Page 5 of For the Love of Scott
Chapter Two
Ben snaps the ball back to Jake and jogs around the key. Jake, Tim, and Sam pass the ball around, the squeals of their tennis shoes echoing in the high-ceilinged gym. Ben’s glance strays to the large wall clock over the basket for the umpteenth time. Five till seven.Where is Scott?He said he’d come. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe there’s a dog emergency. Maybe—
The door screeches and opens.
He came.Ben’s heart does a little happy dance and he grins.
Scott steps in and glances around, appearing unsure. But he’s shown up. His gaze finds Ben’s and the stiffness mostly leaves his shoulders. Scott really needs to get over his hangup about his leg. If he doesn’t, no one else will. He heads in Ben’s direction.
Ben meets him halfway. “Dude, you made it.”
“Yep,” Scott says with a nod and a smile, a hint of white teeth peeking from between his lips. He removes his coat and tosses it on the bleachers. The pale yellow tee shirt contrasts nicely against his still-tanned skin and hugs his torso, highlighting his muscled shoulders and biceps and his well-defined abs. Faded Army-green sweats hang low on his narrow hips.
Yeah.Ben swallows and closes the door on any further wayward thoughts. This is neither the time, nor the place.
“You guys know Scott, right?” Ben asks as he and Scott approach the others.
“Jake Shaffer, sheriff; Tim McAllister, middle school principal and my brother-in-law; Sam Lawrence works at the bank.”
Everyone shakes hands in turn.
“Dooley’s always late, and there are a couple of others who may or may not show up. When we have an odd number, one of us’ll sit out until one side makes a basket.”
Scott nods his understanding.
Tim pitches him the ball. “Ben, bench. Let’s go. Jake and Sam against Scott and me. Half court.”
Thank you, Tim,thinks Ben. The surprise on Scott’s face is priceless, and Ben can’t help chuckling. Tim’s immediate inclusion has left Scott no time to even think about his leg.
He takes off for the basket only to be blocked by Sam. He pivots and moves a few paces backwards before feinting left and sprinting right. Jake darts forward. Scott pulls up, bounces the ball, leaps, and sends the ball in a beautiful arc toward the basket. Unfortunately, Sam has circled back toward the basket and now jumps, keeping the ball from dropping through the net with the tips of his fingers.
“Nice try, Scott. Maybe next time, man,” Sam says, grinning and bouncing the ball to Jake.
Pleasure and life now radiate from Scott’s face. He swipes the back of his arm across his forehead and maneuvers himself back into position. If this is all it takes to bring Scott some enjoyment, Ben would have asked months ago.
Jake dribbles the ball on his way to the line and tosses it back to Sam.
The four men dance around one another, Jake and Sam pitching the ball back and forth between them. Scott seems wary about plowing in and grabbing for the ball. Tim’s trying to give him a chance.
“Go on, get in there, you fools,” calls Ben. “Scott, c’mon, man. You got this.”
That is apparently all Scott needs to hear, and he moves in, reaches for the ball, and tips it out of Jake’s grip. Tim barges forward and snags it, dribbling in a large circle toward the basket. Scott gets into position, trying both to block and be available for a pass.
His muscles bulge and roll beneath the thin cotton of his tee shirt and Ben has a sudden hankerin’ to feel the flex of Scott’s muscles beneath his fingers and in a more intimate setting. He pulls his gaze away from Scott and watches the basketball instead. He’d better focus on the game; otherwise his body is going to betray him in front of God and everybody.
Jake finally scores a point and switches out with Ben. Play continues and Tim eventually scores as well. Two to two.
The screech of the door brings the game to a halt and everyone turns to watch Dooley strut in. With him here, everyone can play. Ben rises. “’Bout damn time you got here.”
Dooley grins. “I was—”
“Don’t want to know,” says Jake, holding up a hand. “Don Dooley, this is Scott, friend of Ben’s. Let’s play, boys.”
Dooley gives Scott the once over. When he reaches Scott’s feet, his eyebrow shoots up. Scott’s wearing sweats, but the metal rod that serves as his ankle is visible in the open circle of the elastic.
“What the hell, we let gimps play now?” asks Dooley.
Scott stiffens, and not for the first time in the ten years they’ve known each other, Ben wants to plant his fist in Dooley’s face. He digs his fingernails into his palms instead and says, “Damn sight better than a jackass. Shut the hell up.”
