GROUNDHOG DAY mixed with SIXTEEN CANDLES and a splash of DOCTOR WHO. A boy forever reincarnated as himself meets his soulmate for the 200th time, but can she solve the puzzle and break the curse to make herself his last?
*****
Martha Beckett's life...
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"Just a coffee," Martha said to the waitress with a name tag reading "Helen".
Helen scribbled shorthand on her check-pad and turned her false teeth and defeated eyes to James. "For you, son?"
He glanced to Martha. "Do you mind if I eat?"
"Yeah, sure. Go for it."
He smiled back to Helen. "Plain omelette?"
"What kinda' toast?"
"Could I get a banana instead?"
"Sliced or in the peel?"
"Whichever is easiest, Helen."
Her laugh lines twitched as she scribbled his order. "To drink?"
"Ice water, thanks."
Helen left with their order. The diner had been a forty minute drive from the school. It was a quarter full of mostly teenagers. Martha didn't recognize any of them nor did any of them seem to recognize her or James.
"Been here before?" Martha asked.
"Not in this life, but yeah. It's not bad. Kitchen's clean."
"That's... good to know. Anyway, you were saying?"
"Yes. You are correct – the games are not predetermined and it's up to me to react as they unfold. The only exception tonight was the tip-off. Simmons always wins and tips it back and to his left – without fail. Every single time. So that's one play I can jump."
Helen returned with Martha's coffee and James' ice water. Martha tore open a packet of artificial sweetener and dumped it into her cup. James winced.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Something wrong with the sweetener?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not your parent."
The conversation flashed in her mind – in a previous life, he scolded her for the sweetener, and 'you're not my parent' was her counter. Another play he can jump. It didn't seem fair. But if she wanted him in her life, she reasoned, this was the deal.
He continued, "But at the same time, I've played north of 10,000 games with this team so I have an innate understanding of who my teammates are and how they play – to whom I can look for a backdoor cut; on whom I can rely for help defense; which will rise under pressure and which will shrink..."
"I think I understand," Martha said and took a sip of her coffee, it's sweet aftertaste now oddly bitter.
"The same is true of the opponents," he added. "I've played against Lincoln's class of '95 eight hundred times give or take, so I've learned their tendencies as well. Like their point guard – Jake Mathis. Every time he shoots, passes, or drives, he flares his nostrils just before the move. If he's faking the shot, pass, or drive, they stay relaxed – no exceptions."
