Tanya Michaels: Mistletoe Cinderella

“Are you sure you know who you are?” Natalie asked skeptically. “Jane saw that there was a lot more to you than just a quiet straight-A student. I do, too.”

Chloe remembered the way she’d felt at the memorial service, the vague sense of having let down Jane. I could be more, couldn’t I? Suddenly she found it difficult to recall why she was so set against going to the reunion. After all, it was just one night. Seventy-five dollars wouldn’t break the bank.

Still, she worried about Natalie’s plans for the evening getting too grandiose. “I’ll go. But stop imagining some movie where the formerly mousy heroine shows up, impresses everyone with her poise and scintillating conversation and wins her man. Get real. Dylan’s only going to be here for the weekend, and he doesn’t even know me.”

Natalie smiled, undeterred. “Then we’ll have to find the perfect opportunity for you to introduce yourself.”

Dylan Echols muttered a word under his breath that network censors would definitely frown on. Since the broadcast had just gone to commercial, however, he felt free to express his irritation.

And Grady Medlock, seated behind the anchor desk, was free to snicker. “The scores may not be as important as world politics,” Grady said, “but viewers still expect you to get them right.”

Dylan didn’t bother responding. The newscaster had been insufferable ever since Dylan was hired, and had become even more so since Liza Finnell-the object of Grady’s unrequited affections-had hinted at the station’s spring picnic last month that she was attracted to the newest addition to the Channel Six team. Dylan had ducked her interest by politely reminding her that he was seeing someone.

At the time, anyway.

As of Friday’s e-mail, his brief relationship with Heidi was over. Dylan wasn’t sure what bothered him the most: that she’d jilted him for a Braves first baseman he himself had introduced her to, that she’d jilted him via an impersonal e-mail or that he’d only recognized in hindsight that she’d used him as a stepping stone to better-paid guys who were still in The Show.

Dumb. Much like the mistake he’d just made in his broadcast.

For the majority of Dylan’s reports, he had plenty of time to prepare beforehand, but he’d flubbed some incoming college scores on the teleprompter. Falling back on adolescent habits, he’d made a joke to cover his unease reading aloud. Why had he thought this local sportscaster position was a good idea? Because you didn’t have a Plan B.

He’d known what he wanted to do with his life ever since he pitched his first elementary school baseball game, striking out older kids with more practice. He’d known the major leagues were his destiny, but he’d had no idea what to do when the glorious ride screeched to an abrupt halt.

Liza, the divorced hair and makeup artist with a bright smile and a kid, darted forward to give Dylan a powder touch-up. He wondered if he would ever adjust to having to use on-air cosmetics. Pretty boy, his father would have sneered. More looks than brains. Thank God you have a decent throwing arm.

“Great job tonight,” Liza offered.

“Really?” He was careful to keep his tone teasing, not want to take his annoyance out on her. “What broadcast have you been watching?”

“Your recovery was fantastic. Don’t let Grady bother you. He’s a jerk.”

Dylan flashed a quick smile. “That’s nicer than what I usually call him.”

Grady Medlock was an insecure windbag who clung to the hope that covering important events made him important by extension. He’d been none too thrilled when Channel Six hired an ex-Braves player whose minor celebrity status threatened his own. Dylan sympathized with having insecurities, but he had no patience for men who puffed up their own egos by belittling their teammates.

The commercial break ended, and the cameras cut to the weather segment. Dylan could seethe in peace until it was time for the entire Channel Six crew to bid viewers good-night. As he stood, unfastening his lavalier mike, he noticed Liza hovering to his left at the edge of the lights.

He chuckled at her anxious expression. “I’m not that upset. Don’t worry about me.”

“Is that how I look?” She smiled self-consciously. “You’re probably sensing nervousness.”

“About?”

“Asking you to dinner this weekend,” she said in a rush. “My ex has our son for a couple of days, and you’re not on the schedule, so…I heard about you and Heidi.”

Who hadn’t? His spotlight-seeking former girlfriend had thrown her arms around her new beau right in the middle of a postgame interview. Dylan winced. They hadn’t been together long enough for him to be broken-hearted, but he hated to be humiliated. Though Liza’s interest in him might be a soothing balm to the ego, this job was already awkward without adding the complication of dating a co-worker.

“Thanks for the invite,” he said, “but I’m out of town this weekend. Going home.” The word felt clunky and foreign on his tongue. Despite the years that had passed, his mother still called Mistletoe his home, as in when will you be…?

“Town in north Georgia, right?” Liza snapped her fingers. “Christmas? Evergreen?”

“Mistletoe.” For such a small place, it held a vast store of conflicting memories. He’d struggled through his early school years-far worse than the actual dyslexia had been his father’s disdain that Dylan couldn’t read properly-but he’d later developed his fastball and his confidence. Most important, he’d been blessed with Coach Todd Burton’s mentorship. The gruff affection of the high school coach, who was officially retiring this spring and would be honored at a dinner this weekend, had almost made up for Dylan’s uncomfortable home life.

Almost.

Liza nodded. “Well, have a good time.”

“Thanks.” High school had been a good time. He’d set the division record for strikeouts but never struck out with his female classmates. He’d graduated with an indulgent fondness for Mistletoe High, grateful for what had taken place during the four years but knowing he was headed for bigger things.

Now he was returning, a twenty-seven-year-old has-been. Would he enjoy the reunion? He didn’t want to be one of those clichés who stood around all night with a beer in hand, reminiscing over former glory. For a second, he regretted his RSVP.

However, on the heels of his breakup, it seemed like a good time to get out of Atlanta for a few days, and his mom deserved better than to be neglected by her only child. In earlier years, he might have resented that she hadn’t done more to intervene, buffering him from his emotional bully of a father, but it was hard to be angry when she seemed so lost without her late husband. Dylan planned to stay at the reunion hotel, visiting the house to see his mom and find out if there was anything she needed done around the old place. The moment of the weekend he most looked forward to and simultaneously dreaded was presenting the appreciation award at Coach Burton’s dinner. Perhaps more than anyone else in the entire town, Coach had believed in him. Dylan was sorry that two shoulder surgeries hadn’t been able to keep their combined dream a reality.

He grimaced at the weekend that stretched ahead. If he were really lucky, his mother would be in a cheerful, noncloying mood, the reunion band would be loud and the hotel would be filled with pretty alumnae feeling nostalgic.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE you talked me into wearing these!” Chloe stepped out of the car, hyperaware of the towering heels she’d borrowed. She’d accepted Natalie’s red shoes and patient help with a curling iron, drawing the line at crimson lipstick and salon highlights.