Page 6 of For the Love of Scott
“He’s a decent player,” says Sam. “Quit being an ass.”
“I’m not playing with a gimp. I want to win.”
Scott’s lips thin, but still he stays quiet. Ben doesn’t understand his meekness, but there are jerks all over, so maybe he prefers the high road.
“Fine,” says Jake. “Tim, Scott, and Ben on one team. Don, Sam, and me on the other. Game is tied, two each.”
“Sorry about that, man,” says Ben to Scott when their team huddles for a moment.
Scott shakes his head, but Dooley’s words still appear to irk him if the set of his shoulders is anything to go by. “Best way to show idiots like that is to win. So let’s do it.”
Ben grins. “Hell, yeah.”
They trot to the key and spread out. Dooley bounces the ball once and throws it to Sam.
The six of them are all over the half-court, reaching and batting at the ball. Names are called, both actual names and epithets. Grunts and muttered cuss words sound as well as the shrill squawk of rubber against hard wood.
“Jake,” Dooley calls. He bounces the ball once and shoots the ball in Jake’s direction before elbowing Scott in the gut.
A loud ‘oof’ bursts from Scott and he bends over, gasping for breath.
“What the hell was that?” Ben shouts, moving toward Dooley, wanting to bash his face in yet again. The bastard.
Tim slides an arm around Ben’s waist and halts his forward momentum. “Don’t,” he says firmly, but for Ben’s ears only.
Ben twists, but Tim won’t release him. “He’s been doing that all night. And Scott, dude, flatten him. You can take him.”
Dooley laughs, the jerk. “I’d like to see him try.”
“Boys, boys—let’s play nice.” Jake holds up his hands, one palm facing Ben, the other facing Dooley. “Or we’re all going home. Got me?”
Only the expression on Scott’s face—like he wants to tear someone a new one and Ben thinks it just might be him—keeps Ben from pushing the issue. But dammit, if Scott doesn’t take Dooley down a notch or two the next time he gets lippy, Ben isn’t going to be responsible for his actions.
With a single jerk of his head, he yanks out of Tim’s hold, and Tim lets him go. The guy might look like a bean pole, but years of wrangling stubborn teenage boys has given him a wiry strength.
Dooley spreads his arms in an affirmative gesture.
Ben would wager a Ben Franklin that Dooley has no intention of playing nice. He’s made his opinion of Scott perfectly clear. Ben points at Tim, then points at Dooley and says, “Watch him.”
Tim nods.
Play resumes and Ben tries to keep close to Dooley, but Dooley and Scott both seem determined to circle each other, although as far as Ben can tell, Dooley is behaving himself.
Another few minutes of squeaks and heavy breathing and the thwack of the ball on the floor pass, until finally Jake jumps from the corner, and the ball swishes through the net.
Four-two. Well, shit.
Jake and Sam slap palms, and Dooley makes a fool of himself with silly gestures and some sort of moves that resemble a mating dance.
Tim accepts the ball from Sam and points at Ben. He jogs outside the line and immediately inbounds the ball to Scott.
Scott takes off for the basket only to find Dooley blocking his path. Ben circles around one way, Tim the other, hoping to find a lane for Scott to pass the ball. He pivots right, then left, but finds himself stuck. He finally just tosses the ball in Tim’s direction. Tim jumps and snags it out of Sam’s grasp and then races toward the basket. He zags between Dooley and Scott, eluding Dooley’s reaching grasp, jumps, and slams the ball into the net.
“Nice,” shouts Scott, nodding to Tim.
Scott walks in a circle as he works to catch his breath and Ben follows him with his gaze. The man is fit, that’s for damn sure. Six months of minor construction work and building maintenance as well as kennel cleaning and dog wrangling have kept him in shape. Ben knows for a fact that he works out too. Just then, Scott lifts the bottom of his tee shirt and wipes his face with it. Ben’s eyes are drawn to the barely outie belly button and the smattering of dark hair that surrounds it and trails southwa—
“Thompson, you really need to keep your man crush off the court,” says Dooley.
