The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  “Fine. I’ll give you another chance.” I sound so weak, so absent of my former resolve. What happened to threatening? To intense? Instead I feel empty, drained, but there’s not much to do. Life is what it is, and I apparently just decided to forgive Will. I wish there was a way to keep hating this guy, to keep thinking my neighbor is as shallow and brainless as the company he surrounds himself with, but he keeps proving me wrong. “But only one more. Two strikes and I’m done with you.”

  “The general rule is three.”

  “Well you only get two because I don’t play by the rules.” This is a bold statement. Slightly false. I’m a rule follower to the point that no one even likes to play Monopoly with me. Because if the bank says you’re out of money, then you’re out of money. There’s no leniency, not even among friends.

  “Not a rule follower?” Will grins as he processes my words. “That’s great to hear, because I actually need you for something now. Something that a stricter woman might find a bit questionable.”

  My senses go on alert; my words come back to haunt me. I want to tell him that I’m strict, the strictest. That I believe in rules. That if people try to cheat even in the slightest, I no longer want to play the game.

  Something tells me Will Vandergriff just played me.

  Five minutes into his explanation of harassment, inappropriate behavior, and lawsuits, I’m certain of it.

  Will

  “You want me to what?”

  Olivia’s mouth is hanging open and she’s laughing, but it’s an insulting laughter. The kind an audience delivers when watching something unusually absurd, like a particularly bad Saturday Night Live skit or any rerun of the Kardashians. Don’t ask me how I know about them; I just do. I even think I see a tear in the corner of her eye, and it’s really starting to piss me off. I’m Will freaking Vandergriff. Nothing funny about that.

  “I said I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

  I bite out the words, and just like the first time, they make my stomach turn. But what else am I supposed to do? I can’t think of any other option, and though it occurs to me that it’s somewhat hypocritical of me to ask her for such a huge favor when I just stood her up at the precise moment she needed one from me . . . I’m desperate. I need her help now. Plus, if we’re being entirely honest, I’m used to getting what I want from the opposite sex. Women like to be around me. Love it, actually. There’s no reason to believe Olivia is an exception to this rule.

  Except she’s still laughing.

  Wiping underneath her eyes.

  And then there’s the unfortunate fact that she says this:

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  She gives me a disgusted look, then turns to walk away. Now I’m mad. I stare after her for a moment, convinced she’s only testing me—man, her butt looks good in those yoga pants—but she keeps walking. She’s a good twenty yards away before I decide she isn’t kidding. Olivia is leaving me helpless and all by myself in the middle of the road. Does she seriously not know who I am? I’ve got to stop her. I’ve also got to rescue my ego before it crash-lands on the pavement and she makes a point of stomping on it.

  “Come on, Olivia,” I call after her. I sound impatient. Probably not the best way to bring her over to my side. “I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important. I need your help. And by the way, I never beg. That’s how you know I’m sincere. I’m begging you to help me.”

  I think that last sentence might have sounded slightly sarcastic. Maybe a little degrading, especially since I put a little extra emphasis on the word you, as though by asking for her particular help I’ve stooped to an all-time low.

  Pretty sure Olivia heard it.

  She spins in a one-eighty and plants a hand on her hip, little bits of gravel shooting out from around her feet. I half-expect her to pick up a few of those rocks and hurl them in my direction, but she doesn’t. I admire the self-control.

  “Is that supposed to make me feel important—telling me you never beg? Is that supposed to make me feel honored that you would ask me?” Yep, she heard it. She presses a hand to her chest and bobs her head the way women do when they’re mocking men. I swear it’s either an innate skill or mothers everywhere teach their daughters how to do this before they can walk.

  “No, you’re not supposed to feel honored,” I say. I mean, she is, but clearly Olivia isn’t into that sort of thing. Maybe ballplayers don’t impress her? “But will you help me anyway? I’ll buy you dinner. And you know, a little travel might even be involved.” I’m lying, but even from here, I can see the way her head tilts a bit, the way her shoulders straighten an inch. She’s thinking . . . that last part might have actually worked.

  “I hate travel. I hate dinner even more.”

  Maybe not.

  “No one hates travel. And everyone eats dinner.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “True, but I like to do both alone.”

  Now we’re caught in a stare down. “Why alone? That sounds awful.”

  “Not if you enjoy your own company.”

  She’s got me there. I like to be surrounded by other people. A virtual football huddle in daily sixteen-hour stretches, minus time for sleeping. In the presence of only myself is not somewhere I normally like to be.

  “Okay, scratch the travel. Would you consider just coming to one game?” That same strand of hair falls in her face and she blows it away.

  “What night?”

  “Tomorrow night, if that works. It’s the start of our series against the Tigers.”

  “The Tigers . . .”

  She looks so serious in thought that my lip twitches, but I fight against it. I can tell just by watching her that she’s on the hook. Testing the idea. Nibbling at it. Thinking about taking a full bite. I take a second to study the pavement. Women. They’re so predictable, no matter how different their personalities. I don’t know what possessed me to think she wouldn’t agree to my plan. Of course she would. I’m Will Vandergriff. The whole world is in love with me, even if I’m currently losing. Why do I keep forgetting that?

  I’m full-on in the middle of my skyrocketing ego trip—no crash-landing involved, thank you very much—when she hits me with another comment.

  “Okay, you have yourself a deal. But I have two requirements.”

  My spine chills as the control I thought I had over the situation inches its way downward. This is my game. No one tells me how to play it. Not her. Not anyone.

  Still, I force myself to ask, “Which are?”

  “You can’t try to kiss me, not once.” She blows that stubborn strand of hair off her forehead again and looks at me like she wishes it would be so easy to remove me. “You might think you’re cute and all, but baseball players aren’t my thing. Especially not you.”

  With those words, I’m looking at what used to be that skyrocketing ego lying in small chunks all around my feet. I consider stepping on them myself just to watch the way they flatten. It makes me think of pancakes, but suddenly I’m not at all hungry.

  Why especially not me?

  With this thought at the forefront of my mind, I brace myself for her second requirement. Surely it can’t be as bad as the remark she just hit me with. Surely. Why don’t I know any other available women in Dallas? My thoughts shoot to Lexi from the bar, but she’s the reason I’m in this mess. So I’m left with Olivia. I lift a shoulder to indicate that I’m waiting for her to keep going. She mentioned two requirements after all. When she doesn’t catch the hint, I roll my eyes.

  “Fine, no kissing you. That shouldn’t be too hard since you seem to have an aversion to my kind.” Do I sound hostile? I force an ease into my tone, reminding myself that I need her help. “So are you going to tell me your second condition, or do you just want me to start guessing? No making out? No trying on your clothes, especially not your underwear? No weird celebrity name combining into something like Willovia or Olivilla . . . ?”

  She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but then she
does the oddest thing. She doesn’t laugh. She just looks at the ground and smiles to herself. And maybe it should bother me when she bites her lower lip and uses her shoe to push a pebble out of the way. And maybe I should call the whole thing off when she looks up at me with a gleam in her eye that clearly has nothing to do with the joke I just made.

  But that gleam is so bright. Mesmerizing. And I’m no longer a big-time baseball player with a self-image that could fill a bedroom and an oversize walk-in closet. I’m now just a guy powerless to do anything but stare at her blue eyes and wish I were closer to them.

  “No, I’m not going to tell you yet. I’ll tell you eventually,” she says. “But for now let’s just stick with the no kissing thing.”

  And with those words, I’m left realizing that I may have laid out the plans for a new game, but Olivia just made the rules.

  Chapter 10

  Olivia

  “Olivia, are you coming?” Will’s question hangs on the other end of the line, but I can’t think of the right response. It’s only been a few hours since we last talked, and I’m still not sure how I feel about this silly arrangement. I sigh and reach for Perry’s back, stroking it back and forth, watching as my fingers make a jagged pathway through his white fur. After a moment he looks up at me and then scoots to the other end of my bed, plopping down next to my pillow with a sigh. Even he wants to be left alone tonight.

  Still, Will is waiting. I sigh and look around the room. He wants me to go to dinner with him and work out a plan to convince the higher-ups at his work that we’re a couple, but I don’t want to. It isn’t that the idea of dating him is bad or that I hate the thought of traveling—which I’m convinced was a lie on his part anyway; I have a fantastic ability to see through those sorts of things—it’s that I don’t think I can pull it off. There are just so many bad combinations looming in front of me: I hate baseball, being at a game might cause an all-too-familiar panic attack, I’m no good in social circles, and he wears a very unfortunate number.

  That’s the worst part. I can’t get over that stupid number. Why does it have to be thirteen?

  “Will, I think you need to find someone else. Someone prettier. Someone who’s a better talker. Someone who knows a thing or two about your job.”

  That last part is laughable. I know more than most people about Will’s job.

  “I’m sitting here eating out of a bread basket by myself.” He says it like he didn’t even hear my suggestions. “Everything about this is pathetic.”

  “Order an entrée and you’ll look more refined. Try the lobster bisque. I hear it’s great there.”

  “I hate eating alone, and that’s a soup. I hate soup.”

  “Is there anything you like?”

  “I like cats. And schoolteachers.”

  “We both know you’re lying.”

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a rare dress and my hair is down. I guess it isn’t a bad look for me. There are definitely prettier girls out there, but I might not be too bad to look at. It isn’t entirely impossible that Will could eventually like me a little . . .

  But I don’t want him to like me. Nothing about it would work well. And he called me crazy. I keep forgetting that. Starting now, I vow to remember it. Eyeing a Sharpie, I consider writing he thinks you’re nuts on my wrist so I’ll have it to look at every time my thoughts begin to wander, but I decide against it. I’ve always wanted a tattoo. Maybe Will’s right. Maybe I am crazy.

  “Call up one of your teammates. See if they’ll eat with you.”

  “Come on, Olivia. I’ll order a bottle of wine and we’ll just talk.” The clink of silverware sounds over the line. “Please help me with this. As for all those things you’re afraid of—I’ll teach you everything you need to know about my job, you won’t have to talk all that much at the game, and as for being pretty . . .” He clears his throat. “You’ll put all the other players’ wives and girlfriends to shame.”

  I smile like an idiot. He’s being kind because he needs my help, but I can’t wipe the traitorous grin from my face no matter how hard I scold myself for it.

  “Fine. But I only like Moscato, and I don’t drink much. A glass is fine, no need for a bottle.”

  He laughs. “I’ll get a glass for you, but the bottle is for me.”

  I hang up with a promise to be there in ten minutes, my nerves tripling in threat and volume as they bounce around inside my chest. I don’t think I can do this. It’s more than I bargained for. Why did he have to go out with that girl anyway? Why do men make such dumb decisions like picking up women in bars? Especially when the rest of us are perfectly content to just go there and eat.

  It does make me the tiniest bit happy to know he first thought the woman was me.

  I sit at the edge of my bed and force myself not to go there. Then I count to ten. When I hit nine, I put my head in my hands and decide to keep going. This case of stage fright is going to require more numbers than usual.

  At thirty-two I stand up and smooth out my dress, feeling only marginally better than before.

  At forty I grab the Sharpie and scrawl out the words on my wrist. Somehow this needs to stick.

  At forty-nine I reach for my purse.

  At fifty-two I open the front door.

  At fifty-seven I’m starting up my engine.

  At seventy-six I’m pulling onto the freeway.

  I lose count somewhere in the mid-hundreds, but by then I’m maneuvering into the restaurant’s parking lot and climbing out of my vehicle. With shaking limbs, I walk toward the restaurant’s main entrance. I don’t know what I’m so nervous about. I came here to tell Will Vandergriff to find another girl, not to offer myself as a living sacrifice that would certainly get trampled underfoot somewhere around third base. It won’t be hard to turn him down. There’s absolutely no reason to worry.

  I almost have myself convinced that nonchalance is a new way of life when I walk inside, give the hostess Will’s name, and scan the room in search of him. I spot him sitting in a corner by himself. He sips a glass of wine, one arm resting across the back of the chair next to him. He’s the epitome of casual confidence as he smiles at the couple sitting at a neighboring table, nodding in answer to a question they’ve just asked. The couple has clearly spotted a star, and he’s giving them what they want. Conversation. Camaraderie. A few minutes of exclusivity.

  As I watch him, my resolve falters.

  Because that’s when I realize I have everything in common with that couple seated next to him. Just like them, I am starstruck and pulled in by his magnetism. And even though I am me and Will is famous and the idea is so laughable it’s absurd, for a moment I entertain the idea that Will Vandergriff could be mine. Suddenly it’s what I want more than anything.

  Even if every second of it will be pretend.

  Will

  One look at her walking in my direction, and I’m hit with so many things at once.

  She’s going to turn me down.

  She hates my job.

  She may also hate me.

  That one stumps me, because it’s something I’ve never encountered before. People like me. Everyone likes me. Fans like me. Maybe not the Rangers fans as of late, but they’ll come around eventually. I think. But never mind them; they’re not important. Announcers like me. Players like me. Women for sure. You can’t kiss me. Those four words have played through my mind on repeat since she said them. Women might like me, but Olivia isn’t a normal woman. And she still hasn’t told me her second requirement, says she won’t until our arrangement is over. On the one hand, I dread finding out; on the other, it means I get to spend a little more time with her even when everything is finished.

  And I definitely want to spend more time with her. That much is clear just by the sight of her walking toward me. Watching her, I’m speechless . . . breathless . . . lacking in confidence and intelligence and the basic ability to think in more than single syllables that aren’t even real words.

 
; She’s so freaking hot.

  I’ve never seen anyone hotter in my life.

  She’s wearing a short blue dress and heels—she looks so good that now I see her fascination with the color—the hem skirting her tanned and toned thighs in a way that has my imagination running in all kinds of directions, none of them anything I could ever say out loud. Her hair is down again and styled in perfect little waves that fall well past her shoulders. Summer has been great to her so far. The number of men in the room who turn to look her way doesn’t surprise me; the fact that Olivia doesn’t seem to notice does. I’m around sexy women all the time. The difference is that every single one of them knows it.

  Suddenly it feels warm in here. Overly warm. For all the complaining I’ve done about playing baseball on a Texas field, being in this room with Olivia this close to me is worse. Much worse.

  “It’s about time you showed up. Another five minutes, and I was out of here,” I say, forcing indifference into my tone. I look up, tracing the outline of her lips with my gaze. I’ve never seen lips like hers before. How have I never seen lips like hers before? I pick up my half-empty wineglass and take a long sip to soothe my painfully dry throat. Then I do it again in hopes of getting a buzz going. I will need it to endure sitting across from her.

  “Found someone else to take my place already, have you?” She pulls out her chair and lowers herself into the seat across from me. I probably should have done the gentlemanly thing and pulled it out for her myself, but this isn’t a date. This is a business arrangement, and I want it over and done with as fast as possible. Finished. She goes her way and I go mine. At least that’s what I tell myself a few times, hoping to make it stick.

  She smiles at me. Her eyes look bluer than I remember.

  It didn’t stick.

  And there’s not even a little buzz.

  Annoyed with myself, I clear my throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact I have. Our waitress said she would help me for a thirty percent tip, so I agreed. As soon as she’s off work, we’re going out for drinks to talk terms.” The topic of conversation chooses that moment to refill our water glasses and hand Olivia a menu. After a quiet “thank you” from Olivia, our waitress walks away.