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

29. Breakroom Psycho

ADDISON

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“Miss Foster.”

I wish my life was different. I wish I didn’t recognize that voice—but I do. My bottom lip wobbles as I straighten my head and lock eyes with the man himself. Okay, maybe not the devil.

But close enough, right? Carter’s father.

Despite knowing what a sorry excuse for a parent he is, right now he looks imposing. Maybe it’s because I’m seated behind the library counter, a book on my lap, while he stands there in his way too-expensive suit, eyeing me like I’m gum stuck to his shoe.

At least I don’t threaten people with their mother’s life...

“This is a library, Mr. Harris. You seem to have taken a wrong turn. The basketball court is quite a distance from here.” I could play the ditzy girl, but we both know I’m not stupid. He’s already suspicious of me.

At this point, I’ve got nothing left to lose.

“That would be relevant if I were trying to speak with my son. However, I’m here to speak with you, Miss Foster.”

I never liked it when Carter called me Foster. I hate it even more when it comes from his father’s mouth.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Harris, but I’m currently working. I’m not free to talk.” My fingers clench around the hard cover of my book, twitching as I try my best to maintain eye contact.

I know his type—give him an inch, and he’ll take a mile. I can’t afford to let anything slip.

“I’ll wait.”

He says nothing more. Instead, he turns his back to me momentarily, before settling at the table in front of me. Once seated, legs crossed casually, he fixes his gaze on me, like a lion sizing up its prey, biding its time to strike.

Well, I’m not going to survive the next hour like this. I can’t text Carter—too obvious. I can’t make a run for it because I know how persistent he can be. He’s not about to back down.

So, I’m left with one option: confront him head-on. Yay for me! It’s the worst possible choice, but I’m not exactly raking in prizes here.

I bite my lip, dropping my book onto the counter before rising to my feet. “I guess I could take a break,” I mutter under my breath. “There’s a break room in the back.”

“Lead the way,” he responds, rising to his feet.

Great. A psychopath following me to a secluded room. Any other bright ideas, Addison? Sheesh.

My heart lodges itself in my throat as I lead him, and I don’t think I manage to take a single breath. Sweat pools down the small of my back by the time we step into the break room and he closes the door.

Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of the flickering neon lights and the faded orange table. Not exactly five-star accommodations. “What do you need to talk about?” I ask, practically pressing my back into the nearby yellowed-white wall.

Great idea, Addison. Make it easier for him to corner you, why not?

“Can we drop the pleasantries, Miss Foster?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

I watch as he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Oh, boy. “In all these years, my son has more or less followed the rules set out for him.”

What is he, a watchdog?

“My son knows better than to spy on his father.”

Ah, crap. He knows. How? What? If Carter even had a hint that his father was onto him, he would’ve told me, right? During the whole mother drama? The drunken confessions? Maybe during round four while his face was between your legs and his tongue—