The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  We face each other in a standoff until I realize I’ve placed my hand on the door, fingers unwittingly overlapping his. With a start, I pull my hand back and lean against the door, then look at the pavement.

  “Tell me why,” I say.

  Maybe I expect a lie or some dressed-up half-truth, I’m not sure. I don’t, however, expect his simple honesty.

  He raises a shoulder. “Because we won.”

  My eyebrows push together at the same time I feel a sinking inside me. I’m going to cave. I’m going to do it, what he wants. That doesn’t mean I’m going to bend without at least appearing to resist.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  Will takes a step back and leans against the car behind him. We both know I’m not going to climb in my car and drive away. He sighs and looks up into the night sky. Stars are everywhere, the Big Dipper shining brightly above his left shoulder. I get lost in the vision for a moment until he begins talking. And then my eyes lock on his. I’m suddenly not sure what’s prettier.

  “I have no idea, Olivia. All I know is that we’ve lost the last five games I’ve pitched, mostly due to my own errors.” It pains him to admit it out loud, and he winces. “But tonight we won. Not only won, but I played one of the best games I’ve played all season. And maybe it’s stupid, but . . .”

  “You’re superstitious.”

  It’s a statement, not a question. I know baseball. I know players. Superstitions are as much a part of the job as a bat and ball. Some run deeper than others, but everyone has a ritual of some sort. For my brother, it was breakfast cereal. Frosted Flakes and almond milk eaten with the same spoon at the same time on every game-day morning. Everything in our home was store brand, but the Frosted Flakes were always the real kind. Nothing but the best for the star of our family.

  An embarrassed grin curves Will’s mouth. “Maybe I am, or maybe I just developed the trait tonight.”

  I tilt my head. “Do you put your socks on right foot first or left?”

  He snickers and rolls his eyes. “Left, of course. You only do right if you want to lose.”

  I try not to laugh at the logic. But I can’t make fun of him. I have superstitions of my own that I would rather not explain. Especially not to him. I study the ground for a long moment, at war with myself. Finally I relent. Anything else is just pretending.

  “One more game. I’ll go to one more game.”

  An eyebrow goes up in surprise. “You will?”

  “One,” I remind him.

  “I mean, unless we win.”

  “Will . . .”

  “Fine, one game. Probably.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  Without thinking, I push against his chest and feel my face flush, but I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or agitation. Either way, I like the way he’s looking at me, a teasing glint in his eye that I’m sure a thousand women before me have fallen for.

  “If you win,” I say, more to distract myself than anything, “you can consider me your good-luck charm. But if I’m your good-luck charm, it’s going to cost you a lot more than what I’ve already mentioned.”

  Will raises an eyebrow, something I’m beginning to notice he does quite often. “The only thing you’ve mentioned is that I can’t kiss you. Is that costing me something?”

  That teasing tone is still there. It’s my raging blush that’s new.

  “N . . . no,” I stammer. “I just meant that—”

  “Tell you what,” he interrupts. “If we win again and I can convince you to keep showing up, you can name your price.”

  He reaches forward and opens my car door, then gestures for me to climb inside. I should be relieved to be leaving. After all, overweight, half-blind cats are easier to handle than men who look like billboard posters and smell like wintergreen. But I can’t ignore the part of me that deflates a bit.

  “Sounds good to me,” I say, forcing a lightness into my tone that I don’t feel. “What night do you pitch again?”

  “Monday.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll be there Monday.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you around, Olivia. Maybe even later tonight at the dumpster.”

  I smile and slide behind the wheel, then look up at him.

  “Dumpsters are your thing, not mine. I’ll see you Monday,” I remind him. “Same time, same place?”

  He nods. “Same time, same place.”

  I back up and pull out of the lot. Just before I get to the main road, I glance in my rearview mirror.

  Will is standing exactly where I left him, staring after me as I drive away.

  Will

  It’s a long walk to my car on the other side of the stadium, but I haven’t moved from my spot. There’s no explaining why I’m staring after a car long gone, but here I am doing it.

  I make my feet move just to feel less foolish.

  I’ve been around a lot of women in my life—strangers and groupies and sisters of friends and friends of friends and nieces of colleagues. Some I’ve dated, some I’ve spent time with out of obligation, out of pity or old-fashioned guilt. Nearly all of these relationships were to boost my own already inflated ego.

  I’ve never had a problem with that until now.

  There’s something about Olivia. Something I can’t put my finger on. She doesn’t put up with my crap and has never once tried to impress me. Something tells me she would be just as interested in talking to the mailman as she is in talking to me. She isn’t captivated by my job or by the perks that come with being famous. She makes me uneasy and self-conscious in ways I don’t want to admit out loud. I haven’t felt this way about anything since the first time I stepped up to the pitcher’s mound in the major leagues. Arms shaky, chest tight, gut churning, all senses screaming at me not to throw up in the dirt. For a guy like me who’s been lucky enough to see his biggest dream come true, it’s a feeling you never forget.

  For some reason, with her, I’m okay with all of it.

  I fish my cell phone out of my back pocket and dial her number, trying to keep my voice even.

  “Hello?” She’s surprised I’m calling, probably looking at her phone to double-check the ID, probably agitated to be talking on the phone while driving. Olivia and her rules.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  There’s a long pause while I search for a way to fill the silence. I want to ask her over, I want to see her one more time . . . a few minutes longer . . . just a couple of seconds.

  “I just wanted to say thanks again for coming.”

  I can’t get up the nerve to ask her, and this is Olivia. Olivia, for God’s sake. She’s reduced me to a teenage boy nervous about asking a girl to dance.

  “You’re welcome, Will.” There’s confusion in her voice, like she knows I have more to say. A few beats pass before she must decide I don’t. “I’ll see you Monday?”

  I pound the side of my head a couple of times with an open palm. “I’ll see you then.”

  I hang up the phone and climb in my car. There was no point to that call except to make me look stupid. Starting now, I need to get it together. Because nothing rattles me. Nothing. Not fans or coaches or pressure or stress.

  Certainly not a blonde neighbor with a weird affinity for cats.

  I hold that thought for a second, really force it into my brain.

  Because when it comes down to it, I prefer brunettes.

  And I don’t even like cats.

  Chapter 13

  Olivia

  When I was five I had a fascination with perfume bottles. The shapes, the sizes, the gold-infused liquid floating around inside. And the scent. Nothing smelled better than my mother’s hair after she spritzed the top layer with Chanel No. 5. She wore it every day, and I purposely chose the moments right after she sprayed it to ask to be picked up. I would bury myself in her neck and breathe deeply; nothing could soothe my mind, which spun with a million questions, more than the hint of spices coming from her soft skin.

  Unable to
handle my curiosity, one day I picked up a bottle and accidentally dropped it. Of course it broke, and Chanel No. 5 sloshed all over my hands and legs and clothing and hair, overwhelming my already overworked senses with the scent. I cried from the awful smell, and cried harder from the blood sluicing like raindrops off my right wrist. I didn’t require stitches that day, but I did require a long bath. The smell still lingered afterward, and later that night at my brother’s baseball game, my parents gave me stern instructions to sit on the hard ground in front of them while they moved three benches up.

  My mother said the distance was to keep me away from the fans trying to enjoy the game. Even at five, I knew it was because I smelled bad. And you can’t enjoy the sight of your favorite son making the most of his God-given talents if you have a throbbing headache caused by your disobedient daughter. So I sat in the dirt, alternately playing with blades of grass and watching the way my brother’s jersey fluttered in the wind while he ran, the side-by-side numbers one and three doing what looked like a dance every time he rounded a base.

  I’m back in the suite, and the scent of expensive cologne envelops me as I tug at my necklace and look down at the game. The Rangers are winning again, and I’m already trying to plan my exit strategy. Something tells me, where Will is concerned, it will be a hard battle to fight.

  I keep my eyes on the game, feeling bad for pleading with the heavens for something to go horribly wrong, but I do it anyway. Clearly no one up there is listening to me because absolutely everything is going right. It’s the way of my life, things working out for everyone but me.

  It’s the bottom of the ninth and, other than a breath-stealing moment when an outfielder dropped the ball and almost allowed a runner on third, the game has been nearly flawless. Even that mistake resulted in an out. As for Will—I didn’t realize I would enjoy watching him this much. At the last game I was too nervous to take it in. This time I can barely tear my eyes away.

  I’m impressed—by his passion, his skill, his nerve. But it is his strength that has me really enthralled. Every time someone has tried to steal a base, either he or what’s-his-name the catcher has managed to get the runner out, no matter what direction he’s coming from. Will has to be throwing the ball at lightning speed to make that happen. The guy is good. The guy is great.

  It’s all a bit bizarre. In all my years as a spectator, I don’t recall ever seeing a game quite this perfect. I raise my phone and snap a picture to remember it.

  As for the goings-on of this room, things haven’t been as bad as I thought they might be, and that puzzles me even more. If I were to venture a guess, I might be tempted to say a few of these people actually like me. But I don’t want to go overboard. It isn’t often that a group of men and women—especially a group of cool people like the ones gathered here—take to me. I belong more to the bookworm crowd, and even then I prefer to skirt the outside edges. Fade into the background—that’s my motto.

  A thick strand of hair falls over my left shoulder, and I once again find myself longing for an elastic to pull it back.

  “Who is your stylist?” Julia Roberts from the last game—why can’t I remember her name?—asks me in a very southern drawl. We’re sitting next to each other in the middle of a cluster of red chairs set apart from the blue ones making up the rest of the stadium. Like last time, she wears a designer tee with rhinestones along one sleeve. Also like then, I’m decidedly less put together. She takes a sip of a beer while I clutch a bag of uneaten popcorn. I suspect her name is actually Kimberly and I’m pretty sure she’s married to the shortstop. Or the second baseman? But I forgot her name right after she introduced herself and I’ve been too self-conscious to ask for a reminder. As much as I love to remember random facts, I am terrible with first names. I almost always forget them the second they’re said.

  “Um, I usually just trim the ends myself. But once a year or so I stop by JCPenney for a professional cut.” I take a sip of my Diet Coke, carefully this time because I already spilled a drop on my blouse earlier. It’s finally dry and unnoticeable, especially since the sun has completely set, but I don’t want a repeat of that mistake.

  Julia what’s-her-name eyes me up and down. “Honey, JCPenney is hardly professional. And the alternative is you trim it yourself? With hair that gorgeous, you need to take better care of it. The fact that you don’t and still have this beautiful mane makes me hate you.” I know she isn’t being mean, just truthful. Like roses having thorns. They prick, you bleed, that’s how it is. Her red fingernails flutter through the air like ladybugs looking for a spot to land as she takes another sip of her drink. A few bubbles remain on her lip before she licks them off.

  I swallow and study the field. This is hard, blending in. I wish there was an easier way to do it, a way that doesn’t involve conversation drifting to things I can’t relate to. Hair . . . fashion . . . decorating . . . none of it interests me, but it’s what most women want to talk about. I pick up a kernel of popcorn and focus on something I know, watching as a white jersey in a black helmet steps up to bat. He swings and misses. Strike one.

  “Well, I mean there’s not much to maintaining my hair other than regular brushing and making sure the split ends stay away.” Even I think I sound like a teenage boy, but it can’t be helped. I’m not much for layers and highlights, even though I naturally have plenty of both.

  Black helmet swings again and tips the ball, a foul.

  She surprises me by lifting a section of my hair and letting it fall through her fingers. She laughs. “There’s more to it than that. No wonder Will likes you. You’re one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen, and you don’t even know it. Isn’t she gorgeous, Jerry?”

  Jerry is Will’s agent—I remember this much.

  But I’m too busy thinking about her words to focus on his response. Will likes me? Like, really likes me or pretend likes me? All at once I remember it doesn’t matter; we’re both faking everything, and thank goodness it’s only for one more night. I give myself an internal scolding and focus on the things happening around me.

  “Yes, she’s a pretty one. Almost as pretty as this game, and—”

  I jump when Jerry screams. Then Julia Roberts screams. Then everyone around me screams and I decide I should scream too because I’m supposed to blend. Soon the entire stadium is on their feet, drinks and popcorn spilling everywhere as people hug and cheer and dance in the aisles. The Rangers just won their second game in a row, and they did it almost without error. This one will be talked about for days, headlining the ESPN news. I’ve watched enough of it to know.

  I study the players as the team rallies at the mound and then heads for the dugout. Julia/Kimberly picks up her purse and slings it over her shoulder, then shakes Jerry’s hand and a bunch of other hands before heading for the door. Just before she walks out, she looks over her shoulder at me.

  “The game’s over, sweetheart. Are you coming?”

  I blink at her. I have no idea where I’m coming to because last night I waited in the stands and then left—albeit with Will following behind me—and I’d like to do the same tonight. Will never mentioned an alternate plan. I want to head home. I want to change into pajamas and climb into bed. I want a lot of things.

  “Olivia, did you hear Kimberly?” Jerry says. “You’re welcome to come with us if you want to meet up with Will.”

  I nod, more to myself than anyone.

  Meet up with Will. I’m going to meet up with Will. And they are going to take me to him.

  I pull my purse up to my shoulder and follow them.

  Kimberly and Jerry. Her name is Kimberly after all.

  I just wish I knew where we were going.

  Will

  The cheering and toasting and rallying with towels has been over for several minutes, I’ve showered and changed and hopefully gotten rid of the smell of dirt and leather, and all I can think is Did Olivia already leave? What if she’s not waiting for me? She waited around in the stands last night, but tonight I w
anted her to come into the tunnel. Tonight I wanted to show her off to my teammates. Tonight I’ve forgotten all about my preference for brunettes. Tonight I’m convinced she’s actually a good-luck charm and the thought of sending her straight home is just—

  Holy hell.

  Holy freaking hell I hate brunettes.

  Because platinum-blonde Olivia is better looking than ever.

  I’m carrying car keys and a picture a little red-headed kid handed me just before the game—a drawing of himself wearing my number and a rough but cute-looking helmet. I fumble with the keys and nearly drop the picture. The taste of alcohol lingers on my lips, but instantly everything on me goes dry. Most of all my mouth. Kimberly and Jerry are walking this direction with Olivia trailing behind, but all I can see is her. She’s wearing a royal-blue blouse that hugs all the good places, a snug-fitting pair of designer jeans, and black flats that tread lightly on the concrete floor. Her hair is down again. I don’t know what it is about that hair, but every time I see it like this my senses just die. We played a great game tonight, but the only thing that matters right now is my fingers and their desire to touch that hair. I’ve received congratulations from everyone around me, but my prize just walked in the door, a picturesque supermodel who wants nothing more than to fade into the background. I can see that by the way she keeps her head down and her arms wrapped around her waist.

  Enough of that. I want her to look at me. I want her to touch me. I want a lot of things all at once.

  “Hey, Olivia,” I say, sounding a little too eager. I immediately curse myself and make to appear aloof, but then she smiles. She smiles, and dear God how can that not light up a room? I look around—does no one else see the way this gray corridor is suddenly glowing? But my teammates are all too busy with their own families to notice. Not that Olivia is my family—the idea is crazy, even though I want to tell her right then that she’s mine, but then she would leave, and so would her good luck. Time to turn on the charm. “What did you think of the game? Did you like watching me play?”