The Thirteenth Chance Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE THIRTEENTH CHANCE

  “With fast-pitched dialogue and romantic chemistry worthy of a World Series pennant, The Thirteenth Chance is yet another home run in Amy Matayo’s winning collection of stories.”

  —Nicole Deese, author of A Season to Love, A Cliché Christmas, and the Letting Go series

  “Amy Matayo knocks it out of the park with this sweet, opposites-attract romance. You’ll be cheering for Olivia and Will with every page.”

  —Jenny B. Jones, award-winning author of I’ll Be Yours and Can’t Let You Go

  ALSO BY AMY MATAYO

  The Wedding Game

  Love Gone Wild

  Sway

  In Tune with Love

  A Painted Summer

  The End of the World

  Toss the Bouquet

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Amy Matayo

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Waterfall Press, Grand Haven, MI

  www.brilliancepublishing.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Waterfall Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503935778

  ISBN-10: 1503935779

  Cover design by Jason Blackburn

  This book is dedicated to anyone afraid of trying something different.

  Go ahead and try it. Different is good. It might lead you to your calling. It might lead you to discovering your passion.

  It might even lead you to write a book about baseball.

  #batterup

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  Olivia

  I am a fourth-grade teacher, but on days like today I’m not entirely sure why. I remember having a dream about being a teacher when I was a small girl—maybe eight, maybe nine—but I also remember dreaming of being a ballerina, so I’m not sure why this particular dream stuck. I’m five feet nine and fairly thin, so being a dancer wouldn’t have been entirely out of the realm of possibility.

  I look at my hands. As usual, they’re sticky, some kind of brown ick on my fingertips. There are a lot of germs involved in being a teacher. For the dozenth time today, I walk to the sink to wash off a few million and imagine them screaming in fear as they slide down the drain.

  Morbid maybe, but they’re germs. They benefit nothing, and no one likes them anyway.

  The bell rang an hour ago, and since then I’ve been wiping down desks, straightening them into the standard ninety-degree angles that some children refuse to keep in place because of kicking and fidgeting and general restlessness that sometimes send me over the edge. Today one child was so rambunctious that I actually bit a fingernail down to the skin. I never bite my fingernails; manicures are a must every Thursday afternoon. It’s been on my regular schedule for years: manicure at four o’clock, right after driving through Sonic for lime-infused water and right before picking up Taco Hut enchiladas for dinner. Three: one bean, one chicken, one cheese. The chicken is topped with white sauce; the other two with red because I like a little spice and adventure in my life, and I’ve found this to be the perfect way to get them.

  I look around the room and sigh.

  I’ve heard a dancer’s life is rigid and structured. I would have fit right in.

  “You’re still here? I thought you’d be long gone by now.” My friend Kelly pokes her head into my classroom.

  Kelly is perfect in a way that makes most women jealous. With her big brown eyes and wide smile, she’s quietly confident, like Anne Hathaway in that office movie with Robert De Niro, the one where she was a working mom with a cheater husband and a killer wardrobe. Except Kelly isn’t a mom. Or a wife. But her wardrobe rocks, which makes me hate her. A worn Prada bag hangs from her shoulder, and cute sunglasses are perched on top of her short brown hair. She teaches art in the classroom next door, the reason for the persistent smear of paint that is usually somewhere above her neckline. There’s a one-inch pink stripe on the right side of her jaw as we speak. One might think it a scratch if one—meaning me and all the other teachers who work here—didn’t know better. On Kelly, it somehow adds to her glamour. Now I want to stab her.

  “No, I’m still here. I will forever be here with the mess these kids make. I mean, look at this room.” I sigh and run a hand across my forehead, not missing the way Kelly looks around with a slight frown on her face. I know what she’s going to say even before she opens her mouth.

  “There’s no mess in here at all, Olivia. My class could eat dinner off your floor, the place is so spotless.”

  Everyone—and I mean everyone—says this.

  I glance around and pretend to agree with her. But I know better. My mother would run a white glove over this room and demand I start over.

  “I guess you’re right. A few more minutes and I’ll leave.”

  I’ll be here at least another hour. Two, more likely.

  “Okay, as long as you promise to get out of here and enjoy your Friday night. You need to have a little fun, let your hair down a little.”

  Without thinking, I let my hand find the nape of my neck . . . the spot where the black elastic holds my blonde hair in place in a perfectly aligned ponytail. “I will, I promise. Maybe I’ll even—”

  “Why don’t you come out with me? A few of us are going out for drinks later tonight. Around nine thirty? Want to join us? It will be fun.”

  By a few of us, she means fellow teachers. I know this because Kelly asks me every weekend. I want to say that I’m planning to watch a movie on Netflix right after I treat myself to a nice dinner of grilled vegetables, steak, and potatoes. I bought the groceries yesterday, and I’ve been looking forward to the meal all day. But that sounds lame, and I know what they think of me. Olivia Pratt: twenty-nine, a bit neurotic, can’t get a date, and has a cat for a best friend. I rush for a better-sounding explanation. Normally I have one ready, but I’ve run out of nice excuses. My mind goes blank for a second, and before I know it, I say an incredibly stupid thing.

  “I can’t. I have a date.”

  I have a date?

  “You have a date?”

  Wait. Is it really that unbelievable?

  I swallow around the lie and repeat it. “Yes, I have a date. A guy I met at . . . the gym. He asked me out over the ten-pound free weights, and I said yes. We’re going to a movie.”

  Two things about this: One, I don’t do free weigh
ts. Too many chances to drop one on my foot and break a bone—been there, done that, no thanks. So I stick with the treadmill for half an hour and then move on to the bench press; it’s much safer as long as you remember to push straight up. Pressing backward—even slightly—nearly doubles your chance of a strained neck muscle, and no one wants to deal with that.

  And two, with the movie mention I’ve just eliminated any chance of Kelly running into me later and discovering I’m there by myself. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who hates movie theaters. I mean, I understand the fear of germs touching your backside from those nasty, unsanitary seats, but what about the popcorn? I do not understand the meaning behind a life without regular movie-theater popcorn, extra butter, and nacho-flavored salt. It’s one of my greatest pleasures . . . after spicy red sauce.

  Not that I eat only junk food. During the week it’s a regular diet of detox tea, multivitamins, kale, spinach, beets, and the occasional onion—a woman can’t go too crazy. But I’ve found that if you follow a strict eating plan eighty percent of the time, letting a bit loose during the other twenty can’t hurt too much. Not if you’re diligent, like me.

  Again, why am I not a ballerina? Other than the vomiting on demand (which I’ve heard is definitely a way of life), I’m pretty sure I could have had that career in the bag.

  I realize this makes no sense, but it’s the way my mind works. It’s also the bed I’ve made. Now I need to lie down, roll over, and drool on a pillow.

  Kelly just looks at me for a second, an odd mix of emotion on her face like she can’t decide whether to congratulate me or demand I fess up to my obvious untruth. Finally, and much to my relief, she grins.

  “Well, look at you. Miss ‘Happily Single’ is finally coming out of her shell. I’d really like to meet the guy sometime. I’d venture to guess we all would.”

  Of this, I have no doubt. For all intents and purposes, I am very happily single. This fact drives my coworkers insane with an incessant desire to match make me. Now, with my convenient little white lie, I’ve eliminated the need. For now. If the established pattern stays in effect, the matchmaking should resume by next Friday. Maybe even Wednesday, because everyone needs something to escape the midweek slump. My fellow teachers are no exception.

  “Let me see how it goes first. Who knows? Maybe someday soon you’ll all be helping me plan a wedding.” I add a tiny smile for effect.

  But the lies. They keep piling up. Between them and the bitten fingernail, I barely recognize myself today.

  Kelly slips on her sunglasses and pats the doorway. “Maybe so. You’ll be the most beautiful bride ever, that’s for sure. And I call dibs on maid of honor, just so you know. See you Monday.” She waves two fingers at me and walks out. After I hear the sound of the door closing, I sit down in a student’s chair and let my head fall to the table, counting on the coolness of the laminate to calm my nerves a bit.

  A date?

  Maid of honor?

  If I keep this up, next she’ll ask to be godmother.

  I allow another minute of feeling sorry for myself, and then I stand up. Push in the chair. Align it with the permanent circle imprints in the carpet. Stand back and survey the room with a sigh. And do a little pirouette because no one’s here to watch me.

  I’m midspin when I spot Avery’s backpack still hanging on the hook by the door.

  My heart sinks. He forgot it again. I walk over and unzip it, peering at the contents. A box of granola bars, two apples, a package of pretzel twists, and a can of Coke—his favorite. I have a soft spot for that kid, the one who is always overlooked when group projects are assigned and classroom partners are chosen. He’s also very poor and somewhat malnourished. At nine, he has the body of a six-year-old. If the school knew I slipped food inside his backpack to tide him over through the weekend, I would probably get fired. But rules like that are stupid, and I don’t let them stop me. Human compassion is worth more than a job, especially when a child is involved.

  There’s nothing worse than hurt and neglect, especially when all you really want is for someone to care, even for a moment.

  Will

  We’re losing, and it’s a trend I’m getting more than a little sick of. In the six weeks that I’ve been with the Rangers, we’ve had one long winning streak, followed by a spotty three weeks of the weirdest combination of wins and losses—three straight wins followed by two losses, then repeat four times in that exact order, the worst of which were on my watch—and now it’s been six straight losses, heading for a seventh. Everyone knows I’m treading in the magic-number zone. One more, two more, three more losses and someone goes down, and by down I mean back to Triple-A. In this particular case, that someone will be me. Me. Will freaking Vandergriff. And I’m sorry, but my skill level surpassed Triple-A a long time ago, even if none of these stupid southern fans think so.

  Not that it matters. If there’s any finger-pointing going on right now, all the middle ones in the stands would point directly toward me—the Yankee trade who’s as foreign as he is unwelcome, even now. I hear the jeers. I hear the taunts.

  I’m sucking up this game just like the last five I’ve played.

  This has to stop, and it needs to stop today.

  With a growing knot in my gut, I have a feeling it just did.

  My coach steps onto the field, and everything inside me begins to itch. My throat. My chest. My brain. I’ve only been pulled once since I was traded to the Rangers, and that was during my last game. I’m heading toward number two, and no one gets yanked two games in a row unless everyone has had enough. Judging by the look on his face, the skipper finally has.

  He stops and meets me eye to eye. “You’re out. Ricky is taking your place.”

  A protest is on its way up, but I swallow it down. I know better than to be that stupid. I grind my back teeth together and look toward the stands. Ricky. I could say so much about him—he’s new to the game, he doesn’t have as much experience as me, he’s green. But he’s a teammate, not an enemy. If anyone’s my enemy, it’s me. My own worst one. Besides, I’m the one who just overthrew to third and caused the latest home run. I’m the one who failed to prevent a steal to second in the last inning, which also resulted in a score. This game was mine at the beginning of the night. Since then, I’ve wrapped it up in a freaking bow and handed it to the Dodgers.

  The Dodgers. They’ve sucked for years, and somehow I’m single-handedly making them look good.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do better in the next game.” But I can’t guarantee that, and we both know it. We’re losing by five. The entire debacle is shameful and currently being broadcast on ESPN. I can almost hear the announcers: Vandergriff yanked again? Think his days in the major leagues are numbered?

  “You can try again next time,” my manager says. “But something’s got to change. Figure out the problem and fix it.”

  I nod and stomp off toward my teammates as the crowd cheers and whistles in a unified cry that practically calls for my televised hanging. My hat comes off before I make it to the steps, and once inside I fling it toward the wall. It slams against wood and slides to the pavement. No one around me even flinches. The dugout is dead silent when I take the walk of shame down into it. The tension is palpable; my teammates won’t even look at me. I thrust a paper cup under the Gatorade cooler and take a long drink, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and turn to face the game. The view from here is a lot more bitter than it is sweet.

  By this time tomorrow, I might be on a bus headed straight back to the minor leagues.

  Chapter 2

  Olivia

  No one saw me at Avery’s house, including Avery himself—exactly the way I hoped it would be. They’ve spotted me once before, his brothers. What ensued was an endless round of Who are you? and What do you want with our little brother? that resulted in both older boys opening his backpack and emptying it of the apples, crackers, and miniature boxes of Cheerios that I had carefully tucked inside. They opened the cereal rig
ht in front of me and ate it by the fistful while I stood by and tried really hard to keep from yelling at them. It isn’t that I have anything against those boys and their obvious shared hunger; it’s that I know they’re old enough to hold jobs, and I’ve seen the way Avery talks about them. With fear. With caution. Definitely like he has something to be afraid of. Not saying his brothers are the cause—more than likely it’s their alcoholic father and strung-out mother, neither of whom I’ve ever met and, honestly, I have no concrete proof that they drink or use drugs. But I’ve heard rumors and, statistically speaking, it’s a strong possibility.

  Someone once spread a rumor that I’m a germophobic freak, something I cried about for exactly a day and a half. Misery loves company. Maybe I need to remember that when passing off secondhand information as fact, even in my own mind.

  Thankfully, this time no one witnessed me sliding his pack inside the secret spot under his front porch, the one that he told me about earlier this year and that I know he’ll check after the sun goes down. A few seconds later I was back in my car, pulling away from my spot down the road.

  Now that I’m home, I’ve never been happier to see a weekend in my life. Especially one as beautiful as this one. With the car door propped open, I reach for my phone and snap a picture of the cloudless sky. I like to remember things, and who knows when a day will be this clear again.

  Tossing the phone in my purse, I grab the bag of groceries that I just picked up at Walmart and climb out of the car. When I close the door with my hip, I see them—spots. Spots on the hood and back door, likely caused by the obnoxious sweet gum tree over my parking space at the edge of the school parking lot. I usually don’t use it, preferring to park farther back from other vehicles and definitely away from trees.

  And now my car is covered in spots, and there’s only one way to remedy it.

  After setting my bag on the ground, I open the door again and reach for the tube of Armor All wipes, then yank one out and get to work. I’m not sure this brand works any better than Lysol, but I’ve bought into the commercials like everyone else in America. Besides, this car is my baby, the first major purchase I made after becoming a teacher, and I would hate to see the paint chip or even dull. Dulled paint is as much an eyesore as spots are.