“We’re both seniors at Southeastern Florida State,” Dillon answered. When I glanced at him, he gave me a small shake of his head. I figured he didn’t want me to mention his mom was the one getting all the donations for the foster kids who were also students at our school. The kids already knew about it, but I hadn’t mentioned the name of the woman behind it all so he was clear on that front. I understood his desire to keep that fact to himself, and I gave him a nod.
“And Dillon is a genius at math, so I thought he could work with those of you who need some help in that area on SAT prep.”
A chorus of groans echoed around the room, the usual response to the mention of anything related to math.
“Hey, now,” Dillon chided. “Math isn’t that bad.”
“Good luck convincing them of that,” I laughed before getting him setup at a table with the group of students who were scheduled to take the SAT next month. Then I joined the other kids and looked over the progress they’d made on their college applications. It took about an hour to answer all their questions and work through any issues they had. After I sent them on their way, I walked over to where Dillon was still working with the other group.
“Thanks for the help, man. You should be a teacher or something. I learned more in an hour with you than I did all year long in math class,” Ian told Dillon as he shoved his stuff into his backpack. He was a basketball player who hadn’t gotten a scholarship to a division one or two team and thought that meant he had no chance at a college education. Now that he knew he could get his tuition covered by the state, he was hoping to get accepted to at least a DIII team so he could get some time on the court while he earned his degree. “But I still gotta say it; I don’t see how any of it relates back to real life.”
“C’mon, dude. You said you play basketball, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You might not realize it, but you use a ton of geometric concepts while playing the game.” Dillon leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement. “The dimensions of the court, diameter of the hoop and ball, and length from the three-point line to the hoop are all standard measurements for any basketball court. Then there’s the path the basketball will take when you take a shot, which is dependent on the angle at which it’s shot, the force applied, and the length of the player’s arms. Geometric principles are why you need a smaller angle when you shoot from the free throw line than a field goal. And statistics are essential for analyzing a game and determining individual strengths and weaknesses.”
“I love basketball, but it ain’t exactly real life unless you’re drafted into the NBA and making millions,” Ian pointed out.
“Are you still gonna play, even if you never get drafted?”
“Hell yeah, I am. My foster mom likes to joke that I was born with a basketball in my hand, and I’ll probably be buried with one in it too.” Ian chuckled, shaking his head.
“Then it’s real life for you.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But that’s just me.”
“Okay. But if you look hard enough, you’ll probably be able to find math in most things. Take me for example.” I took a step closer, curious about what Dillon would choose to share with the kids about his personal life. “I’m a fan of blackjack, which is all about math.”
He pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket and laid them face up on the table. “It’s based on conditional probabilities. What you’ve already seen affects what you’re going to see. If an ace is dealt, that’s one less available.” He pulled an ace out of the deck and set it to the side. “Knowing how the cards are going to be dealt works to a player’s advantage because asking for a card is one of the only decisions that’s entirely up to us. But the dealer doesn’t have the same freedom. They have to take one if the total of their cards is below seventeen, and they can’t take one if it’s between seventeen and twenty-one. So lower value cards favor the dealer because it’s less likely they’ll bust.” He pulled out an assortment of twos, threes, and fours. “The opposite is true for picture cards. They favor the player because the more of them left in the deck, the more chances there are for the dealer to bust.”
Ian asked the question I figured we were all thinking. “Dude. Are you talking about counting cards?”
Dillon shrugged his shoulders, shuffling the cards together before putting them back in his pocket. “Unless you have a photographic memory, you can’t count all the cards because casinos typically use six to eight decks at a time. But some players develop techniques to help them keep track, and they use math to do that too. They might keep a running tally by assigning a value every time they see a card. Plus one for cards two through six. Minus one for picture cards, aces and tens. No change for seven through nine. A high tally would favor the player because it means more face cards remain than lower value ones, and they’ll place their bets accordingly.”
“Okay.” I walked around the table and placed my hands on Dillon’s shoulders, absently noting how muscular they were. “I think that’s enough math lessons for today.”
Dillon twisted his neck and flashed me an apologetic grin over his shoulder. Unwanted butterflies swirled in my belly, and I quickly yanked my hands away from his shoulders and took a step backwards. His eyes flashed with male satisfaction and his grin grew wider. Determined to ignore the impact he had on me, I shifted my focus to the students. “Your test date is coming fast, so you’ll need to squeeze in as much extra study time as you can without neglecting your regular coursework. Maybe set aside some time during Thanksgiving break when you don’t have as much homework.”
“Ugh. Studying over break sucks,” one of the girls complained.
“Yeah, but you guys are in the homestretch. This test score is one of the last things you need to get into college. Trust me, it’ll be worth the extra effort.”
“I guess if you could get into college while recovering from a transplant, then the least I can do is a little bit of studying over a holiday break that isn’t even that big of a deal since I don’t have a family to celebrate it with anyway.”
The other kids nodded in agreement, and I snuck a peek at Dillon while everyone finished packing up. His brown eyes were wide with shock. I quickly looked away before he could ask me anything, and focused on saying my goodbyes as the kids all headed out. We both kept quiet—for which I was incredibly grateful—as Dillon helped me clean up the room. When we were back on the road, I turned to him and asked, "Were you really teaching my kids how to count cards?”
His lips tilted up at the edges. “Maybe just a little.”
“It’s a good thing none of them have any money to gamble or else they might learn to enjoy blackjack as much as you do.” His lip tilt turned into a full-fledged grin, and I glared at him. “I don’t know why you’re grinning at me! Look at what your affinity for gambling got you.”
“What?” He pointed at his face. “The black eye?”
“Yeah, for starters.”
His grin grew into a blinding smile. “It was worth it.”
“What? Why?”
“Because it’s the reason I met you.”
Shit. Those damn butterflies took flight in my stomach again.
8
Faith
I pressed my hand against my stomach, hoping to get those butterflies to settle down. Dillon’s gaze slid to where it rested before he looked out the windshield towards the road again. “You hungry?”
“What?” I shook my head, hoping it’d help clear up the dazed feeling I was experiencing.
“By the time we make it back to campus, it’ll be close to dinner time. I figured since we’re already out, maybe you’d want to stop and grab some food instead of being stuck with whatever they’re serving in the cafeteria tonight.”
“I—”
He didn’t give me the chance to shoot his suggestion down. “I remember how bad it sucked when I lived on campus, eating so many meals there. My friends and I used to head over to my house a few times a week just to get away
from it and catch a home-cooked meal.”
“It’s not that bad.” When he snorted in disagreement, I rushed to defend my opinion. “It really isn’t. I mean, the entrees aren’t always that great. And they tend to be high in sodium, but the salad bar is actually pretty good.”
His gaze slid towards me again. “You need to watch your sodium?”
I hated when I slipped up around people who didn’t already know about my illness. “Yeah, I was pretty sick a few years ago, and it’s one of the things I need to do to stay healthy now.”
“Is that what that girl meant about you getting a transplant?”
I’d been relieved that he’d let the mention of my transplant drop while we’d been in the classroom, hoping he’d take the hint and not bring it up again. But apparently I wasn’t that lucky, and he was just waiting for the right time. When we were alone. And I could feel extra awkward talking about it. Having the conversation with only the two of us felt different. It was probably because my transplant was just another part of my life story when I was talking to other foster kids about overcoming our struggles and moving on to get a college education.
“Yeah, but it was a few years ago.”
“Still, a transplant is a major surgery, right?”
“Definitely,” I mumbled, looking out the passenger side window and thinking about how difficult my recovery had been.
“With a long hospital stay?”
I turned to look at him, surprised by the question. It wasn’t what most people thought to ask when they found out I’d had a transplant. “Yeah, I was there for a couple of months before the surgery and then another week afterwards before they discharged me to a rehab facility.”
“They sure do like to rush you out of there as soon as they can, don’t they?”
I was just as surprised by his answer as I was the last question he’d asked me. “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
He nodded, clenching his jaw and making that muscle jump in it again. “It wasn’t as long as the months you spent in one, but I was stuck there for more than a month after I was in a serious car accident my senior year of high school.”
“Oh.” I thought about how he’d mentioned his parents being big on car safety, and it suddenly made sense. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Your mom never mentioned it.”
“I’m sure she didn’t. It’s not something any of us are very comfortable talking about.”
“I can understand that.” And respect it, too.
“You probably get it more than my friends do.”
That was putting it mildly since there wasn’t much about my life that I was comfortable talking about with most people. It was ironic considering how much time I spent talking about my past with foster kids in high school. But what I was doing with them meant enough to me that I pushed past the discomfort because I knew I had to share if I wanted to make a difference with them. And I knew they wouldn’t judge me because of my past.
Dillon turned into the parking lot for a locally owned Italian restaurant near campus. I’d heard good things about it, but I hadn’t eaten there since they were supposed to be on the pricier side. It was rare for me to eat out, and when I did, I was careful picking the restaurant so I didn’t spend too much money. “What are we doing here?”
“Grabbing dinner.”
“But I didn’t say yes when you asked about it.”
“You didn’t say no either,” he pointed out as he pulled into a parking spot and turned off the engine.
“Only because you cut me off and didn’t give me the chance to tell you I was fine with eating dinner on campus.”
“C’mon, you know you’d rather have some homemade pasta instead of whatever crap they’re serving in the cafeteria tonight,” he coaxed.
“But I—”
“Take a whiff. You can smell how delicious it is from here, even with the doors and windows closed.”
I breathed in, and the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and olive oil filled my nose. “Oh, wow. It does smell good.”
“It tastes even better.”
“Fine,” I huffed. “I guess I can eat some pasta for dinner tonight.”
Dillon waited until we were on the sidewalk, and he was guiding me through the restaurant’s front door before he responded. “It’s a good thing you agreed because there was no way I was leaving here without eating the fuck out of some Italian food.”
Startled laughter burst out of me, and I glanced up to find his brown eyes were filled with humor—just like they’d been when I’d spotted him on campus my first day of school. And damn if it didn’t make my heart race like it had back then...but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to give him a hard time.
“What would you have done if I’d refused?”
He bent his head low before answering. “If the sniff test hadn’t worked, I would have told you I couldn’t resist ordering myself some takeout to bring home with me. Not when I was this close to one of my favorite restaurants.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t be able to deny you one of your favorites?” I whispered back as the hostess approached us with two menus in her hands.
“Table for two?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” he replied.
“Right this way.”
We followed behind as she led us to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t be able to,” Dillon said after we were seated.
“Hoping I wouldn’t be able to what?”
“Deny me a meal from my favorite restaurant.”
“Ah, yeah.” The heat of his hand on my lower back as we’d walked across the restaurant had scattered my brain cells. “That.”
A busser came over and poured ice water into the glasses in front of us and left a basket of bread with butter on the table.
“I would have made it worth your while, though.”
A vivid image of exactly how he could’ve done that popped into my brain—one involving both of us naked—and I almost choked on the sip of water I’d just taken. “Pardon?” I asked once my coughing fit was over.
“I was going to add a few of their best dishes to my order so you’d have plenty of food to take back to your dorm with you.” He widened his dark eyes, pretending to be all innocent, but the wicked gleam in them gave him away. “Why? What’d you think I was going to say?”
“Exactly that,” I muttered, opening up my menu to hide behind it while I searched for options that best fit my diet.
“Uh-huh. Sure it was,” he chuckled. “I’m willing to place a high stake bet that your idea for how I could do it was a hell of a lot more interesting than mine.”
My cheeks heated as I thought about how that would only happen if he could’ve found someone to bet against him, and it sure as hell wouldn’t have been me. Luckily, he let the subject drop and offered me suggestions for the best items to order. My mouth watered at the manicotti and lasagna listed on the menu, but all that cheese and tomato sauce meant their sodium content was pretty high. I might’ve risked ordering one of them, but the pasta primavera sounded pretty good, too. It was a safer option; pasta with lots of sautéed vegetables and grilled chicken breast in an olive oil based sauce with some fresh, chopped tomato. But I still let out a little whimper when Dillon ordered the lasagna.
“You can have a bite of mine if you’ll give me a taste of your pasta,” he offered. “I’ve never ordered that one before.”
“Sure, that’d be great.”
“Other than watching your diet, is there anything special you need to do because of the transplant?”
I didn’t like talking about my medical care with anyone other than my doctor, his nurses, or Sarah. So it was a surprise when I found myself answering his question without any additional prodding on his part. “I’ll be on anti-rejection meds for the rest of my life, and I’ll always have to wear this”—I pulled the medical alert tag I wore on a necklace out from under my shirt so he could see it—“just in case somethi
ng happens because the meds make me immune-suppressed.”
“That isn’t too bad.”
“It really isn’t,” I agreed, finally giving in to the lure of the bread basket and pulling out a warm slice. I slathered it with butter, took a small bite, chewed, and swallowed before I continued. “Everything else is pretty manageable. Regular exercise, eating healthy, limiting my exposure to the sun—things like that.”
He nodded and rubbed the left side of his chest. “I guess I was lucky when it came to that at least.”
“What do you mean?”
“Other than some mild pain meds for a short amount of time, I didn’t have to take anything after I was discharged from the hospital. Exercising and eating healthy”—he flashed me a grin—“or at least mostly healthy, aren’t too much of a problem for me because I was pretty serious about football back when I was in high school. So it wasn’t much of a lifestyle change for me.”
“I get what you’re saying, but I count myself very lucky to be taking those pills each and every day. There are more than eighty thousand people waiting on the transplant list, and seventeen of them die every day.”
“Shit,” he hissed, rearing back in his seat.
“Yeah, I should have been one of those seventeen, but somehow a miracle occurred for me.”
“Thank fuck for that.”
I liked how that came out. Low. Raspy. Heartfelt. “You can say that again.”
“How about I just say that I’m glad you got your miracle.”
I liked that even more, but I wanted to lighten the mood a little and thought back to that day I’d first seen him again. “You aren’t serious about football anymore?”
“No, my injuries were too extensive. College football wasn’t in the cards for me.”
He seemed so sad that I found myself apologizing. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard for you.”
“It wasn’t losing football that was hard, it was—”
The waiter chose that moment to appear with our orders, and the moment was lost. I was too distracted by the ridiculously delicious smells coming from our plates to remember what we’d been talking about by the time the waiter offered us grated parmesan, refilled our waters, and left us alone.
The Fortuity Duet Page 7
