Coach Love(44)
He heaved his ball at Antony’s nose. “Play or get the hell out of my face.”
An hour later, sweat coated all four men as they paused, gasping for breath. Antony boasted a budding shiner from Kieran’s elbow, Dominic spat blood from Aiden’s fist and Aiden massaged his jaw from a face-first, Dominic-instigated shove into the chain links. Kieran had so far escaped injury but the nail tracks down his skin burned like they’d been dipped in acid. The men stood in a circle glaring at each other, chests heaving, the ball rolling around at their feet.
“Y’all are a bunch of fools,” a familiar voice called from the parking lot. “Make a perfectly good game into a rasslin’ match.” Their father headed their way, lugging a six-pack cooler. “Ain’t got the sense God gave a gaggle of geese.”
Kieran glanced at Antony. They exchanged an unspoken moment of worry. Their dad never participated in and barely even observed the traditional game he had foisted on them when they were boys. He’d gotten the tradition going, insisting they should work out their aggressions against each other by playing round ball instead of thrashing around on the floor, punching each other and making their parents insane. Then had backed away and let it happen, chuckling when they’d reappear at the Sunday supper table sporting injuries.
“What? Don’t stop on my account.” Anton sat on top of a picnic table, popped open a Love Brewing Chocolate Lust black lager, and took a long drink. His four sons remained in place, unnerved by his presence. “Well, now you really do look like a pack of eejits over there with your mouths hangin’ open. I got a booger or something? Forget my pants?” He tipped the half-empty bottle in their general direction then drained the rest before opening another.
Dom nudged Kieran forward. By unspoken agreement, he slipped into his role as intermediary between the Love kids and their parents. He’d been the mouthpiece for the group his whole life for reasons he still didn’t grasp. His place as the second son, an Irish twin to Antony, his role as middle child stuck fast once Dominic made his appearance four years later then Aiden, and finally the miracle surprise girl-child.
“Something wrong at home?” He hooked his fingers into the chain link trying to seem casual. Anxiety about their mother’s health hovered over them all like a barely acknowledged storm cloud.
“Oh, you know your mama,” their paterfamilias mumbled into the mouth of his beer bottle. “Woman’s making me insane.”
“Ah, okay. So she made you leave the house, huh?” His brothers all exhaled in unison behind Kieran. It must be another blow out between their parents. Thank the Lord another heart-to-heart about Lindsay’s declining health did not loom on the group’s horizon.
“I swan she’s angling me into an early grave.”
Kieran smiled and turned around in time to catch the basketball in his solar plexus so hard he grunted and doubled over. He straightened and barreled between Dom and Aiden, knocking them both aside as he made for the basket, which signaled the start of the second half.
The physicality he craved, the release of pressure building in his chest from the last few days of nonstop fucking with the woman he knew he didn’t love and barely even liked brought a semblance of peace. They ignored their father and played full out for the next thirty minutes, racing up and down the court, elbows and fists flying.
Dom chased Antony after he stole the ball from him for the third time that half, stopping as Antony landed a gorgeous hook shot to tie the game. “You let that bitch use a strap-on or what. Jesus, Francis, when did you turn into such a pussy?”
Kieran whirled around, alarming red tinting the edges of his vision. His fists balled, his arms raised, and words he regretted for the rest of his life spewed out of his mouth.
“I guess you’d know all about that, huh, faggot? Or are you the pitcher?”
Dom’s face drained of all color. Aiden and Antony ignored them, high-fiving and unaware that what they took for the usual fake homophobic banter had a deeper meaning. Anton Love jumped to his feet and ran around the corner of the fence to get between his two middle sons about a half second too late.
Dom leaped at him, launching off the ground like some kind of predatory cat, shoving Kieran to the hot asphalt so hard he saw stars. His brother’s sturdy, brewery-work muscular body had him planted. The others tried to peel him off, but he wouldn’t budge. He sat with one palm on Kieran’s throat, his other fist ready to punch. The expression on his face was of abject dismay.
Kieran scrabbled at his neck, alarmed and getting woozy from lack of oxygen. “Sorry,” he gasped, but the word got lost in the shouting. Never taking his gaze from Kieran’s, Dominic kept pressing, relentless and seemingly hell bent on killing him. When the world went gray from the outside of Kieran’s vision, Dom let go but remained planted on his chest, brown eyes cloudy with rage.