Truly Madly Deeply Mine: A Single Parent Sports Romance (Heartstrings Book 4) by Katherine Jay

Author:Katherine Jay [Jay, Katherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2023-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Four

Wes

I’m ready to leave for the day when my phone buzzes on my desk, making me startle. Like always, I ignore it and continue packing up my things. But after it rings another two times, I give in and answer. “Yep?”

“Son, we need to talk,” my father says, completely ignoring my rudeness. I clench my fist and inwardly groan. What now?

“I’m kind of in the middle of something. Can I call you—”

“Now, Wes.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath and sigh because I know exactly why he’s calling. “How much do you need?”

Dad huffs. “I hate doing this. You know I do. But I just don’t have anything to give.”

So it’s not him that needs it? Ever since I was traded to San Francisco and my earnings were released, Dad’s been asking me for money. I used to say no, but when Gran died, I gave in.

“What’s it for, Dad?” I ask, wanting him to admit it.

“Does it matter?”

I huff out a laugh because at the end of the day, he’s right; it doesn’t matter at all. “I hate this.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Treat me like a son, instead of a bank.

My free hand runs down my face and I sigh. “Okay, Dad. What do you need?”

“I reckon ten thousand should do it for now.”

My hand drops. “For now? What the fuck, Dad?”

“Hey, watch your mouth.”

“Who’s asking whom for a favor? I’ll say whatever the fuck I like,” I cry out with my voice now louder than it needs to be. My gaze flies to the door, but thankfully it’s shut.

“Can you help or not?”

I feel for my old man, I really do. He’s the only one left in my family that has ever given me the time of day. His wife—my stepmom, I guess—and her kids have never bothered with me. Despite the fact that they actually got to grow up with my father around them, they’re pissed because they believe I somehow lucked out with my genes, when in reality I worked my ass off to play football when my mom could barely afford the gear. All because my dad—who financially supports them—paid the bare minimum in child support. But we made do. There was no luck about it.

“Yep. I always do,” I tell my dad, because it’s true.

I donate a fair chunk of my money each year to various charities. I’d much rather the ten grand go there, but Dad would just end up taking on another job or remortgaging his house, and I can’t let him do that knowing I have the cash to help.

He sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

“No sweat.”

“No, I mean it. I love you, son.”

“Yep. Love you too.”

If only you dished out those words more often, maybe then I’d believe them.

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