[Marcus’s POV]
*Three months ago*
Sweat dripped down my spine as I landed, the impact jarring through my knees. The ball slammed through the hoop with enough force to make the backboard shudder.
The empty gym echoed with the sound of my heavy breathing and the ball's hollow bounce against hardwood.
Three hours past midnight, and I was still here. Still pushing. Still trying to be enough.
My muscles screamed for rest, but I couldn't stop. Not when everything I'd fought for hung by such a fragile thread.
One mistake, one moment of weakness, and it would all collapse like a house of cards.
The memory of last night with Stacey flickered through my mind – her perfect body, her practiced moans, the way she talked about her new stepsister afterward like she was discussing an annoying overfeed pet.
I hadn't really been listening until she mentioned the girl's father.
"She's so spoiled," Stacey had said, trailing her fingers across my chest. "Daddy's precious little girl who's never known what it's like to struggle. It's pathetic, really."
I smirk. "That bad?"
"Worse. You’ll see. She’s one of those girls who acts all sweet and perfect, like she’s never done anything wrong in her life. Like everyone should feel sorry for her. It’s disgusting."
I don’t say anything, but something about that makes my stomach twist.
I know people like that. The ones who play the victim, the ones who act like life is hard when they’ve never had to fight for anything. And the worst part?
A father's love. The one thing I'd never had, never would have. My hands had tightened on Stacey's hips, leaving marks she'd probably wear like trophies.
The ball bounced off the rim, a harsh reminder of my wandering focus. I cursed, retrieving it with sharp, angry movements.
Control. Everything came down to control.
That's what I'd lost this morning when I first saw her – Betty.
She'd stumbled into my path wearing that ridiculous little cheerleading outfit, like she was playing dress-up in someone else's life.
In which that pathetic chubby girlie obviously would never be able to fit in. Just like in this stupid uniform of hers.
The sight had triggered something visceral in me, a contempt so immediate it surprised even me.
But then she spilled that damn drink all over my clothes, staining my watch – the only luxury present I got from my father on my 18th birthday. Ruining which might mean another fist throwing with him.
"Fat Betty," I'd called her, the words tasting like poison on my tongue.
But poison was familiar. Poison was safe.
The ball slammed through the net again, the chain rattling like judgment.
"Marcus." Coach Wilson's voice cut through my rhythm like a knife. I turned to find him standing in the doorway, his expression grim in the harsh gym lights. "My office. Now."
I followed him through corridors, my sweat cooling uncomfortably against my skin. His office smelled like old coffee and disappointment.
"Sit down, son." I wasn't his son. But I sat, my legs trembling slightly from exhaustion.
"Your performance in the last few days was unacceptable." He didn't sugar-coat it, didn't try to soften the blow. "That outburst during practice? The way you went after Johnson when he missed that pass? That's not leadership. That's not what I expect from my captain."
The words hit like physical blows, but I kept my face neutral. Years of practice made it easy to hide the churning in my gut.
"And your grades..." He shuffled through some papers on his desk. "You're skating on thin ice, Marcus. The scholarship committee doesn't care how many points you score if you can't maintain the minimum GPA."
My fingers dug into my thighs under the desk. "I'll fix it."
"You don't get it, do you?" His voice softened, and somehow that was worse than anger. "This isn't just about grades or basketball. This is about your future. Your career. Everything you've worked for hangs in the balance, and you're letting it slip through your fingers because you can't control your temper."
The truth of his words burned like acid in my chest.
Control. Always about control.
"One more incident like those, one more failed test, and it's over. No more scholarship, no more captain's position, no more shot at going pro. Is that what you want?"
"No, sir."
I left his office in a daze, my mind racing. Everything I'd built, everything I'd sacrificed for, balanced on the edge of a knife.
I braced my hands against the sink, staring down as cold water dripped from my face. My pulse was still too fast, my head still too full of Coach’s words.
I closed my eyes, gripping the porcelain edges harder, my knuckles turning white. My breath was shallow, uneven.
I turned the faucet back on, let the icy stream rush over my palms, then splashed another handful over my face, willing the cold to clear my head.
But it didn’t. Because the second I shut my eyes, I saw her. Betty.
The way she flinched when I called her that name. That split second of something raw in her expression before she shut it down. It shouldn’t matter.
She was everything I hated—privileged, soft, sheltered. She had no idea what it meant to fight for something, to wake up every day knowing the world didn’t give a damn whether you sank or swam. She had something I never did—a father who cared.
And yet… That look in her eyes. For a moment, just a flicker, I swore I recognized it. Like a shadow of something I knew too well.
I gritted my teeth, gripping the sink harder. It didn’t matter. I had bigger things to worry about. The championship was coming. My one shot. My only way out.
I exhaled slowly and pressed my hands against my face, letting the last of the cold sink in.
Control. I needed to get it back. Now.