Darlene Gardner - Twice the Chance

“Nope.” He opened the kit and pulled out antiseptic and a cotton swab. “Come closer and I’ll clean that for you. The bleeding’s stopped but this could smart.”

She complied, the sting of the antiseptic barely registering while she tried to figure out how to extract more information. Her head started to pound when nothing occurred to her. She’d make a terrible investigative reporter.

“The cut’s not too bad, but it needs a bandage.” He took one out of his bag, tore off the packaging and positioned it over her skin. “How’s the shoulder? You’re holding it like it hurts.”

She concentrated on his question instead of Brooke and Robbie kicking the soccer ball back and forth a few feet away. The throbbing had subsided to a manageable level. “It’s okay.”

“You should probably see a doctor,” he said. “At the very least, ice it and take some ibuprofen.”

“Are you done yet, Uncle Matt?” Robbie called. “You said we’d work on my corner kicks next.”

“Just a sec,” he called, then peered at Jazz. “Do you need a ride home? My car’s just over there in the parking lot. It’s getting too hot to stay much longer anyway.”

She fought the temptation to accept and gestured vaguely to the trail. “Thanks, but I don’t live far from here.”

He seemed about to protest, but then said, “Okay. Just remember to ice your shoulder. Nice meeting you, Jazz.”

“You, too.” She drank in the sight of the children who might be hers, assuring herself she was doing all of them a favor by cutting off the acquaintance. “Bye, Brooke, Robbie.”

“Bye!” the children said in unison, but Robbie was already picking up the soccer ball and running to his uncle. Brooke was humming a pretty little tune.

Jazz turned away, feeling an ache that had nothing to do with her injuries.

She’d taken maybe ten steps when Matt Caminetti called to her, “Hey, Jazz.”

She whirled.

“We’ll be here Sunday mornings after church until fall soccer starts and probably even after that, too,” he said. “Stop by and say hi.”

She raised a hand in acknowledgment before turning her back and walking out of their lives. She wouldn’t accept his invitation no matter how tempting.

Neither would Matt Caminetti have issued it if he’d known Jazz had given birth to redheaded twins while serving a prison sentence for committing a felony.

MATT SKIMMED the offerings on the lunch menu on a Monday more than two weeks later while breathing in the maple-syrup-scented air. Pancakes with strawberries. Gingerbread pancakes. Cinnamon pumpkin pancakes. German apple pancakes. The list was virtually endless.

“You two ready to order?” A blonde waitress in her mid-to late-twenties with the name Sadie written on her name tag stood beside their table, order pad in hand. She had a girlish voice and a figure that was anything but juvenile, shown to advantage by a gold uniform that hugged every curve.

“You go first, Matt.” Matt’s sixteen-year-old brother Danny spoke without lifting his dark head from the extensive array of pancake choices.

Matt closed his menu and set it down on the table. “I’ll have a chicken sandwich and unsweetened iced tea.”

Sadie lifted one finely plucked eyebrow. “You sure? We’re not named Pancake Palace for nothing.”

“I’m sure,” Matt said. No point inviting questions by revealing he wasn’t overly fond of pancakes.

He hadn’t heard of the restaurant until he’d noticed the place advertised on Jazz’s T-shirt as the sponsor of a local 10K race. Matt had been at Ashley Greens Park twice with the twins since he’d bandaged her leg, but she hadn’t shown up. That was cool with him. Or so he thought until he’d spotted the Pancake Palace sign from the car and suggested he and Danny stop for lunch.

His impulsiveness hadn’t paid off. The only other waitress moving about the tables and booths was a shorter, rounder version of his mother.

“Whatever you want, I’m happy to oblige.” Sadie held Matt’s gaze a few beats longer than necessary before shifting her attention to Danny. “You want me to come back, hon?”

“No, I’m ready. I’ll take the wild-blueberry pancakes with a double order of pork sausages, a banana-nut muffin and a large chocolate milk.” Danny started to close the menu, then flipped it back open. “And some cinnamon French toast.”

“French toast instead of the pancakes?” the waitress asked. Matt felt a smile coming on.

“Nope,” Danny said. “I want the pancakes, too.”

“Okay.” Sadie concentrated on Matt while she leaned forward to take their menus, providing him with an excellent view of her attributes. “Let me know if you want anything else.”

She left them, her hips swaying from side to side in an exaggerated manner. Danny appeared in danger of straining his neck watching her retreat.

“Did you get a load of that?” Danny asked in a loud whisper. “That waitress was totally coming on to you.”

“She was just being nice.”

“Yeah, right,” Danny drawled. “You gonna get her phone number?”

“No, I’m not, little brother,” he said.

“Little?” Danny straightened in his seat, taking offense as Matt had known he would. “I’m almost as tall as you are.”

“You’ll be a lot wider if you keep eating like a blue whale.”

Danny waved him off with a thin arm. “I’m a teenager. I’m supposed to pack it in. Isn’t that why you’re always feeding me?”

Matt had carved time from his summer schedule at least twice a week to take his much younger brother for driving practice and out to lunch. Finding the time had gotten harder a few weeks ago when Matt had taken over as interim athletic director at Faircrest High. As of tomorrow, the first day of school for students and the start of Danny’s sophomore year at Faircrest, it would be tougher still.

“I’m afraid you’d gnaw my arm off if we didn’t stop for food,” Matt said.

Danny laughed. “Why’d you pick this place, anyway? You don’t even like pancakes.”

Matt wasn’t about to confide in his brother about Jazz, especially because his long shot had misfired. She’d most likely been wearing the T-shirt because she’d run in the race the restaurant sponsored.

“You like pancakes,” Matt said.

Danny grinned. “I like food.”

Danny proved how much when their order came, polishing off his meal in an amazingly short time. Between mouthfuls he kept up a running conversation about family, food and the Faircrest High football team. Practice had started at the beginning of August in preparation for the season opener, which was in a few days.

“I’m busting my butt,” Danny said. “I’m the first one at practice and I work the hardest. Dad says that’s the way to get noticed.”

“Dad knows football.” Matt chewed slowly on his chicken sandwich. Their father had played college ball at Florida State and coached the Faircrest football team before becoming the high school’s athletic director, the job Matt was currently in. Dad was retired now, which gave him more time to indulge his passion. When he wasn’t watching football, he was talking about it.

“I’m getting some time with the first team,” Danny said. “I want to be so good Coach Dougherty has to start me.”

“That’s the attitude,” Matt said. “You can’t reach goals if you don’t set them.”

“Dad says that, too.” Danny finished his French toast with gusto. “Did he push you to be the best you could be, too?”

Their father had been more interested in trying to persuade Matt that giving up youth football for soccer was a mistake. Never mind that soccer was the world’s most popular sport, with billions of fans in all corners of the globe. Or that Matt had gone on to earn a full scholarship on the Clemson soccer team.