The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  “There is one thing, though,” Olivia says, running a finger around the rim of her water glass.

  I shoot her a cautious glance. “I thought you said no demands until later.”

  She shrugs. “It’s not really a demand. It’s more of a concern.”

  I scratch my chin and blink at her in frustration. Women and their ability to parse words. Something tells me to dread her next ones.

  “What’s your concern?”

  “Perry. I hate leaving him home alone so much in the summer. The school year is bad enough.”

  I knew I was right to be worried.

  I want to tell her he’s a cat. I want to say that as long as she leaves out some Meow Mix and an easy-access litter box, there is nothing else he will need. But she’s looking at me like we have a problem to solve, one that I’m clueless about.

  “Maybe you should pet him a little more before you leave?” It’s a stupid thing to say, and I can tell by the way her chin goes up that she doesn’t like it.

  “What’s that going to solve?” She looks at me through narrowed eyes.

  “It might make him less lonely?”

  It’s a cat. We’re talking about a cat. I can’t believe my life has come to this, but here we are and all I want to do is walk away from this meaningless conversation. Olivia has other ideas.

  “I don’t know, Will. I left Perry home alone tonight and I hate to do that to him so much . . .”

  Her eyebrows push together and I can’t believe this is happening.

  Is she already thinking of backing out?

  Is she really choosing a cat over me?

  Who is this woman and where did she come from?

  I play with the fork in front of me as dejection threatens to take over my mood. I’m better than a stupid cat. Way better. Everyone in America thinks so.

  Except Olivia. The one person who freaking matters.

  And then I have an idea. This might take a little creative manipulating on my part. Plus I might have to ignore a few protests. Come to think of it, things might be best if I don’t say a word to anyone. But I think this just might work.

  Chapter 15

  Olivia

  I’m not sure I should be doing this. I’m not even sure it’s legal, and for that reason I keep looking over my shoulder, waiting for the door to open . . . waiting for a security guard to burst through and tell me to get out, to put my hands in the air, to drop the evidence and follow him to God knows where.

  Except the evidence is a cat.

  And I have permission to be here.

  And both seem ridiculous.

  And not a soul would believe me.

  Because I’m the only one back here.

  Everyone else is happily eating popcorn in the stands like normal spectators do, not confined to a locker room with a cat as though it’s a newborn and I need a place to nurse. I can’t believe I agreed to this. I mean, sure I didn’t want to leave him for too many days in a row, and sure, the thought of coming here without him made me more nervous than I care to admit.

  But.

  He’s a cat.

  And I want popcorn.

  And although Will was so sweet for offering to do this, I can’t help but think he is a little strange for suggesting it in the first place. Who brings a cat to a ball game and hides him in a locker room?

  Me. That would be me.

  For the dozenth time since walking in here, I silently curse myself for agreeing to Will’s stupid plan. For even bringing the subject up in the first place.

  I jump at a noise outside the dressing room, my shoulders slumping in relief when the only thing I hear is a collective roar coming from the television screen hanging above my head. I glance up to see Will throw a perfect strike, then toss his hat when the umpire calls it a ball and the guy walks to first base. The bases are now loaded. My mouth falls open, and I yell out a Come on! at the screen. That wasn’t a ball. There’s no way he should walk. The bulging veins that appear in Will’s forehead when he jogs toward the umpire tell me he agrees with my assessment. I watch as several players and coaches alternately walk and run toward home plate, mouths moving and arms flying as often as the swear words I can clearly make out. Television censors need to do a better job of enforcing seven-second delays, because no kid is going to believe that those men were all saying “fun” when their parents try to claim it at home. Nothing about this is fun. Even I’m mad, and I don’t get mad. They might lose, and what does that mean for me being a good-luck charm? They can’t lose. Losing isn’t an option and—

  I stiffen. Close my mouth. Realize what I’m doing. Reach for the remote and shut off the television.

  I will not become my mother.

  I will not become my father.

  I will not watch someone like my brother, even if I did promise to be here.

  I don’t do baseball. I may have agreed to show up to the games this week because of some stupid superstitious belief of Will’s that I’m somehow good luck for his game, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch it all unfold. Starting now, he’ll have to be satisfied with my presence alone, even if it is in a back room with a cat who doesn’t respect boundaries. I look around for Perry and gasp.

  “Perry, get out of there!”

  When I wasn’t looking, he managed to wedge himself between a gym bag and a practice jersey stuffed inside Will’s locker. I know this is Will’s locker because the number thirteen is plastered everywhere. On the bag. On the jersey. On the locker itself—a gold-plated one-three that mocks me from where I’m standing. I walk quickly and snatch up Perry, clutching him to me, swiping at his fur as though I can magically erase the aftereffects of lying across that number with my bare hands. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help myself. This is my cat and it’s my job to protect him, so I grab a towel and keep working, ignoring his meows of protest as I keep envisioning that awful number stuck to his fur like a permanent tattoo.

  Thirteen.

  Even as I think it, I remember the reason I’m here in the first place.

  Maybe I shouldn’t judge Will’s belief in my good luck so harshly.

  I grab the remote just as a deafening bang comes from the doorway.

  “Why aren’t you watching the game? You’re supposed to be watching the game.” An angry Will bursts in and walks past me, ripping off his glove and jersey in the process. I’m no genius, but it’s the top of the eighth inning, and they don’t normally give players breaks to freshen up their wardrobes.

  “Why are you in here? You’re supposed to be playing a game.”

  He shoots me a look for turning his words around on him, but I look down at Perry and pretend not to notice.

  “I got kicked out.”

  That gets me to look up. “Kicked out? Then what am I here for?” I stand to retrieve Perry’s cat carrier, then set it on a desk and attempt to stuff him inside. He shrieks—of course he shrieks, because my cat refuses to learn the meaning of cooperation—and I pray no one else walks in here. “So much for me turning your game around. I’m going home.”

  “They reversed the call after watching the playback. The guy was out, we’re now ahead by one, and they only have one more chance at bat. You’re staying here.”

  Joy. Utter and complete joy. Life has a way of never working out for me. With one hand keeping Perry inside the carrier despite his loud protests, I latch the door closed and lean a hip on the desk, then scoot over a fraction when I see some sort of stain on the edge. Coffee? Grease? I can’t tell, but I don’t want to touch it. “That isn’t fair. I saw the umpire call a walk. It isn’t my fault he changed his mind. Why am I being punished?”

  “You’re not being punished. We made a deal, remember? I still don’t even know half of what I agreed to.”

  “Nor do you need to. It was a stupid deal anyway,” I mutter, even though the words aren’t true. It was a great deal, benefiting my cause much more than Will’s. Still, I don’t expect the silence as my words hang between us. When I
can’t stand it anymore, I fix my sights on Will. He simply stares at me, though I’m quite certain he’s fighting a smile.

  “What’s so funny? You just got kicked out of a game. If you ask me, I brought you bad luck today, not good.”

  He pulls off a sweaty undershirt, and I’m left staring at his very slick, bare chest. “I get kicked out all the time; today isn’t special.”

  He’s in such good shape. I think he said something, but it’s really hard to concentrate. It takes effort, but I force my eyes to his face and blush when I catch him watching me.

  “Bad temper?” My stupid face is on fire.

  He grins but says nothing as he runs a towel across his forehead. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. And that smile . . .

  “Terrible on the field. Off the field I’m a teddy bear.”

  Finally I snap out of it. “A teddy bear with terrible judgment. Why did you let me come in here with Perry? And what are you smiling at? Stop smiling at me.” Really, it’s unnerving, like he can see inside my mind and he’s discovered a secret that he still hasn’t shared with me. I don’t like people knowing things about me when I don’t know them first.

  “You really hate this game, don’t you?” he asks, surprising me. He’s still using that towel and what I really want to do is grab it and use it to cover his eyes. I don’t like people seeing me this clearly.

  I don’t hate baseball. I don’t. It’s just that . . . my memories of it are . . . it’s not something . . .

  Okay, I kind of hate it.

  Perry won’t shut up. He’s swiping a paw at me and whining and scratching so much that what I really want to do is deposit him outside. Let him run a few bases and maybe get hit by a ball . . .

  I can’t believe I just had that thought about my cat. I love my cat. Would die for my cat. This whole situation is messing with my head.

  “I don’t exactly hate the game. I just have bad memories of it.” I shrug and scan the room, mostly to avoid making eye contact with him. Will knows things; he’s way more perceptive than what his job requires, and that makes me nervous. I’ve spent my life protecting myself, building an invisible barrier between me and anyone who might try to get too close. Without knowing it, Will began removing the barrier brick by brick on the first day we met. Somehow I need to keep him from making his way inside the barrier. It only takes a few bricks to create a hole big enough to crawl through.

  I have an idea. I once heard the best way to disarm people is to deliver the truth . . . at least parts of it. So I start with that.

  “My brother played. Let’s just say it consumed my life for a lot of years.”

  His smile fades into concern, but not the pleasant kind. “I didn’t know you had a brother. He played in high school?”

  It suddenly feels very warm in here, and I’m sweating. “He played in the minor leagues . . . made it to the majors for one season.” I’ve said enough and have no desire to keep going. Will has other ideas.

  “Who did he play for?” I can see the wheels turning in his mind and I need a stick. Some sort of stick to shove in there to stop the movement, stop the rotating, stop the pieces from falling into place. My plan for disarmament isn’t working quite right.

  “He played for the Cardinals. Now don’t you have something you need to do? Like shower or watch your team or—”

  “What position?”

  He’s getting too close. “Pitcher. Why?” I take a step back.

  “Why did he quit? I assume he quit, because I don’t recognize the name.”

  I cross my arms in front of me and try to press out a lie. Something to stop this conversation from continuing, because various people could try to discover Olivia, analyze Olivia, pity Olivia . . . but Will Vandergriff won’t be one of them.

  “I don’t see what—”

  And because apparently God decided to choose today to finally smile on me, the door opens and two men walk in the room. Both look mad until one of them spots me and points; then his expression grows livid. He shoots a glare at Will, stops midstride, and plants his feet in the middle of the floor.

  “Why is she in here?” he bellows. “And why in God’s name is there a cat peeing on my desk?”

  Will

  I’ve had better evenings, but I can’t say many have been as eventful.

  We’re sitting in my car because I wasn’t ready to call it a night, and because Olivia looks like she will be wound up for a while anyway. No way she’s headed to bed anytime soon, not after the night we just had.

  “Would you please stop worrying? He didn’t ruin anything except a schedule, and schedules are easy to print again. Heck, I’ll print out a hundred of them and hand them straight to the manager if it’ll make you feel better.”

  She takes a sip from a water bottle and spills a little on her shirt. “He used the restroom on your coach’s desk. One, how did he get out of his kennel when I wasn’t looking? I’m sure I latched it fully. And two, this might be the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened in my life.”

  Used the restroom. I nearly laugh at the use of such a proper term to describe a cat but decide it wouldn’t go over well. Instead, I look over at her. She’s sitting straight up with her knees pulled to her chest, her elbow resting on the door as she glares out the passenger window. She’s cute when she’s mortified, and I want to tell her so. I want to reach over and do more than just say things, but I figure now might not be the time.

  Never. Never might actually be the time.

  “I don’t know, Olivia. You came to a party full of players and their girlfriends in blue flannel pants and a Family Guy T-shirt. That might have been a tad more embarrassing, don’t you think?”

  The glare she sends my way is the kind of teacher death stare I remember receiving in middle school. Nice to know educators across America are still fond of using it.

  “It was SpongeBob, not Family Guy, and this beats even that. At least when I knocked on your door, I had a way to defend myself. This time all I had was a box of Kleenex and the equivalent of an entire stadium full of wounded pride because you didn’t tell them I would be in the room. How did you forget to tell them I would be in the room?”

  Oh. That.

  Well see, I didn’t tell them because I didn’t expect it to be a big deal. Reporters are always walking in and out of the locker room, along with team doctors and trainers and the occasional random passerby. What harm would Olivia cause? All I wanted her to do was watch the game in the vicinity of the field and then be there when the game was over, so what did it matter? Besides, it worked. That’s the important thing.

  “We won. Remember that.” It’s weak, and I swear her hand jerks with the impulse to reach over and smack me. I admire her self-control, while at the same time wanting her to at least congratulate me on a game well played. Because up until the moment I was thrown out—a fairly common occurrence, I wasn’t lying about that—I was playing what might be considered the best game of my life.

  Funny how that keeps happening lately.

  “Congratulations on your win.” Her words are flat, missing the enthusiasm I was looking for. “I suppose this means you want me to keep coming?”

  I grip the wheel to assuage my irritation.

  “Yes, if you can find the time.”

  She sighs, long and laboriously. “I assume I don’t have a choice.”

  I chew on my bottom lip to keep from saying more, but come on. I don’t get her. I’ve never met anyone like her in my life. What kind of single woman resents the idea of hanging with a man like me? And just for argument’s sake, take me out of the equation. What kind of a woman sounds so completely put out by the chance to hang with an entire team of single men like me? Most women would kill to be in her spot. Pay money to be in her spot. Pay . . . other things to be in her spot. It leaves me with only one conclusion.

  “You’re not into men, are you?”

  I’m a ballplayer, but I’ve never seen an arm shoot out so fast. I don’t even have time to duc
k before a fist slams me on the shoulder, and heck if it didn’t hurt a little.

  “Ow!”

  “Don’t say that again. What, just because I’m not falling at your feet, that means I don’t like men?”

  Yes, of course it does.

  “No, of course it doesn’t.”

  “Of course I like men. Get over yourself, Will. I’m not a big fan of the game, and I like being home. How do those two things add up to a question about my sexuality?”

  Perry meows from the kennel, but I don’t care. The cat is fine, and we both know he doesn’t need a litter box. I drum a few fingers on my knee, taking a moment to rub my shoulder with my left hand.

  “For your information, I wasn’t trying to offend. Just wanting to understand you.”

  When she isn’t quick to respond, I steal a glance at her. The way she’s pinching the corners of her mouth, it’s clear she’s trying to swallow a smile.

  “What’s so funny?” I say.

  “Now you sound like me. For your information . . .”

  I run a hand over my face. “Good lord, not that. Anything but that.”

  This time when her arm shoots out, I catch it in my hand. “Nice try. Not going to happen a second time.” She looks at me and giggles before stopping herself. I’ve never heard the sound escape her lips. It’s unlike her, unnatural. I want to hear it again.

  “I really hurt you, didn’t I?” she says.

  My shoulder. It’s probably going to bruise. But I’m a man, so I can’t admit it.

  “Maybe a little,” I say, wimping out. “You definitely don’t hit like a girl.”

  She nods. It’s a faraway nod—like she’s lost in a memory—and her smile fades just a bit. “I have an older brother. What can I say?”

  There really is nothing to say. A million questions float through my mind, but I can’t pinpoint which one to ask.

  It isn’t until she steps out of my car and into her own, we follow each other to the apartment building, and I walk her back to her door that I remember. There was one. And now it’s too late to ask.