Page 17 of Fourth Wheel

“Ready to kick some ass today, hot stuff?” Richard claps me on the shoulder when I scoot down the bench to join him.

As the youngest player by at least thirty years, I’m a highly sought-after floater. I don’t bother keeping track of whose team I’m on each week anymore. Richard and Marty make sure to let me know.

“I don’t know, Rich. I’ve been feeling a little rough this week.” I feign a grimace as I roll out my shoulders and fight back a smirk at the righteous indignation on his face.

“Dammit, Martin. You played the kid too hard last week. That’s hostile sabotage,” Richard admonishes.

I chuckle but intervene before things get too heated.

“I’m fine. Just let me get out there, and I’m sure I’ll loosen up quick.”

Harold’s standing next to the facility supervisor, confirming that our court reservation starts at two like it always has. Really, he just wants to make sure the young guys on the court clear out as soon as we’re up.

The first game is always full court.

The subsequent games are almost always half court.

That’s the nature of the beast when half the players have undergone at least one knee or hip replacement.

“Heard from your old man lately?” Marty pants as he takes a break beside me after the first game.

He always asks about our father. And the theme of every response I give is the same.

“His secretary forwarded me a press release about the new Columbus build. So yeah, I guess you can say I’ve heard from him.”

Marty gripes under his breath, far more put out about the state of my relationship with George Haas than I am.

The lack of communication doesn’t bother me. My father is not a good person.

He was decent enough when we were little, showing occasional interest in Fielding and me when it came to academics and sports. For the most part, he was like the other billionaire dads I knew: distant, aloof, and put out by any situation or need that he couldn’t ask his secretary to handle.

I lost all respect for him when he moved our family to Hampton. Fielding and I had our pick of the top private schools in the country, and we were prepared to enroll as boarding students at Archway Preparatory Academy.

But the summer before we were set to leave, our mom’s drinking became noticeably worse. Our dad took matters into his own hands, and the rest is history. He said our mom would be better out of the city. He said it was the right decision for our family.

He moved us into a mansion on the outskirts of Hampton, overlooking the Cuyahoga Valley National Park.

It turns out he just wanted a place to dump her so she was out of his hair.

Our parents divorced when we were in high school. My dad hasn’t been back to Hampton since we graduated from Arch.

Neither Fielding nor I want anything to do with the man. We chose alternate career paths on purpose, neither interested in working for him nor with him in real estate development.

Not that it matters. Between the trusts from our grandparents and our mom’s money, I’m almost certain our net worth is as much, if not more than his.

The best way to describe our relationship now is strained but civil. He’s never been interested in being a parent. We don’t need his money or business connections. And now that we’re adults, we see his choices for what they were: abandonment and neglect.

It’s an impasse I grappled with for years.

But he made his choice. Even if it doesn’t make sense, I’m man enough to accept that the responsibilities he shucked off are mine to bear.

“I’m glad you still make it to these games, son,” Marty mutters as he uses my shoulder to push to his feet.

I don’t bother replying, just guzzle down a mouthful of water and wipe at the sweat dripping down my face as I follow him onto the court for the next game.

Chapter 11

Maddie