her. Maybe it was just a simple desire to see what the odd chick from next door does for a good time. Whatever the reason, here I am at the Owner’s Box with a handful of friends and teammates, trying to spy on the neighbor lady like a cat who doesn’t know when to give it a rest. Curiosity kills those things, you know. I give myself a private eye roll, the irony not lost on me.

  Blake holds up a finger for another drink. We’re already on round two, though I haven’t touched mine yet, preferring to sip water as I wage an internal debate with myself about what to do. She walked in a few minutes ago and is sitting at a table across the room—at least I think it’s her, all I can see from here is a familiar flash of blonde and the blue silk blouse I remember from earlier—and she’s alone. But she hasn’t gone unnoticed. I glance at a blond guy in a tweed blazer a few feet away from me who keeps craning his neck to check her out. Who wears tweed in the summer anyway? Womanizers with no taste, that’s who. The cat lady is clearly naïve—no telling what kind of trouble she could get herself into. Thank God I’m here to keep that from happening.

  Decision made. I stand up.

  Suddenly thirsty, I pick up my glass and down it by a third. Courage in a crystal goblet maybe, but I need some. For some reason I’m nervous, and I never get nervous. Not when I’m on the pitcher’s mound, not ever.

  Except now.

  “I’ll be right back.” I plunk my glass on the table, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and start walking. No one ever got anywhere in life by standing around. Certainly not me.

  “Where are you going?” Blake sets down his glass and looks up at me.

  “I saw someone I need to talk to. I’ll be right back.”