Incidental Contact (Those Devilish De Marco Men) (16 page)

“You want to forfeit?” Amy asked, eyes rounding. So did Eric’s. HE glanced at the scoreboard. The team was up by four points.

“What math?” He looked to Maze in confusion.

“Player point limit is twelve. Each player gets classified by his degree of injury. The worse the injury, the lower the number assigned. That Kevin dude looks to me like a three, maybe a two-point-five. These two on the bench might be fours, since they seem to have some mobility in their legs. You’d be a five. No injury.”

“Player point limit?” Eric still didn’t get it.

“On the floor. Only a total of twelve points at a time. Rule’s to encourage coaches to utilize every level player.”

The coach had to put five players on the floor, so Eric saw immediately, Kevin had to play.

“Can you ask the other coach if he’ll give me time to work on our equipment?” the coach begged. Amy looked undecided.

“I can get him back in the game,” Eric stated, rising.

Amy’s father joined her on the sidelines. Looking at Eric, he asked, “How long will it take?”

Eric hustled down the bleachers, trying to recall whether he had everything he’d need. He squatted and picked up one of the screws. “Say, thirty minutes?” The screw looked like a standard size, something he might have. If not, he could ream out the holes and use a larger gauge screw, but that would require some work on the chair later, to make the repair permanent.

The player raised his chin in acknowledgment. “Hey, ‘preciate the thought, man, but the damn screws are worthless without lock nuts.” The guy snatched up a towel, wiped his face, and slung it onto the floor.

Eric clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Yeah, I know that. I have those, or I can rig somethin’. I got a patch kit, too. You must have a hole in that inner tube. Y’all got a bicycle pump?” The coach nodded. Eric turned, jabbing a finger in the direction of his friend. “Maze, will you see if the concessions lady’ll give you a cup of water? Then grab some hand soap out of the bathroom to put in it.”

“I’ll ask the away team’s coach if they’ll agree to the delay.” Amy turned to cross the gym. Her father raised a brow and gave Eric a hard look, before trotting after her.

Without waiting for a decision, Eric raced to his truck. Yanking open the back door, he slid a hand down the side of the seat, grabbing the latch. The toolbox concealed behind the seat was heavy, since it held about seventy sizes of screws. He’d never bothered to put the box back in his garage after finishing the nursery addition for Colton.

“Hey!” He turned to see Amy holding the fire exit door open. “The other team isn’t happy, but Daddy’s talking to them. They’re undefeated and don’t like the idea of our local boys handing them their asses. Now they smell blood in the water.” She scowled. “I’m supposed to be impartial, but damn, they’re being assholes.”

Hurrying across the court, he laid out the tools he thought he’d need, admiring the nice foot pump waiting. The player had shifted onto the lowest bleacher. The other team still huddled on the far side of the court.

Amy’s dad approached. “Ten minutes is the best I can do, coach. We have two more games after this and they’re calling for snow tonight. People gotta get home.”

Eric grinned. “We’ll take it.” Grabbing the wheelchair, he winked at Maze, who now held a cup. “Time me.”

“Still got NASCAR on the brain, I see.” Maze laughed, but raised his wrist.

“A slow pit crew’s worse than no pit crew,” Eric retorted.

The chair had a simple system to disconnect the wheel from the axle. Eric yanked the plastic lever. Once he had the tire off the chair, he clamped it between his legs. He loosened the rubber from the rim, using two putty knives to break the seal. He extracted the tube, but left it connected at the valve. If the tear was at the valve, they were screwed.

“One minute,” Maze announced, holding out the cup. Eric dipped his fingers into the water, then fisted the soapy mixture around the slender tube. Swiping his hands on his jeans, he connected the pump and stepped on the lever.

While he pumped, he dropped the screw in Maze’s hand. “Try the thirty-two gauge, half inch. If that’s the wrong size, find me the right one.” He jabbed a finger toward the tool box.

“On it, boss man. There’s the hole.” Maze pointed, but Eric had already seen the bubbles, made by air leaking through the hole in the inner tube.

Running his finger along the inside of the tire, he felt the problem. Grabbing a set of needle nose pliers, he extracted a thin piece of wire, dropping the scrap into his tool box. “Got it.”

“Three minutes,” Maze intoned, barely raising his head from sorting through the toolbox.

Nodding, Eric grabbed the small patch kit and dropped to his knees. Draping the rubber across his thigh, he sanded the seam on the inner tube flat, so the patch would stick.

“Got ‘em!” Maze waved a small plastic container before setting the pack of screws on the bleachers.

“Find the lock nuts. I know they’re in there.”

He’d bought the patch kit because it had a cool feature, swabs that held denatured alcohol in the plastic tube connecting the two cotton tips. Snapping one end caused the alcohol to saturate the other tip. He swabbed the spot he’d sanded, blowing to help the liquid dry faster. Slapping the pre-glued patch in place, Eric kept his thumb on the circle of rubber for a moment, letting his body heat help the glue soften for a good bond.

“Four minutes. Got your lock washers, brother.”

“Grab that power screwdriver. Find me two bits that fit those screws,” Eric barked. He was certain to fumble one, since the quick-change driver bits were held in place by magnets and a short metal collar. One of the putty knives slipped off the rim, nearly jabbing Kevin in the knee.
Slow down. Don’t fuck up.
The blades were too wide for this job, but Eric kept them moving, forcing the rubber back into the channel.

He had the tire and rim reassembled by the time Maze called the six-minute mark. He replaced the tire on the axle and jumped up to inflate the tube. At eight minutes, he was on his knees again, giving the tire an experimental spin. The axle seemed to drag, so he squirted a bit of powdered graphite in the joint.

The gym’s heat had to be running wide open. Eric dragged his sleeve across his forehead. Grabbing the pump, he checked the air pressure. Looked good. Turning his attention to the grab wheel, he nodded to his helper. With Maze feeding him screws and lock nuts, the simple task took no time. With time to spare, he flipped the chair to check the pressure in the opposite tire and added about twenty pounds of air. “I think you’re running these too slack,” he explained to the player. “That adds drag.” He added the air and gave that axle a shot of graphite for good measure, though the uninjured tire seemed to spin smoothly.

“Call it.” Eric leaned back on his heels, spinning the screwdriver around his fingers and grinning.

“Nine minutes, forty-eight seconds.”

“Not world record pace, but you’re good to go.”

Eric angled the chair close. Kevin heaved himself into it. “Wow, that was amazing. Thanks.” The young man lifted his legs onto the metal footplate, then grabbed for the ends of the hanging safety belt and jammed them together. “Can I pay you?”

Eric leaned in. “Sure can. Number fifteen? He needs to bleed.”

Kevin grinned and held out a fist for him to bump. His blue eyes were intent. “Been doggin’ that asshole all night. Consider it done.”

Amy’s father blew his whistle. “Away team’s ball, out of bounds!”

A rotund black man had appeared about the time Eric pulled the tire off the rim. He still hovered beside Maze. “My name’s Gene Rolley. I’m the team manager. What’s your name, young man?”

Eric introduced himself, then slapped Maze on the back. “This is Amazin’ Mason Elliot. Back in the day, he was a pretty fair ball player at the high school. He’d like to talk to you about helping coach, if you’re the man in charge.”

“Yeah, I know you. You’re Pug Elliot’s boy, the soldier,” the older man stated, grabbing the hand Maze extended. “Let’s talk.”

Backing away, Eric began packing his tools, but kept his gaze on Kevin. He couldn’t help breaking into a wide smile when the player slammed his chair on number fifteen like a pissed-off bull.
Ten minutes well spent.

“Hey, mister, could you lower my seat? It’s about,”—the tow-headed player held his thumb and forefinger about a half inch apart—“that much too high.”

“Sure thing.” Eric grabbed his Allen wrenches and a set of calipers. He was just finishing the simple task when a whistle sounded. Amy’s father yelled, “Time out!” Amy came off the court. Her cheeks were flushed. No trace of her makeup remained. Sweat trickled down the sides of her face. Her uniform was unflattering as hell and he wanted to kiss her.

“I think someone’s about to get their ass handed to ‘em. Thanks to you.” Her grin was infectious. “That was impressive.”

The admiration in her eyes made the job worthwhile. “Not as impressive as the way these guys play. We change flats six days a week.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Dee told me you worked for a NASCAR team once.”

He gave a curt nod.
Damn Dee.
“A former NASCAR driver and team owner hired me to work in his shop.” Nothing beat the excitement of racing. A grown man could be blown aside like a leaf by a row of racecars going by at nearly two hundred miles an hour. You couldn’t duct tape your way through shit like that. More than winning depended on doing the job right.

“Who? Which team owner?”

“Cotton Gowens.”

Her eyes went wide before she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes again. “What happened?”

His excitement evaporated. Turning away, he kicked the toolbox. “I did somethin’ stupid.”

“Oh, no!” Amy cried. Eric opened his mouth to tell her she was overreacting, but she took off running.

Through the able-bodied people and players rushing onto the court, Eric spied Kevin, writhing on the floor. His face was redder than his hair and he grabbed his elbow with a loud cry.

The lone tire rolled across the half-court line, staggering like Rafe after the old man tied one on.

He knew right away he’d fucked up. He even knew how. He’d been so goddamn busy showing off—
overcompensating, you mean?
— he hadn’t tightened the axle’s quick-release connector on the tire he’d pulled. That explained the drag. The tire hadn’t seated properly because it wasn’t locked onto the axle. He’d had the twelve seconds it would’ve taken to lock that axle down, too.

He refused to look at the young boy whose seat he’d lowered, but triple-checking these screws wouldn’t fix Kevin’s elbow. Gene Rolley ran onto the floor, pushing a regular wheelchair. Shaking off any assistance, Kevin dragged his body into the seat, but his face twisted with pain.

Embarrassment and shame burned Eric’s cheeks. He got to his feet and stalked toward the tire, feeling like the world’s biggest jackass.

“Man, I don’t know what to say. I’ll fix it,” he vowed when Gene pushed Kevin to the sidelines. Amy’s father carried the damaged chair over.

Eric wasn’t about to look at
him
. Kneeling by the chair—
the two thousand dollar chair
—he eyed the quick-connect joint.

Because he’d left the locking mechanism sticking out, rather than flipping it down to lock it in place, when the wheel came off, the pressure from Kevin’s weight caused the hole in the rim to shear off the plastic handle. Griping because the manufacturer had cut corners by using plastic would make him sound like a whiny bitch, but it seemed a half-assed decision on the manufacturer’s part. They had to know how these guys banged.

Metal or plastic, unlocked is unlocked, dumbass.
What he’d done was no different than sending a car out without tightening the lug nuts.

“I’ll grab some ice.” Amy dashed toward the concessions table.

“Can you fix it? I’ll need that chair tomorrow.” Kevin winced every time he tried to bend his elbow, but Eric didn’t argue. “We’re gonna have to fight our way out of the loser’s bracket,” the player added.

Eric scanned the faces of Kevin’s teammates. Watching their eyes dim while they agreed to the forfeit was painful. He looked at the scoreboard. The team was up by seven with only two minutes left on the clock.

“You’ll have it.” Eric winced at the sight of Kevin cradling his elbow. If it took all night, he’d fabricate a replacement for the broken part. He only hoped the kid got to use the chair that soon.

While the next two teams took the court to warm up, Amy carried the tire to his truck. He carried his tools and the wheelchair. He slammed the toolbox onto the asphalt and eased the chair over the side. “I’ll grab us a couple of pizzas for later. No mushrooms, right?”

“Right.” She handed him the tire. “I just have one more game to call, so I’ll be done in a couple hours. And green stuff belongs in the yard, not on a pizza.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t check that connection.” He tossed the tire over, then drove his fists down on the bed rail.

If you’re gonna do a half-assed job, don’t bother doin’ anything.
He almost looked around for Dan, but those were his father’s words ringing in his ears. Swallowing hard, Eric turned. “You still have that tent stake I saw you with last night?”

W
hen Eric said he’d find her a trunk, Amy pictured a basic Army footlocker. Certainly not a piece of furniture nearly her height, much less a matched pair. These things looked like something the first-class passengers on the Titanic might’ve owned. The tall trunks stood on end, lined up against the wall to the left of the loft stairs. One side of each massive box had a compartment for hanging clothes. Flat, wooden hangers spanned the distance between two metal rods that extended more than a foot. Each would easily hold more dresses than she cared to own.

She couldn’t see into the top drawers on these things, either, dammit, but the trunks gave her a sense of being a tenant rather than a sofa-dweller. She was grateful Eric had kept his word without her having to remind him. Too weary to spend more time examining the trunks, she made her way to the tub. A soak was tempting, or a dash to the hot pool, but she showered instead.