The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  “Hollow threat or not, I’m glad you’re not mad.”

  “I’m not mad. Except—”

  He opens my door, and I step out to face him. He’s close. Closer than normal—one arm resting on the door and the other planted on the top of the car—and my pulse begins to hammer in that tender spot right beside the throat.

  “Except what?”

  His eyes flicker between me and the door. I’ve lost count of how many times his scent has drifted toward me tonight. The evergreen and mint combination has become my new favorite, and right now it encases the air around me. It isn’t easy being around something this pleasant. Or someone. I try to take a step back but wind up touching the car. I’m stuck and Will is filling the space around me.

  “Except I need you to come to the games next week. Will you at least consider it?”

  I don’t have to ask him what he means. He wants me to pretend indefinitely. Keep pretending to be his girlfriend. Keep pretending we’re together. Keep pretending I like him. What he doesn’t know is that pretending all these things is getting easier and easier.

  It’s the truth that’s getting harder to conceal.

  Still, I make an effort to stand my ground out here in the parking lot. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Will. What if you start to depend on me too much and . . . and . . . I get sick or something and can’t make a game? And what happens when you’re on the road? We both know I can’t go with you. Not with Perry and . . . and . . .” The ground is softening. Even this excuse sounds flimsy to me—is my cat the only thing I can come up with?

  “If you get sick I’ll hire a nurse. As for road games, we won’t worry about those right now.” He takes a step closer—I don’t think he even realizes it. My heart takes a dip and then rises with a vengeance. “I need you, Olivia. Can you please come? I’ll owe you forever.”

  Now it’s my turn to pretend to think. I’m not quite finished when I feel myself begin to nod. Of course I nod. It’s the only thing for me to do.

  What Will doesn’t know is—no matter what I’ve said in the past—he owes me nothing. If he asked me to travel, I would. If he asked me to kiss him, I would. There’s almost nothing I wouldn’t agree to at this point, and that scares me more than anything.

  Will

  Only a handful of weeks ago I was a happily unattached bachelor living a life most men only dream of. Now that dream has puncture holes in it the size of one beautiful blonde and a few nosy teammates and their wives, who all love Olivia. Ask about Olivia. Want Olivia around. Now I can barely manage to begin a thought without the name Olivia coming out on the tail end of it.

  Take now. All I’m trying to do is make popcorn because even though we ate two hours ago I’m still so freaking hungry, but all I can think about is our conversation earlier in the car and the way she kept swinging her leg. I hate the way it affected me. I hate the way I kept looking at it. I hate myself for wanting to slap it as much as grab it, bring it to my mouth, and lick it. Sometimes I can’t stand being a guy. No matter how often I glared at her, she wouldn’t stop with the swinging.

  With frustration at an all-time high, I give up on the popcorn and reach for a bag of chips just as the phone rings. Jerry’s name lights up the screen, and my frustration climbs even higher at the same time my mood dips. I may have the best agent in the business, but I’m not in the right frame of mind to talk to him. I turn the phone on and press it to my ear. Saying hello isn’t even necessary.

  “Is it true?”

  I pop a chip in my mouth, not bothering to disguise the noise it makes. “Is what true?”

  “Is it true you went to the DeMarcos’ tonight with Olivia? That’s the rumor on the street.”

  I nearly choke, a sharp corner of the chip stabbing my esophagus on its way down. “Where did you hear that?” I cough and reach for water. The liquid burns on the way down. Not a good sign.

  “It doesn’t matter where I heard it. Two different people called me, and both are a little worried.”

  I rub the space between my eyebrows, wondering when I became a seventh-grade girl with gossiping classmates. Two people? What two people? And what are they worried about? And why the hell do I even care? I’m having a hard time convincing myself I don’t, now that my palms are suddenly sweaty.

  “Yeah, it’s true. Why does it matter?” I toss in another chip and lick a salty finger, trying to convince myself I’m not interested in this conversation. But I am. Because it does matter. Even though it shouldn’t, it matters. There’s always something slightly disappointing in seeing a free guy tamed. I’ve spent my life taking pride in my bachelorhood, pretending not to be lonely, faking indifference about the idea of ever wanting more. Now I have two choices: use Olivia until she serves my purpose and discard her when the process is over, or admit that being around her is nice . . . that maybe this dating thing isn’t as bad as I’ve deliberately talked myself into believing it is.

  Tossing Olivia aside is getting harder and harder to imagine.

  Which means I need to get a bit more creative in my thinking.

  “It matters because you’re already in trouble,” Jerry says. “You already have one woman throwing out supposedly baseless accusations—”

  “They are baseless.”

  “Fine,” Jerry says. “But we don’t need another woman causing problems, especially not with the team in first place. The last thing anyone needs is a distraction.”

  I roll the chip bag closed and shove it into the cabinet. “Olivia isn’t causing problems. Nor is she a distraction.”

  And this is a serious fault of mine. One minute I’m telling myself to use Olivia and be done with it, and the next minute I’m defending her. I’m like one of those ball pendulum toys—swing left, swing right, knock into things, make a lot of noise, and ultimately go nowhere. My life used to have direction; now it’s all over the place.

  Still, I don’t like being told what to do.

  “Olivia isn’t causing problems. And whatever happened to any press is good press? Isn’t that still true?” I use a firmer tone than I need to, but I want to prove a point. To him. To me. Except I don’t know exactly what the point is. “She’s coming to ball games and hanging out with me at friends’ houses. I don’t see what is so wrong with that.”

  Jerry clears his throat.

  “Any press is good press as long as it doesn’t land you in jail. And you’re missing the point. I wasn’t talking about Olivia. She’s not the problem.”

  At those words, my blood chills.

  Hang up the phone. Don’t listen to another word.

  This is what I’m thinking. But here’s the thing about me: on the field, I can talk myself into doing just about anything. But off the field, I’m not usually one for inward pep talks. If I were, I never would have gone to the door when Olivia was holding that screwdriver. I never would have agreed to Olivia’s terms for our fake relationship—one term I’ve yet to even find out. And I certainly wouldn’t have come up with a plan for the next four games, all of which I’ve decided need Olivia’s heavy involvement.

  Then again, maybe I’m not one for pep talks. But I am one for speaking up, even when it’s against my better judgment.

  “If she’s not the problem, then what are you talking about?”

  I hear a sniff. A shuffling of papers. A drop of a pen. A very labored sigh.

  “I’m talking about Lexi. Now she’s saying you got her drunk against her will and took advantage of her. And right now—right now—I need to know if she’s telling the truth.”

  I never knew anger had a color, but all I can see is black when I slam my hand against the kitchen wall. The drywall cracks to the right of the refrigerator, and my wrist throbs from the pain. Not the smartest reaction, but I can’t stand false claims against my character.

  I can get women. Willing women. Plenty of them. Anytime I want them.

  Never in my life have I even thought about taking advantage of one.

  “Of course it isn’t
true.” My voice is quiet, loud, a simmering pan of water, a violent explosion in a downtown skyscraper. I feel everything at once, and nothing at all.

  But I have no idea what she wants.

  The only thing I know is, starting now, not only do I need to use Olivia as a girlfriend.

  I also need to use her as a weapon.

  Chapter 19

  Olivia

  Courage comes and goes with me—comes when I take the initiative to care for a hungry and underdressed little boy, goes when I am thrust in the spotlight for others to gawk at. For the last minute it’s been a tug of war between the two, and I’m tired of the uncertainty. Finally, and before I can do any more talking myself out of things, I grab the handle of my front door, open it, and step out into the dark night air.

  It’s cold out here. Go back inside. Get back in bed. This isn’t you. You don’t do things like this.

  Shivering for reasons that have nothing to do with the imaginary cold, since this is still July, I make myself reach up and knock on the door next to mine before one more negative thought becomes my undoing. He’ll laugh, he’ll think you’re even crazier than he already does, he’ll slam the door in your face, he’ll think you’re stupid. Make that four negative thoughts. It isn’t fun to be constantly self-critical, but it’s my reality and one I’ve learned to live with fairly well.

  I press my ear against the wooden panel and breathe a sigh of relief when nothing sounds on the other side. No voices. No footsteps. No signs that anyone is even awake. I press a little farther against it just to make sure, but still hear nothing. At least I was brave. At least I tried. Two high fives and a fist pump for my ability to step out of my comfort zone and—

  The door flies open and I nearly fall forward, catching myself against the doorframe with an embarrassing slide. I knew I shouldn’t have worn fuzzy socks. Fuzzy socks and smooth cement do not make for a safe combination.

  “What are you doing?” Will’s voice doesn’t hold accusation, just curiosity. And if I really stop to analyze it, amusement.

  I right myself, no thanks to him, and pull my white T-shirt down, aware that in my clumsiness the hem has risen halfway up my waist and exposed more than a fair share of bare skin.

  “I came to check on you. I wasn’t aware it was a crime.”

  His gaze moves to my midsection and stays there as he props a hand against the door.

  “No crime at all,” he says. “But maybe next time remember I have a peephole and you’re never all that quiet when you walk out your front door.” Peeling his eyes away from my waist—take your time, mister—he points up to the door and the tiny glass orb near the top of it. “If you’re going to spy, you might want to be a little less conspicuous.”

  I cross my arms in front of me, my face heating from embarrassment. “I wasn’t spying.”

  “You were spying, but I’m flattered.”

  My chin goes up, which only makes him smile. “I wasn’t spying, I was—”

  “Hey, Olivia?”

  I try not to look at him because he’s right and I’m caught and I don’t feel like being the equivalent of an animal stuck in a trap. But I wind up looking at him anyway. This is his front door and I’m the foolish girl who knocked. I make a mental note to have my front door hinges oiled tomorrow.

  “What?”

  “Do you want to come in? Because if so, all you have to do is ask.”

  And this is what I was afraid of when I first heard the pounding on the other side of the wall. My first thought was What if Will is hurt? My second, What if Will is mad? My third, Stop thinking about Will. My fourth, I can’t. My thoughts tend to come in fours. So I tossed back my blankets and climbed out of bed and walked over here before I could fully change my mind. Now I wish for nothing more than to be in that bed and dreaming of kittens and term papers. Instead . . .

  “Sure.”

  What else could I possibly say?

  I step over the threshold, wondering if there will ever be a time when I come to Will’s apartment wearing something other than pajama pants and a tee that should have been tossed out with last decade’s trash. I wore this thing in junior high and of course it’s an image of Family Guy. I can’t believe Will is right once again. I can’t believe it still fits.

  The room looks different when it’s empty of partygoers and plastic cups. Although we share the same floor plan, that’s where the similarities end. Unlike my apartment, with its floral fabrics and sturdy oak furnishings—most of which came from my grandparents, parents, and yard sales—Will’s place is decidedly modern. It’s elegantly classy—decked out in rich leathers, marble tabletops, stainless finishes, and faux animal fur. Thick panels in chocolate velvet line the windows and cascade to the floor, while substantial lamps and accent pieces give the room a decidedly upscale feel. Every inch of this space could be displayed on the cover of Architectural Digest, yet somehow it isn’t standoffish. Will has expensive taste, but none of it is flashy or assuming. I like it. I like it a lot.

  The front door closes behind me.

  “So why are you here?” he asks.

  Thoughts of being a caged animal return to the forefront of my mind as panic threatens. Why am I here? Suddenly the truth seems so basic, so foolish, that I’m scrambling to find a more intelligent answer. This is Will Vandergriff. He’s used to having people fawn all over him. He’s used to being the center of attention. Who am I to think he needed my concern?

  I’m nobody, that’s who. A stupid girl who heard a noise, got worried, and decided to investigate. The answer sounds ridiculous even before I say it, but when life gets real and when all the dust settles, I am a girl who believes in the truth. Even if I’m helping him live a lie right now.

  Feeling very self-conscious, I turn from my spot at the back of his sofa and look at him.

  “I heard something hit your wall, and I was worried something bad had happened.” I tug at the hem of my shirt and shrug. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” I’m dumb I’m dumb I’m dumb. “So are you? Okay, I mean?”

  When all he does is stare at me, I am certain I never should have come here.

  Will

  I have no idea what to say, because words and syllables seem to have fled my mind, along with any ability to process what she just said. I’m used to people caring about me, and I’m definitely used to concern. My list of well-wishers is as long as it is colorful, as flattering as it is fulfilling. I could list a few right now and barely scratch the surface.

  There’s my coach: How’s your hand? And my agent: How’s the contract coming?

  There’s the media: Tell us about your love life. And the fans: You’re my hero.

  There are my friends: Can you get us tickets? And my family: Can you give us more money?

  But never, not once in the years since I signed for the major leagues, has anyone stopped by just because they cared about me. About my hand, my money, my health, my career . . . but not about me. That being the case, I feel a sudden need to test her.

  “I got some bad news and punched the wall with my hand. Sorry it was loud.”

  Her eyes widen as her gaze flicks between my hand and my eyes. “Is it broken?”

  “There’s a small hole in it, but—”

  She rolls her eyes. “Not the wall. Your hand. Did you break anything?”

  I think maybe she’s passing the test. “I’ll be able to play Tuesday night, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Crap. What about passing a test do I not understand? And do I sound as pissed off as I feel? And why am I pissed off in the first place? Olivia has never once seemed the type to want me for what I could do for her. In fact, with her, my career seems like more of a detriment than a benefit, which is the craziest thing of all.

  “As if that matters to me,” she says with a disgusted look. “Are you sure it isn’t broken? Do you need me to drive you to the hospital?”

  When she reaches for my hand and turns it over in hers—little worry lines appearing on her forehead as
she presses one finger against each of my knuckles and looks for signs of injury—that’s the moment. That’s the moment when I would normally use the situation to my advantage: fake more pain than I actually feel, and see how far my acting could take me. Usually it takes me all the way, but tonight I’m not even going to try.

  Olivia is different. And because of that, Olivia deserves different.

  I make a fist, flexing and unflexing to prove that I’m all right. When her hand falls away, I can’t deny my disappointment. Her touch felt nice. The nicest thing I’ve felt in a while.

  “It’s fine. No hospital necessary.”

  She nods. Hesitates. Says, “Good.” Then turns to leave.

  I can’t believe how much I don’t want her to leave.

  “Do you want to stay for a while? Maybe watch a movie or something?” When she bites her lip in uncertainty—again, why is she uncertain? No woman is ever uncertain—I keep talking in an effort to keep her here. “Or not a movie. We could just talk. Hang out. Play cards.”

  Play cards?

  It takes work not to strangle myself, but I somehow keep forging ahead.

  “Or we could—”

  “A movie is good,” she finally answers. She glances over my shoulder and I swear I see the beginnings of a smile before she stops herself. “But just to warn you, I only like chick flicks. Mainly things that make me cry. Keep that in mind when you’re picking something out, though it probably won’t be a problem for you.”

  I blink when Olivia walks around me and into my living room. What the heck? That was unexpected and goes completely against what I know about her personality. The Olivia I know isn’t playful or forward, she’s timid and reserved. I turn to follow her, thinking the Olivia I know is cautious and slightly fearful and—