Playing for More (Love on the Court - Book #1)

8. Forced into Submission

CARTER

🏀

Today is the day from hell.

I'm in the fucking hospital. When the hospital calls to tell me there's an issue with my mother's treatment bills, I don't think twice.

I threw on the first hoodie and basketball shorts I found on the ground, and I was out of the house. Thank god I keep sunglasses in my car. My head is still pounding, my mouth is dry and cracking, and opening my eyes is the struggle of the century.

Now I'm waiting on a stupid plastic chair, waiting for someone to see me. It doesn't make sense - the bills should have been paid. Hence why I was forced to text my father. Our deal was basketball in exchange for my mother's treatment. Why isn't the bastard respecting our deal?

"Mr. Harris?"

Mr. Harris is my father. I hate being called that, I do.

"Yeah?" I croak out, leaping off my seat.

"The bill was paid just now."

...So why did they call me? "Did you guys make a mistake?" I ask, raking my fingers through my hair.

The tiny, short older woman shakes her head. "No, someone paid it a few minutes ago."

"Who?"

"I can't say, I'm sorry."

Did my text message to my father work? Somehow, I have a hard time believing something like that would slip my father's mind. "Alright, thank you," I say with a forced smile before I pull my phone out of my pocket.

I don't want to call my father, but not paying the bills is not acceptable.

When I stare down at my phone, I notice I have a missed text. From my father.

OLD FUCKER: Up your game.

I clench my jaw, a potent mix of anger and frustration bubbling within me. If I squeeze my phone any tighter, I would split it in half. I could stop playing basketball, but it would mean bad news for my mother.

On the other hand, if I stop, nothing too damaging would happen to my father. The fucker has decided to pull the big guns. I half wonder what took him so long. I'm forced to realize it; I never had any power at all. My father was just playing games with me.

Great.

I pocket my phone, feeling my temper simmer, and turn to leave. But just as I'm about to storm out of the hospital, I spot a familiar figure.

My mother, frail and tired but still managing to muster a soft smile, is slowly making her way down the corridor with the help of a nurse. Her thin frame and the exhaustion etched on her face sends a pang of guilt through me.

I've been so absorbed in my own problems that I've nearly forgotten why I'm here in the first place.

"Carter," she says, her voice a mere whisper, but her eyes light up when they land on me.

My frustration and anger vanish in an instant, replaced by a practiced facade of concern and care. I walk towards her, my steps measured and deliberate. "Hey, Mom," I greet her with a gentle smile.

She reaches out a trembling hand, her blue eyes sparkling, and I take it gently, as if her fragile fingers might shatter at any moment. "What are you doing here, sweetheart?"

I press a kiss to the side of her head and watch as she smiles brightly. Even now, looking skinny and frail with her bald head, a black peach fuzz acting as hair, she's beautiful. The sight of her is enough to remember why I do everything I do.