Incidental Contact (Those Devilish De Marco Men) (14 page)

“Later, guys.” Colton slammed the lid on his tool chest and grabbed his keys off the pegboard.

When he’d cleared the back door, Dan turned to Eric, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his coveralls. “Hard to believe that kid’s havin’ a baby, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Sometimes.” He faked a grin. “You and Cynda better hurry up, before you’re too old.”

Dan chuckled. “Call me old-fashioned, but we’re gettin’ married first. What about you? You just gonna be the fun uncle?”

“You know me too well. Spoil ‘em rotten and hand ‘em back.” He didn’t have an urge to have kids, but wow. He knew Colton wanted to marry Lila, but he’d had no idea Dan was thinking about marriage. He supposed that wasn’t a shock, but... damn.
Dan and Colton. Married.

He tried to picture himself married. Tried to think if he’d ever had that sort of faith in another person.
In a woman? No.

He barely noticed when Dan left, lost in thinking about the women he’d known. The list wasn’t as long as his brothers made out, if he only counted the ones he’d been with more than once. Most were either married now, like Dee, or too young to settle down. Oh, he knew his share of women like Dani. The kind who used their looks to trade up to guys with ever-larger bank accounts. Or Tina, the kind who got off on emasculation.

He dated woman like them to stay away from women like Amy. It was one thing to be judged lacking by someone you didn’t want. Another thing altogether to come up short of the prize he craved, a woman who’d stand by a man through thick and thin.

Except, until recently, he hadn’t believed those existed.

He’d always been sure marriage was just a prelude to ending up like his father, heartbroken and alone. He’d honed the ability to know when a woman began to weigh him as a potential mate and father, rather than just a good time. To know when it was time to bail, so things never got sticky. This town was so small, the last thing he needed was a posse of pissed-off exes.

But how far from ending up like Rafe was he, really? Not heartbroken. He knew he had to risk his heart to have it break, but sad and alone. He moved through the silent shop, flipping locks and double-checking doors in the anal manner Dan used, pulling on the doors after turning the bolt, as though not trusting the lock to engage.

So these long nights alone aren’t going away.
He was still grinding on that realization while he locked the back door and climbed into his truck. He scrolled through his phone for the hell of it. Not a single name brought to mind any woman he’d want to spend time with, but he couldn’t delete them, or he might accidentally answer when one of them called. But the memory of Amy’s eyes, leaning over him at the mall, kept him warm until the frigid truck heated.

He turned off the highway and gunned the big diesel motor, speeding past Carpenter’s farm with the usual knot in his gut. Rather than turn right onto De Marco Farms Road, Eric went straight at the stop sign. Grass nearly obliterated the curving path leading to the old railroad spur and the buildings close to the tracks.

The large roll of black plastic was right where he’d thought, in the huge shed that had once held conveyor belts, packing crates, and forklifts. In this spot, the farm had once packed the fruit before loading the four-foot-square crates into railroad boxcars cars and tractor trailers. Only empty crates remained. Irrigation pipe lay stacked along one side of the long shed. His only aim tonight had been to double-check that Dan hadn’t tossed this stuff. It was colder than a well digger’s ass in the cavernous building. Where were all the big kerosene blowers? In the machine shop, most likely.

He could hang out at home, thinking about the emergency bottle of Jack Daniels he kept hidden in the back of a kitchen cabinet, or get the fuck out of here and go watch basketball played on wheels.

Hot air, soiled with the stench of sweat and old socks, hit Eric in the face when he opened the  door to the gymnasium. The hollow sound of a bouncing ball rang from inside the arena. A folding table barred his way into the gym. Reaching for his wallet, he peered through the open doors.

Shouts and grunts punctuated the action. Elbows flew. Hands grabbed for the ball. Wheelchairs, most with sharply-canted wheels, slammed together like bumper cars. A yellow-shirted player fell out of his seat, face-planting on the hardwood. Eric winced, but the man immediately used arms bulging with muscle and sinew to lever his body—and the chair—upright in one motion.

Someone hooked the ball out of the conflagration, flinging it toward a teammate on the edge of the court. That guy even managed to dribble the ball, in between grabbing the thin tubing mounted to the outside of the narrow bicycle tires, while racing toward the basket. Another chair hurtled up the court. The occupant yelled and waved.

The speed of the game astounded him. These guys moved the ball every bit as fast, if not faster, than guys on two legs. Amongst the swirling kaleidoscope of action and the metallic thunder of colliding chairs, he spied Amy.

Chairs crashed again. One player reached in to knock the ball away and it spun loose. Two players in different-colored shirts urged their chairs in that direction, both getting a hand on the ball. The chairs were fitted with a metal bumper to protect the players’ feet—the ones who had feet. A flash of yellow caught his eye. A red-shirted player with copper-colored hair, who wasn’t going after the ball, was hit broadside by the fast-moving man in the yellow jersey, causing the guy in red to tip over. Apparently unperturbed, he quickly popped back up, chair and all.

Amy raised one balled fist over her head. With the other hand, she pointed toward the player in yellow, who’d rammed the red-headed dude. Her pink cheeks expanded as she blew a shrill blast on her whistle.

She hadn’t been kidding. The action on the court looked like roller derby, hockey, football, basketball, and NASCAR all rolled in one. Eric watched Jonah’s baseball games because of the kid, not because he liked the sport. Basketball and football left him lukewarm, but this looked like a sport he could enjoy.

“Personal foul, number fifteen on the away team,” Amy yelled, looking in the direction of a folding table along the sidelines. When chairs weren’t colliding, the gym was so quiet, her voice carried. “One and one!” Extending both index fingers, Amy waggled them up and down. He didn’t know much about basketball, but he knew her call meant the player got a second foul shot only if he sank the first.

“That’ll be two-fifty.”

“What?” He’d been so caught up in the action on the court he’d forgotten why he was standing here. Looking down at the older lady behind the folding table, he realized the price of admission was scribbled on a piece of paper taped to the table. He flipped through the bills in his wallet, but glanced up again, realizing Amy had moved ten feet in his direction. At least her uniform pants were hemmed, revealing the black gym shoes he’d removed last night. He felt a moment’s fear, worried whether she’d get home with all her toes. These guys were maniacs.

“It’s two-fifty for tonight’s admission, or five for the weekend. The money goes to defray the cost of the officials,” the woman explained.

Eric tore his gaze away, relinquishing his hold on a five in favor of a ten. “Keep the change.” The woman handed him a ticket. “Hang on to that. You’ll need to show it tomorrow.”

He dropped the orange-colored stub into his wallet.

“Are you one of Liv Chapman’s grandsons?”

Eric tore his gaze away from the court to state at the woman. “Yes, ma’am.”

“She used to come to the public library all the time. What a great lady.”

“She’s the reason I learned to read,” Eric confessed, just to have something to say. “Didn’t pick it up too good in school, but she helped me figure it out.”

“Then you must be Eric,” the woman stated.

Fuck. Small towns.
A man couldn’t outrun a damn thing. “Yes, ma’am.”

The stranger’s smile reminded him of Amy’s. “She talked about her grandsons often. I bet I know something embarrassing about every one of you.”

“Hey, now.” Eric pretended to reach for his wallet again, giving her a wide-eyed look. “I think I have a twenty.”

She laughed at his bribery attempt and smoothed short, dark hair from her face. “Enjoy the game.”

Another whistle sounded. Stepping through the door, he watched the players line up for the foul shot. The player at the top of the painted lane bounced the ball twice before arcing the shot into the air. The clear backboard allowed Eric to see the ball’s flight. He realized, with amazement, the baskets weren’t lowered from their standard height. The ball rang the rim, circling... circling... and slowly toppled in.

Amy stepped forward to grab the ball, then backed out of the painted area to toss it to the red-haired shooter. Suddenly, the young man she’d charged with the foul spun his chair. An angry scowl darkened his face. The chair’s big tire clipped Amy in the back of the knee. His jutting elbow simultaneously caught her upper thigh and the bumper around his feet clipped her in the ankle. She pitched forward and sprawled onto the hardwood. Her palms shrieked when she tried to break her fall. Unlike last night, she cried out, then rolled onto her butt, drawing her knee to her chest. Her face contorted.

Sprinting into the blue-painted area, Eric waded into the sea of men and metal. Elbowing the other striped-shirted official aside, he squatted. “Amy! Honey, are you okay?”

The male referee blew his whistle loud enough to make Eric wince. “Technical foul, number fifteen on the away team. Two shots!” The official placed the flattened palm of one hand atop the upright and rigid fingers of the other, forming a “T”. He blew the whistle again. “Time out,” the man shouted, pointing to his chest with both index fingers.

Eric turned back to Amy. “I’m fine.” She flexed her knee, but every motion brought a grimace.

Looking over her shoulder, he glared at the man who’d hit her. The guy rolled slowly across the floor. The player reached the sidelines and began chatting with another participant, apparently unconcerned.

Eric’s temper flared, but how the hell could he threaten a man in a wheelchair?

“I don’t know who you are, but I need you to get off the court,” stated the other official. “This is a tournament game. Get up, Amy. Walk it off.”

“Are you sure you can stand?” Eric ignored the referee. He placed his hand over hers, atop her knee. She stared at his hand, slowly raising her eyes. Her lips parted. Eric leaned forward.

“Excuse me.” The hand came down on his shoulder again. He glanced up, glaring at the man hovering above him, basketball tucked under one arm.

“Who the hell are you to tell her to just walk it off? She must’ve slid ten feet. That guy hit her deliberately. He should be ejected.”

The official chucked. “The lane’s only twelve feet wide. She didn’t slide two feet. I saw it happen. Might’ve been incidental contact, but I teed him up anyway. He’s got an attitude.” The information was punctuated by a friendly smile. Eric had the fleeting impression he’d seen the guy before, but he couldn’t match the face with a vehicle.

“Dude needs his ass whipped,” Eric insisted. He had no clue what “teed him up” might mean. His inability to place this guy only added to his annoyance.

He turned back to Amy. Her face was so red, he wondered if her kneecap could be broken. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Do you think we should let a doctor look at that knee? I can drive you to the hospital. That’s faster than calling an ambulance.”

“That penalty’s not in the rule book, sir. I appreciate your concern, but we have a game to call here. Amy, you getting up or what?”

Shaking off Eric’s hand, she straightened her knee. Her foot had nowhere to go but between his legs, since he was right in front of her. That generated an unfortunate image in his head. His cock began to press against his zipper. Relief battled annoyance.
Of all the damned inconvenient times.

She winced. “I’m okay, Daddy.”

Daddy? Aw, fuck.

Eric dropped his head, feeling heat crawl up his neck. This man had been instrumental in getting Jonah on a baseball team last spring. His name eluded Eric, but this guy and Lila were old friends.

And he was Amy’s father.
Just... fuck.

Eric got to his feet and held out his hand to Amy, careful to keep his back turned to her dad. He began reviewing the Periodic Table in his head. He’d silently recited the chemical notations for hydrogen and helium when she slid her hand into his. Helping her stand, the only chemistry left in his head was the kind arcing between them. The dry heat in the gym must’ve caused the static electricity running up his arm, but it was all Eric could do not to pick her up and carry her to safety.

She snatched her hand away. “It’s hard enough to wear a bra
and
keep these guys’ respect without you treating me like some damn baby,” she whispered. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

“I came to watch the game.” 
Why’d you have to say “bra”?
Now all he could do was wonder if her bra matched those sexy panties.
Thank you, God, for whoever made baggy jeans.

“Great. Most people do that from the stands,” she hissed.

“If you two are done makin’ goo-goo eyes, we need that basket you’re standing under.” Eric dared a glance. Her father smirked.

Amy snatched the ball from beneath her father’s arm and stalked away, firing it to the guy lined up at the top of the painted area. “Two shots!” she cried, with a dark look at Eric and her father.

“Sorry,” Eric muttered. Judging from the way she moved, her knees were fine. “She’s just so damn little.” He tried to explain his reaction to her father.
Her father.
Eric swallowed hard, realizing as he looked into them, Amy had this man’s eyes.

“So are piranhas,” the man retorted, “but they get the job done.” With a friendly pat to Eric’s arm, he trotted to the opposite side of the painted lane.

Hurrying out of bounds, Eric took a seat on the bleachers. His gut tightened every time she had to dodge one of those damn chairs.