The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  She shrugs. Not what I expected. “It was a good game—the parts that I saw, anyway.” Her voice echoes a bit and she grabs the end of her hair. All I can do is stare. “I was worried you wouldn’t be able to get that guy out in the fourth inning when he tried to steal second, but good job. Maybe next time just try throwing it a little faster so it won’t be such a close call.”

  I blink. She just called me out on what was possibly the best game I’ve ever played, and no one calls me out except my coach and occasionally Jerry. Never a woman. That hair begins to twirl between her fingers, and any inclination I might have had to get mad evaporates. Maybe the hair-twirling thing is Olivia’s way to flirt. Darn if I don’t like it.

  “So throw a little faster, huh?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jerry smirk.

  “Yes, just a couple miles an hour more will probably do the trick. Flick your wrist a little more. It might work.” She glances around the tunnel, looking as though she would rather be anywhere but here. Does she have any idea the things some women do to get back here? If she does, Olivia doesn’t care to be one of them. She also isn’t flirting. Or being mean. Or even arrogant. Olivia is serious. She’s genuinely trying to help, and something tugs deep down inside me—something unfamiliar but not necessarily unwelcome.

  No woman has called me out before, and there’s a reason for that.

  None have cared enough to.

  Until now, they’ve all been too busy trying to impress me.

  For a second I don’t say anything. Maybe I’m in shock. Maybe it’s confusion. Or it could just be the leftover desire to keep her good luck rubbing off on me. Whatever it is, I want Olivia to stick around for one more game.

  I remember back to our last conversation and suppress an eye roll at my own predictability. She knew I would say that, and now I owe her all over again. But truthfully, I don’t mind at all.

  “Alright, I’ll flick my wrist more next time.” I shove one hand in my pocket and gesture toward the exit with the other. “Ready to go?”

  This gets Olivia to look at me. “I’m not going home?”

  Her eyebrows push together like she can’t quite comprehend what I’m doing, and she’s studying me.

  As is Jerry.

  And Kimberly.

  I’ve never asked a woman to leave a game with me before, preferring instead to sneak out the back and pick up a stranger at a bar. Up until now, it’s been my thing. Up until now, it’s worked out pretty well. Odd how fast life throws you a curve. It’s almost always when you’re not wearing a helmet and your head winds up throbbing from the impact.

  But judging from the looks on their faces, we both need to do a better job of faking this relationship.

  “I mean, you can if you want to. But I thought maybe we could get some dinner first.”

  “But it’s midnight. Aren’t you tired?”

  I’m exhausted, but I can’t let her go yet. Not without knowing she’ll stick with me a little bit longer.

  “I’m a gamer, Olivia. And I’m wide awake.” I twirl my keys and fist them in my palm. “Tell you what. You lead the way, and we’ll go wherever you want. Deal?”

  That’s when I see it: a spark of interest. Something tells me Olivia likes being in charge. Something tells me it doesn’t happen often.

  “Deal,” she says and gestures for me to follow her.

  I can’t help but smile to myself as we head down the hallway.

  I saw the way she bit her lip to keep from smiling too.

  Chapter 14

  Olivia

  At the look on his face, I’m suddenly second-guessing my decision. But he said I could pick. He said it was up to me. This place is my favorite, and I never get to come to it. For one thing, even though I once told Will differently, I hate eating alone unless it’s inside my apartment. And for another . . . this is never anyone’s first or second or third choice. Except mine.

  Maybe this is more proof that I really am crazy.

  “We can go somewhere else if you would rather.” I snap the lid shut on a bottle of hand sanitizer and toss it into my seat, then shut the car door. Rubbing my hands together, I shiver. Is it possible to feel cold in July? The stars are bright and the temperature has to be pushing ninety. But Will is watching me, and his face is clouded with an expression I can’t read, and I don’t want him to think I’m strange. For some reason, his opinion matters to me. It’s an annoying character trait I’ve only recently developed, and I’m not yet sure how I feel about it.

  “Did you want some?” I nod toward my car, then realize what I just asked him and fight back a sigh. I’m offering to share my Germ-X. Our first night out together, and this is the conversation I lead with.

  He shakes his head once. “No, I’m good.” The grin he levels my way has probably shattered hearts all over the country. It’s doing quite a number on mine right now. Closing the door to his car, he shoves a small ring of keys into his front pocket.

  “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

  He takes a step away from the car. “Because you picked this place. Although I have to say I’m a little surprised.”

  I rub my arms and fall in beside him, trying to work through my insecurities. “Why, do you hate it?”

  He does a double take and glances at my arms. “You cold?” He puts his arm around me and leads us toward the door. The move surprises me, as does my reaction. It’s funny how a body can go from cold to overheated in two sputtering heartbeats.

  “No,” he says. “I love this place. Have since I was five and my father brought me to one just like it after church on Sundays.” He clears his throat. Something tells me there’s more to that story. “I’ve just never met a woman who did. I’ve never even tried to bring a date here before, because I know exactly what they would say.”

  He opens the door and gestures for me to walk through first, a surprisingly gentlemanly thing to do. I like it. We’re immediately greeted with the same scents I’ve spent my entire life hoping I’ll encounter in heaven.

  Butter.

  Syrup.

  Roasted pecans.

  Grease.

  I inhale without being too obvious, though I think Will hears me because of the quiet laughter coming from behind my head. Choosing to ignore it, I lead the way to my favorite booth and slide onto the left bench, the one facing the window in direct sight of the jukebox. Nothing excites me more than the reds and blues and purples lining the machine in rows of chasing lights. Feeling just like the little girl whose daddy used to have a quarter ready and waiting in his pocket, I reach for my purse and begin to search around. It’s a mess. Although I am generally very organized, my bag is not. I brush aside a package of Tic Tacs, a ketchup packet from my last fast-food visit, and a comb before my fingers make contact with my wallet. I yank it out, proud of myself for stopping a little victory shout.

  “What are you doing?” My pride fizzles when I look up into Will’s amused face.

  “Looking for a quarter.”

  An eyebrow goes up. “Quite the tipper.”

  I glare at him. “It’s not for a tip, it’s for the jukebox.”

  There it is, a look of interest. “They have one here? Can I pick?”

  My insides deflate. I don’t want him to be that interested. “I always pick.” Okay, that sounded a little whiny, but still. I do. I always pick. And I always pick Madonna, followed by Prince, followed by David Bowie. I’m an eighties music kind of girl, have been since I was a kid. Despite what some may think, I’ve never quite grown up.

  “When do you always pick?” Will says. “You just said you hardly ever come here.”

  “Well, not anymore. But I used to come here with my father all the time.” There’s something about the way his expression changes. I don’t like it. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I didn’t know you grew up here.”

  My top lip twitches upward. “I didn’t. I grew up in Oklahoma. But we had a Waffle Shack just like this around the corner from my
house—same layout and everything. Even the jukebox is identical. Like you, we used to spend Sunday mornings here. Sometimes after church, and on the days we would sleep in and skip, we would go after.” Despite the late hour, a family steps out of a red minivan behind Will’s head, a father and mother and boy and girl. The boy is older and wearing a baseball uniform. The girl is wearing a backward shirt and a forlorn expression. The family could have been mine. I used to dress myself like that on purpose, then chew on the tag all day long. I could never begin to count the times my mother scolded me for it, but it never seemed worth the trouble to make me turn the shirt around.

  When the mother picks the girl up and settles her on a hip, the similarities vanish. I peel my eyes from them and focus on Will. “And always, my father would have a quarter ready. A quarter gets you three songs, you know.”

  Will smiles. I like the way he smiles, especially when I’ve caused it to happen. “Then I get to pick two, and you can pick one.”

  I slide out of my seat, watching out of the corner of my eye as he does the same. “Nice try, mister. It’s my quarter. You get one song, and only because I’m feeling generous.”

  I lean against the machine and peer at the strips of black that highlight song titles. There are so many, but I already know which ones to choose. It’s the same, every single time. Although relinquishing one to Will throws a kink into my playlist. But when he comes up behind me to look over my shoulder, all the lyrics in my head scramble and fade into a low hum that spreads into my fingers and toes. I swallow and remind myself to breathe.

  “Find anything you like?” he says. When his warm breath feathers against my shoulder, I flinch as though jolted with electricity, then inwardly scold myself. We’re having breakfast. At midnight. Everyone knows the hours between eleven and five don’t even count as a date, barely even a get-together. Especially not when you’re eating waffles.

  It occurs to me that I might have just made that up, but I go with it in order to keep my thoughts in line.

  “I already know my two. Have you found one you want?”

  “I have.” Will smiles at me and doesn’t look away. It’s the strangest thing, because the entire time he’s stood here, he hasn’t once looked at the selection. The only thing I’ve seen him study is me.

  Will

  I’m having trouble holding firm to my original opinion of Olivia, and I don’t like it at all. I mean, I know the chick is hot—that’s something I’ve come to accept. Kind of like the weather in spring is warm and windy, and the game of baseball is sweaty and incredibly fulfilling, and if I had a choice between digging my toes in the sand or digging my fingers through Olivia’s hair, I’d choose the hair every single time. It’s just the way things are. It is what it is—to use the world’s most overused cliché. But then she throws me these curveballs and everything I’ve decided is true about her . . .

  Might not be.

  Take the hand sanitizer. One minute she’s rubbing it all over her fingers and offering me some, like the germ freak she obviously is, but then the next she’s practically caressing a dirty jukebox and licking sticky, syrup-covered fingers one by one. That was unfair and hard to watch, by the way. Practically had me self-combusting while sitting across from her. There’s not much sexier than the sight of Olivia’s lips as they move from finger to finger to finger. It took about half a second for my mind to crash into the gutter, and it still hasn’t come out.

  It is what it is, and all that crap.

  Then she went and chose “Like a Virgin” and followed it up with “Let’s Go Crazy.” I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying to decide if there’s some sort of intended innuendo in her song selection. Good thing I rounded both songs out with Sam Smith’s “Safe with Me” or we might be in a whole lot of trouble.

  But then there’s the fact that she picked this place. The significance of it isn’t lost on me, though I’ve spent the last half hour trying to shove the reality down. Way down. Deep down. Far down to a place I store my worst memories.

  Except this place houses my very best one.

  I signed my first contract to play minor-league ball inside a Waffle Shack just like this one. Most people pick fancy places; I wanted to do it here. I wore faded Levi’s and a grin that didn’t leave all day as I sat with my parents, my new agent, and an array of Yankees gear spread all over the table to make the most of the ongoing photo op. Newspaper reporters came; local television stations covered it. Afterward, I ordered this same stack of pancakes—bacon and a bowl of grits on the side—and drank this same kind of coffee and fiddled with this identical set of flatware. I was so nervous that day.

  Much like how I’m feeling now.

  When I told Olivia the story earlier, she responded with “I knew there was more,” as she poured more syrup over her pecan waffle, but I didn’t ask what she meant and it doesn’t matter anyway. I haven’t been to a Waffle Shack since and may not come ever again. After today, my experience with the place can only go downhill. For now, being here is as surreal as the company I’m keeping. After a minute, I snap myself out of my jog down memory lane and all the weird feelings it’s conjured up and force myself to remember the reason I asked her to dinner.

  “So Jerry texted me. Seems like you’re getting along well with everyone in the suite. Sounds like they all liked you.”

  She shrugs and reaches for a piece of bacon, seemingly unaffected by the compliment that would make most other women I’ve met start giggling and hoping for another invitation. My theories about Olivia keep crumbling. Pretty soon I’m going to be left holding powdery ashes in my charcoal-stained hands.

  She pulls her bacon in half. “I can’t vouch for the last game; I was too nervous to talk. As for tonight, the only person I really talked to was Kimberly, and even then I couldn’t remember her name. Do you think she looks like Julia Roberts? I kept calling her Julia in my mind until Jerry what’s-his-name finally said her name out loud.” In goes the bacon. Wide go my eyes.

  Jerry what’s-his-name. My agent. Only one of the five wealthiest agents in baseball, sought after by almost every young player trying to make a name for themselves. Jerry takes only the best now. These days, he can afford to be exclusive.

  And Kimberly, a.k.a. Julia Roberts. Only the wife of Blake DeMarco, who is only the top-paid catcher in baseball. Most people can’t believe he even plays for the Rangers, having come from the Mets on a fifteen-million-a-year trade two seasons ago. But hey, Olivia isn’t fazed or intimidated, because Olivia doesn’t know a thing about them.

  Funny how it makes me like her even more.

  “Kimberly’s last name is DeMarco.”

  She pauses. From the way her lips part, maybe she does know at least a little. “Oh . . . then her husband isn’t the shortstop, like I thought. Is he the catcher? Or the pitcher?”

  I’m the pitcher. It’s so hard not to get offended.

  But Olivia is still talking. And I’m not sure, but I think maybe I saw a slight smile. “I probably shouldn’t have spent so much time telling her about my split ends, then.”

  I nearly choke on my coffee. She says it almost as an afterthought as she takes a bite, and now my eyes are watering from the laughter I’m holding back. Maybe Olivia knows, maybe she doesn’t. Either way, no wonder she was so well liked by everyone. A lot of wives and agents and higher-ups in professional sports like to be adored by the so-called lower class. They feed on it. They thrive because of it. But the DeMarcos and Jerry—kind-hearted people with deeply ingrained values—they’re as humble as they come. A lot less ego-driven than even me. But they’re great at what they do.

  Olivia forks a bite of waffle into her mouth, and a drop of syrup remains behind on her upper lip. She licks it off, and I shift in my seat, forcing myself to look away. This woman and her odd, unassuming ways. Both are set to drive me out of my mind. And that tongue running across her lip . . .

  Focus, Will.

  I swallow and run a napkin over my mouth, then ball it up and sit bac
k to look at her. Casual—it’s the way I need to be. Unaffected—it’s the way I need to act. I consider faking a yawn but decide against it. Olivia would probably tell me she’s tired too and ready to go home, and that is not the best way to sell myself.

  “So I was thinking—”

  “I wondered how long it would take you to ask me.”

  I sigh. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

  “Nope.” She sets her fork across her plate and looks at me. “You realize this whole good-luck thing is silly, don’t you?”

  I clear my throat. “As a matter of fact, I do. I think superstitions in general are a joke. But for some reason when it comes to the game . . .”

  “It’s a habit you can’t risk breaking.” She finishes my thought for me. And she’s right. Churchgoers, agnostics, atheists—we all have our routines. And once you find one that works, it’s hard—if not impossible—not to start relying on it. The second we start losing again is the second Olivia can have her life back. If she’s willing to help me, that is.

  “So would you mind coming back for my next game? We’ll be home again, and I would love to have you there. For the right price, that is.”

  “What day?”

  “Saturday.”

  She smiles. “I’ll come, and don’t worry about owing me. You don’t. For now, at least. Start asking me to travel and my demands will go up.”

  I pick up my water and smile through a sip. The thought has crossed my mind. The next four games are on the road, but it’s too soon to ask her about attending those. Nice to know it’s a possibility. Something tells me she’ll agree the moment I bring it up. This thing with Olivia is getting easier and easier.

  I turn my gaze out the window as if something far more interesting is taking place in the parking lot and give myself a mental high five. There’s nothing to see but our two cars and the red glow of a teenager smoking a cigarette. Normally the sight would bother me. Right now I could almost strut out there and take a celebratory drag myself.