Twice the Chance

“Good job! You made the stop!” A man’s deep voice cut through the warm August air.

The path of the trail brought Jazz even with the net, which was about thirty feet away. Off to one side of the girl stood a tall man with golden-brown hair wearing a T-shirt and athletic shorts. Probably the girl’s father. He clapped his hands.

“Be warned, Robbie,” he cried. “The girl in goal is a beast!”

“Boys are beasts, not girls!” The girl was dancing in place, making it appear as though the lightning bolts on her shirt were poised to strike.

“Give me the ball, Brooke.” The third voice belonged to a young boy. “I’m scoring on you this time!”

Jazz had been so focused on the girl, she hadn’t noticed the boy. Jazz kept running, putting one foot in front of the other by rote, craning her neck as her progress took her past where the boy stood.

He was about the same age as the girl with the exact shade of dark red hair.

The toe of Jazz’s running shoe caught on something, and she pitched forward. She reached out her arms to break her fall and slammed down hard on her right side. The breath squeezed out of her and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She sucked at the air, finally feeling it reach her lungs.

Pain seared her shoulder and the forearm that had taken the brunt of the fall. It was of little consequence. What mattered were the redheaded boy and girl. Were they the twins she sometimes found herself searching for no matter how determined she was to remain out of their lives?

She’d gotten such a brief look at the boy, she could have been mistaken about how old he was. Even if he were roughly the same size as the girl, that didn’t mean they were twins.

The ground in front of her yielded no answers.

Praying the children and the man hadn’t seen her fall, she got to her feet gingerly. The trio on the soccer field was laughing about something, immersed in their own little world that didn’t include Jazz. The man was now standing in goal beside the boy, who gripped the soccer ball with both hands.

Drawing in a deep breath, Jazz wiped at the dirt on her scraped arm and brushed at the twigs and grass on her running clothes. Thankfully nobody had seen her fall. As it got later in the morning and the August temperatures rose, the trail became less populated.

“Go deep, Robbie!” the man yelled, waving his arm to indicate a point roughly even with Jazz. “Brooke’s got a good punt.”

The man bent his head to say something to the girl, probably instructions. He watched as the girl took three long steps, dropped the ball and punted.

The black-and-white ball arced into the sky and flew down the field. It must have careened off the side of the girl’s foot because it didn’t travel in a straight line, instead landing and bouncing not far from Jazz.

The redheaded boy was running toward the ball, arms and legs pumping. Jazz told herself to resume her workout before the boy closed the distance between them but she craved a better look at him. With her heart hammering, she left the trail and headed for the rolling ball. She bent down, picked it up and raised her eyes.

The boy slowed, then stopped. His cheeks were red, she wasn’t sure whether from exertion or exposure to the sun. Freckles sprinkled his nose. His expression was open and earnest, something about it striking a note of familiarity she both searched for and feared noticing.

“Can I have that?” the boy asked.

Jazz stared at him, her mind a blank.

He pointed. “The ball.”

She looked down at her hands, almost surprised to see what they held. “Oh. Of course.”

Jazz tossed him the ball. He caught it easily, but stood his ground. His eyes dipped. “You’re bleeding.”

She gazed down at herself and saw blood trickling down her right leg from a gash on her knee. “I tripped over a root.”

“It looks like it hurts.”

“It’s nothing.” She felt numb to the injury, her entire focus on the boy. Like the girl, he wore long socks that she now saw covered shin guards. Even at his young age, he had an athletic build, and was wiry rather than muscular. As far as Jazz knew, nobody in her family was an athlete. Was that relevant?

“Well, bye.” The boy pivoted and dashed away.

She opened her mouth to call him back, then closed it. She shouldn’t prolong their encounter. To the boy, she was a stranger who’d happened to retrieve his ball. Maybe that’s all she was. She didn’t know how old the children were, whether they were twins or if they’d been adopted.

She could probably concoct a story, approach their father and get some answers. But what purpose would that serve? Even though she couldn’t help keeping an eye out for redheaded twins wherever she went, she would never consciously search for them. If they were happy, as this boy and girl seemed to be, she had no intention of disrupting their lives.

The boy appeared smaller and smaller as he retreated into the distance, finally stopping next to the man and the girl. The two children were virtually the same size, like twins might be. Jazz’s throat thickened. She tried to swallow but couldn’t manage it.

The boy said something to the man, then extended his arm and pointed to Jazz. The man patted the boy’s shoulder before he took off in a slow jog, heading directly for her. The children followed.

Jazz told herself to move, to rejoin the path and continue her run. Her feet didn’t cooperate, remaining as motionless as if they were glued to the grass. The man kept approaching, growing more substantial with every powerful stride. His coloring was nothing like the children’s, his hair a sun-lightened medium brown, his skin lightly tanned. He reached her a few seconds before the children.

“Hey, are you okay?” the man asked. “Robbie said you were bleeding.”

“She said she fell over a root,” Robbie added helpfully. The boy had come up behind him, arriving a few seconds before the girl. Up close, she looked remarkably like the boy.

The girl made a face. “Oh, gross!”

“Blood isn’t gross, Brooke,” the man said before addressing Jazz. “You look a little pale. You should sit down.”

With Brooke’s hair pulled back from her face and Robbie’s short haircut, it was easy to see their hairlines were identical, down to their widow’s peaks. Also the same were their oval faces, their green eyes and the freckles dotting their noses.

“Did you hear me? You’re not in shock, are you?” The man was talking again. To her. Jazz yanked her gaze from the children and focused on him. She placed him at somewhere around thirty, not much older than she was. With a slightly crooked nose and wide mouth, a combination that worked surprisingly well, he didn’t resemble the children facially, either.

“Sorry.” Her head was still spinning with possibility but she attempted a smile. “No, I’m not in shock. I’m fine.”

He frowned, his brows drawing together. “You should clean that cut so it doesn’t get infected.”

She attempted to rein in her scattered thoughts. “I will when I get home.”

“I have a first-aid kit in my bag,” he offered. “It’s over there by the goal.”

“Oh, no.” She immediately shook her head. “Thanks, but I couldn’t be a bother.”

“No bother,” he said. “Name the injury, and I’ve probably had it. I’m darn near an expert.”

She felt herself wavering. If she went with him, she could find out more about the children. What would it hurt to possibly verify these were the twins she’d given up at birth? She’d know for sure they were healthy and happy, all she could wish for.

“I don’t want to take time away from your kids,” she said, still undecided.

“They’re my niece and nephew,” he said.

“Uncle Matt’s not married,” Robbie added. “He doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”

“Mom says he has lots of girlfriends,” Brooke chimed in. “Nuh-uh,” Robbie said. “I never met one.”

“Not serious girlfriends.” Brooke sounded years older than she was.