Twice the Chance

“Your kids?” She was sure the twins had said he wasn’t married. Was he divorced?

“I coach a youth soccer team of thirteen-and fourteen-year-olds pretty much year-round,” Matt said. “They love to try to get the best of me.”

In running shorts and a T-shirt that left his legs and arms bare, Matt looked like an athlete, with impressive musculature minus the bulk.

“You must really be into soccer.” A rivulet of sweat trickled down the side of her face, but now that she wasn’t running as fast it was easier to talk.

“I’ve played the game almost my whole life.” He had a smooth, even stride, and she got the impression he ran the same way he did everything else—effortlessly. Not only wasn’t he breathing hard, but he was also barely sweating.

Don’t ask about the twins, she told herself.

“Are you trying to turn your niece and nephew into soccer lifers, too?” she heard herself ask.

He laughed. “Robbie’s already got the bug. He begged me to help him, not that he had to try too hard.”

Change the subject.

“How about Brooke?” She tried not to sound too curious. “Is she into soccer, too?”

“Not like her brother but she’s a natural athlete,” Matt said. “Once she understands how good she can be, the love will follow.”

“What if it doesn’t?” Jazz asked.

“It will,” Matt said. “That’s the way it works.”

She took a sidelong glance at him to try to gauge if he found her questions about his niece and nephew suspicious. He wore a pleasant, neutral expression. He’d tell her the date of the twins’ birthday if she asked. She could forget the whole thing if it wasn’t July twenty-fourth.

But what if it was? Would her resolve be strong enough to stay away from the twins if she knew for certain they were her biological children?

“How about you?” he asked.

She’d forgotten what they were talking about. “Excuse me?”

“You ever play soccer? It’s usually the first sport parents sign up their kids for.”

Jazz’s mother hadn’t stuck around long enough to get Jazz involved in anything. The only game Jazz’s grandmother had taught her was how to beat the welfare system.

“I’m not very athletic,” she said.

“I don’t believe that.” His eyes swept over her. “You look like you’re in great shape.”

She’d never exercised regularly until prison, where she’d done legions of sit-ups and push-ups in her cell. During the hour inmates were let outside twice a day, she’d trampled the grass walking laps around the prison yard. Running had only been allowed on the basketball court.

Jazz didn’t need a psychologist to tell her that was why she’d taken up jogging. She often hit the trails even after standing on her feet all day. It struck her that Bill Smith’s list of high school activities had included track. Could a love of running be hereditary? She shoved the question out of her mind, determined to deal with one problem at a time.

“Thank you,” she said, her chance to ask about the twins’ birthday gone.

They ran side by side in silence with Jazz watching Matt in her peripheral vision. His skin had a healthy glow, as though he spent a lot of time outdoors. His nose went a little wayward in profile and she guessed it had been broken. The imperfection somehow made him more attractive.

She needed to get a grip. It made not one whit of difference if she found him appealing. She needed to operate on the assumption that the twins were the children she’d given up. She’d be a lot less likely to run into them if she didn’t hang around their uncle.

“I need to walk awhile.” The perfect excuse to cut their conversation short.

He stopped running, too.

“Is your shoulder bothering you?” He sounded concerned, the way he had at the restaurant. She couldn’t say for sure why that touched her.

“My shoulder’s fine, thanks.” She’d religiously done the exercises he’d given her, a much cheaper alternative than seeking medical attention. She had health care but could barely afford the co-payment for a doctor’s visit. “I’m just a little winded.”

“Mind if I walk with you?” he asked.

She shrugged instead of stating she’d rather he go ahead without her. What was the matter with her?

“I’ve got a family picnic later,” he said, and she instantly pictured Brooke and Robbie. “How about you? Got any plans?”

“Yes.” She swallowed the ache of loneliness in her throat, wondering where it had come from. Her plans involved finding a quiet spot on nearby Folly Beach where she could gaze at the ocean and read a book. “It’s nice to have an evening off.”

“Don’t you work the day shift?”

“I have a second job.” Now, why had she told him something even her restaurant coworkers didn’t know?

“Does it involve cooking, too?” he asked.

“Telemarketing. I’d love to work for a caterer, but those jobs are hard to come by.” She couldn’t seem to stop confiding in him. At least she hadn’t told him why a caterer would be reluctant to hire her. Or that without two jobs she wouldn’t be able to afford her apartment.

He didn’t say anything for long moments. “What if I offered you a catering job?”

“What?”

“A friend of mine is moving out of state. I’m inviting people to drop by my house Saturday afternoon to say goodbye. I don’t know what to feed them.”

“How about burgers and hot dogs?”

“The party’s in the afternoon and they won’t all be coming at the same time. Some of them will be hungry, some won’t.”

“You could go with finger foods.” As the idea took hold, she elaborated. “Mini quiches, stuffed mushrooms, cocktail meatballs. That kind of thing.”

“Sounds great,” he said. “Then you’ll do it?”

She hesitated, and he named a figure double what she earned on any given night at her telemarketing job. “I’ll pay for the groceries, of course.”

The offer was tantamount to dangling a Godiva in front of a chocoholic. Just the thought of having the freedom to cook something not on the Pancake Palace menu sent her heart beating faster.

Because she wanted to immediately accept, she didn’t. She’d learned in prison that opportunities like this one were seldom as good as they seemed. “I hardly know anything about you.”

“My players will vouch for me.” He slid her a grin. “I don’t only coach youth soccer, I coach the Faircrest High boys’ team, too.”

She hadn’t pegged him for a full-time coach. She would have guessed doctor, lawyer or any of the other professions associated with ambition.