Breaking The Rules: Book 2

Chapter 37: Maybe Daddy Isn't The Issue

𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸𝟿𝚝𝚑
Griffin POV

Tonight is the first night in twelve years where I'm not rushing around the house to get ready for homecoming.

Even when I was a little kid, my mom loved to bundle Roselyn and me in our sweaters and cart us off to the high school football field to sit in the front row and watch dad command his team. I was so young that that exposure watered my love for football like a dry plant. Seriously, I looked forward to homecoming more than my own birthday.

Then, freshmen year came along, and suddenly I was the kid out on the field. Dad didn't play me much in the first half, but man, I lived my god damn dream during the second half.

Over time, the novelty wore off and felt more like a job. Suddenly, our school was staring five years of back to back homecoming wins, and if we didn't leave that field with one more, dad and Snyder would've skinned all of us alive.

While dad gave the boys a cute pep talk in the locker room before that game, he spent the twenty minute drive to the game yelling at me and reminding me of all the things that win would mean. It was enough to push me over the edge later on in the night. To this day, I'm shocked that I didn't get expelled from school for punching that linebackers jaw.

That's why, tonight, I'm happy as a clam to have my feet up in the living room, enjoying every bite of my barbecue chips as I watch dad run around the house like a chicken with its head cut off. It's more entertaining then my Instagram feed, at least.

He runs into the kitchen for the hundredth time, the school hat on his head sitting askew, and a few pieces of papers from the stack in his hands fly off and land on the floor.

"God damn it," dad curses and slaps everything in his hands down on the countertop as he whirls around and snatches the papers up. "Grif, have you seen the walkie-talkies that were here last week?"

"The ones you brought to school with you yesterday? Yeah, you told me that you put them in the locker room," I say around a mouthful of chips and look up from my phone.

"Shit. That's right." He collects the stack of papers and knocks them against the counter to get them nicely organized again. Glancing at the clock on the microwave, he exhales through his lips. "Did Rose leave already?"

"Yep." I pop another chip in my mouth. "She's over at Brees getting ready."

"Oh, yes," dad says again. He must not have to leave yet because he comes shuffling into the living room, the hackles on his neck lowering. Reaching up, he adjusts his hat as he sits in the stuffed arm chair next to the sofa. "Are you going tonight, too...?"

"Yep," I repeat myself and pick up the bag of chips to fold it closed. The crinkling of the bag is the only sound for a moment.

Dad watches me fold it and rubs his hands over his knees. He waits for me to be done making a racket before asking, "So..."

Oh, god.

This ought to be good. It seems like all of the people who have interesting questions for me have been starting there sentences with the word, so, recently.

"How are you doing? With not playing tonight?" He presents both phrases as questions, his eyes trained on me.

Shrugging, I toss the chip bag further away from my bubble of space. "Better than I thought I would be doing."