Branded as Trouble (Rough Riders #6)(53)

“Thanks.”


Bert slammed his cane into the floor and pointed. “Hey! Will you look at that? Number thirty-six fouled him!”


She shifted her attention to the court.


The match was a charity event and the men were supposed to be playing for fun, but the taunts and cheap shots screamed the aggressive nature of the game. Colt was out there in the thick of it, sweating, grappling for the ball. His competitive streak had him jabbing his elbow in his opponent’s ribs whenever the ref wasn’t watching.


During a lull in the game, India studied the local people filling the bleachers. Kids munched popcorn and sipped soft drinks from red wax cups. Mothers bounced babies, holding conversations with other mothers who did the same. Men, young and old, shouted approval or dismay at the official’s calls while teenagers ducked under the risers to steal a kiss away from prying parental eyes.


Odd, she didn’t see any of Colt’s family members in the stands.


Why weren’t they here rooting for him?


The third quarter ended. A pregnant woman waddled toward one of Colt’s teammates. The man’s face clouded with concern as he stroked her distended belly. Then he brushed her curls from her face and watched her holding the small of her back as she disappeared out the side door.


What would it be like to have a man look at her as if she hung the moon and stars? To have her belly round with his child? A burst of intense longing filled her.


“That’s Dr. Brewer and his wife, Susie,” Bert commented.


“Nice couple. They just moved back to Wyoming last year. He’s a veterinarian and she teaches at the reservation.”


“Do you know everything about everyone in town?”


“No, but Jay—Dr. Brewer—and Colt have been friends and rivals since high school. Why they haven’t killed each other is a mystery, because they both play rough and don’t know the meaning of the word quit.”


Like Bert needed to warn her about Colt’s tenacity.


The buzzer sounded and the teams took the floor for the last quarter. India automatically zeroed in on Colt.


God, he epitomized the perfect male animal, all sweaty, scowling and masculine.


It was a five-point ballgame. The level of aggression on the court increased. One player from the opposing team fouled out and a scuffle erupted.


With seven minutes left to play, the score tied, and the other team in control of the ball, Colt leapt into the air to block a pass.


The next thing happened in some kind of sick, slow motion.


An airborne Colt, still clutching the stolen ball, lost his footing and sailed toward the announcer’s stand. The back of his head clipped the corner of the long metal table and he slammed into the floor. He lay motionless as the entire gymnasium watched in horror.


The ball slowly rolled to the center of the floor. The referees blew the whistle, the time remaining on the scoreboard stopped ticking.


The crowd grew quiet.


Officials, teammates, and opposing players surrounded Colt.


The only thing visible from their seats were the soles of his tennis shoes.


“Why is Colt still lying on the floor?” Bert demanded, his concern echoing hers.


“I don’t know.” She hopped up on her chair for a better view.


“I can’t see anything.”


The man Bert pointed out as Jay Brewer trotted away from the team’s chairs and disappeared back inside the circle of people.