A Dream Worthy of the Risk

By Courtney Reece

Chance Chandler is about to become a senior in high school. After losing his father two years prior in an airplane accident, Chance receives millions of dollars in the settlement from the insurance company, as well as inheriting his father’s architect and associates company.

A multimillion-dollar future awaits Chance after graduation; it seems he has everything, but there is something that he desires and can’t stand to live without that just might cost him his future.

About the Author

A man of character and intelligence. A mind full of imagination that wandered into the midst of creativity. A heart that was fixated on success and a desire to chase his dreams. “You never knew what dream my grandfather was going to accomplish next. All you knew was that nothing was going to stand in his way”. This was the only way his granddaughter (Courtney) knew how to describe her grandfather. After Ken passed away, Courtney found his rough draft wrapped up in a plastic bag and buried under a bunch of papers. She knew it was his work because the pages still smelled like him. After serving almost seven years in the military and two tours in Afghanistan, Courtney decided to go home and honor her grandfather’s legacy by typing up his manuscript and publishing his book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662457760

Book preview

Chapter 1

I swung open the kitchen door. Mom was putting bread in the toaster. It never failed to amaze me that she was as attractive as she was. Patty squeezed past me and entered the kitchen.

Morning, peoples, noticed Mom.

Are you running late this morning, Mom?

Mom turned to her. Why, Patty?

Well, you don’t often make breakfast in your underwear.

Mother was attired in a half-slip and bra. I forgot to wash Chance’s uniform last night and decided that a good breakfast would do both of you good for a change. Finish the eggs while I get dressed, Patty.

As she left the kitchen, she asked if I was going to stand there all day. Your uniform is in the dryer. Hurry up, your breakfast is almost ready.

She broke my train of thought; I was still admiring her body. I headed for the laundry room to get my baseball uniform. I would have to be less obvious in my admiration if I wanted life to remain status quo.

For the last couple of years or so, I had become very aware of the dress code, or lack of it, in our house. As far back as I could remember, we had never been shy about our bodies. I guess we were nudist without thinking about it. Patty and I would bathe together when we were younger. Patty was almost three years younger than I, and I guess we were only seven and four years old; it was natural. I remember when I was younger then that we would both bathed together. Mom had a huge bathtub in her bathroom. I started showering about that time, and I guess that was the end of the communal bathing. I was probably more aware than her because I was more often than not sporting an erection when I saw her less than fully clothed. I usually wore my towel around the house when I was dressed to hide this fact, and I sometimes think Patty is fully aware and flaunts herself a little when we are alone. At least it seems that way. We still swim nude. We have a large pool, and we don’t consciously go swimming nude, but if I’m in the pool swimming and Mom or Patty decides to have a swim, they swim nude while I’m in the pool. Swimming nude is the only way to swim, and at one time or another, we all agreed with that sentiment.

I retrieved my uniform and sox from the dryer, folded them, and put them in my duffle bag with my spikes and glove. Mom was back in the kitchen, fully dressed, nylons, yellow skirt, white blouse, and a leather belt that matched her shoes. A classy woman.

Did you get your uniform, Chance?

I nodded as I started to eat.

Whom do you play today? asked Patty.

Central, as if you didn’t know, I said.

Patty thought that the third baseman was a hunk and had a crush on him since the first game of the season.

Are you coming to the game, Mom?

What time does it start? she asked.

Four o’clock.

I should be able to make it. I have an appointment at two and, at worst, I’ll just be a little late.

Are you going to the game, Patty? I chuckled and said, That must be a rhetorical question. Moyer is playing third base for Central, and she will probably be in the third-base coach’s box with our coach just to be near him.

Eat your breakfast and keep quiet, Chance, Patty said as she took a swing at my shoulder, which I ducked.

I finished eating, drank the rest of my coffee, put my dishes in the dishwasher, grabbed my duffle bag and books.

Good luck, Chance.

Thanks, Mom

I walked around the table, kissed her on the cheek, and headed for the garage.

Don’t forget Patty tonight, she said.

I won’t, I answered and walked into the garage.

I stopped for a moment to admire my car, a sleek 1958 Thunderbird convertible, white with a white top and interior.

Chapter 2

Gramps had given me this car on my sixteenth birthday. Gramps bought it for Grandma in ’58 and drove it out of the showroom. The next week, Grandma was diagnosed with cancer and died two months later. Gramps took it back to the dealer for a refund, and the dealer offered him three thousand less than he had paid for it. He had it for two months and put eleven miles on it. He told the dealer what he could do with his offer, drove the car home, put it on blocks, and covered it in his garage for twelve years. A week before my sixteenth birthday, he had a mechanic change all his fluids, belts, battery, and anything else that needed changed and presented it to me and Patty. The deal was that when Patty turned sixteen, she became a part owner and shared equally in the car. Patty still had a year to go before she could get her license. It was my intention to buy her share of the car when the time came. I’m sure she would settle for a little sports car.

Let’s go! Last Chance before you make me late for class! Patty was sprawled all over the front seat. Let me drive to school.

Stop asking that question, you know you can’t. And stop calling me Last Chance! I backed out of the garage into the turnaround and headed down the hill that the driveway cut across to the highway below.

Patty reached across the seat with her left foot and cranked the volume up on the radio with her toes. I could see all the way up her skirt to the white panties she was wearing. She turned sideways in the seat, lowered the armrest between the seats, and put her left leg over the armrest and kicked me in the ribs.

What are you looking at? she asked.

I could feel the blood running up my neck to my face. I’m waiting for the time that you do that with your foot and break the knob off the radio, I replied.

That’s not what I asked you, Chance.

I glanced at her and there were no surprises about what she was wearing. A white pleated skirt, navy-blue blouse, white panties, and white sandals without nylons.

Put your leg down! I can see everything you own.

Your face is getting red, Chance. Am I embarrassing you?

Patty, I’ve seen you with nothing on, as a matter of fact, just last week. Why would you think I’m embarrassed?

You tell me, Chance, you’re the one blushing.

I was glad that she couldn’t see the erection that I was developing. I wanted to shift it. It was getting bound up in my pants, but she would surely guess if I did, so I ignored the pain and concentrated on my driving.

Well? she asked.

Patty, just shut up and put your leg down.

I thought you enjoyed looking at me.

Whether I do or not is not the conversation I’m about to have with my sister.

I guess that means yes, and it’s okay because I’m not your sister.

Patty, let’s don’t go there.

We settled into a thoughtful silence the rest of the way to school. I signaled for a left turn and pulled into the school parking lot. Patty put her leg down and turned around in her seat, gathered her books, and opened her door.

Patty, for god’s sakes, wait until I stop the car.

Let me out here, Chance! I don’t want to walk all the way in from the parking lot.

I stopped the car in front of the door, and she jumped out but not before she pulled up the back of her skirt and gave me a look at her gorgeous rear. I looked a second too long.

Ha, caught you, she said, looking over her shoulder and hurried off toward the doors.

I parked the car at the far end of the parking lot where it stood the least chance of getting dinged or scratched. This is why Patty wanted out at the door. She loved the car as much as I did but wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of parking this far away.

Chapter 3

Two periods to go and the next one was a spare. I had spent the whole day thinking about the game, Mom, and Patty, in that order. The bell sounded and woke me from my daydreaming. I collected my books and headed for the door. The teacher, Mr. Carter, was saying something about the homework but was being ignored by the entire class. I crossed to the other side of the hall and made my way to the study hall.

As I entered the library, Siba looked up and asked, Hey shithead, who is watching this spare since Herr Wolfgang is playing hooky today?

Don’t have a clue, I replied.

That’s right, he said. I forgot, you’re fucking clueless. He chuckled at his own weak attempt at humor.

Someone cleared their throat. I turned as I passed Siba.

Your language is atrocious, your manners are deplorable, and you have a total lack of respect for anything worthy of it. In short, you had better watch your mouth before I get you in real trouble.

Yeah, sure, sorry, Siba said.

Siba was the catcher on the ball team, I had a couple of classes with him and didn’t particularly care for him. Although he was a good catcher and I respected what he could do behind the plate, he was a crude show-off and thought he was as tough as they come…and probably was. Siba was my height, six foot one, but carried about twenty or twenty-five pounds more than my one hundred and seventy-five pounds, a stocky fellow that surprised people with his fast moves and skill as a catcher. He was also the best hitter on the ball team. Siba never passed up an opportunity to make a crack at my expense. Usually, a cheap shot or just a crude insult that was easy to ignore. Something about our personalities rubbed each other the wrong way.

The library was where we took our spares. I sat by myself at a long table and immediately started playing the ball game that would not start for another two hours. I barely noticed that someone had sat on the corner of my table until she spoke.

Keep the noise down please!

I looked up and Ms. Grey was looking around the room, awaiting compliance to her request for quiet.

When the students quieted down to a soft whisper, she turned her body until she was facing me, smiled, and said, Does the team have a good chance tonight? No pun intended.

When Ms. Grey smiled, she could pun all she wanted. Next to my mother, she was the prettiest woman I knew. Thick long red hair that reached her shoulders, green eyes, and a body that was full in the right places, and very narrow at the waist. Ms. Grey was about five foot six and probably about a hundred and ten pounds. If I ever was given an opportunity to design a woman, she would look an awful lot like Ms. Grey.

When she turned toward me, her knee was about a foot away from my elbow. If I leaned back in my chair, I could probably look up her skirt. I could feel the sweat on the palm of my hands.

I had several spares this year. Rather than waste the time sitting through spares in the library, I had opted for typing class. I felt it would help me in a university if I knew how to type. Ms. Grey was the typing teacher, and I had four classes with her every week for three and a half months. Typing class is seldom a participation type of class. You study the keyboard, you learn hand position, you practice, and are assigned work to type in a certain amount of time. This class has little repartee between the students and the teacher. I knew little of the personality of Ms. Grey but have been awestruck every time I walk into her classroom and first laid eyes on her. Her voice is soft and feminine, and she walks as if she was carrying books on her head. In my mind, she was a study of grace and beauty.

Shouldn’t be a problem, we defeated them once this year and were psyched up. This is the last game of the regular season. If we win, we go to the semifinals. I looked past her left shoulder and saw Siba sticking his tongue out and grabbing his crotch. Do you like baseball? I asked.

Yes, but I haven’t had a chance to see any of the games. Are you planning on playing ball professionally?

I don’t think so. I like the game, but I don’t think I’m pro material.

Well, I hear talk in the staff room, and it sounds to me like you may be offered a scholarship in the future.

I’ve got another year of high school before I have to think about that, I said.

Ms. Grey smiled. May I ask you a personal question?

For you, I am an open book. My comment suddenly sounded more like Wayne Siba than me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound fresh.

She laughed out loud and said, No apology needed. If you are flirting, I’ll consider that a compliment. How did you come by the name Chance?

Chance was my mother’s maiden name and my father liked it.

Was that your mother I saw at parents’ night a couple of months ago?

No, that was my stepmother. My mother died when I was two.

I’m sorry, she said. I didn’t mean to pry, but I feel better. I thought she had found the fountain of youth and I was envious.

I laughed, and students were turning around to see what Ms. Grey and