Breaking the Playbook [COMPLETED]

Chapter 9

The morning sun streams through the kitchen windows, casting a golden glow across the countertops. It's one of those perfect summer mornings—the kind that usually makes me feel content and grounded. But today, there's an undercurrent of tension in the air, one that has my nerves on edge as I sit at the dining table, nursing a cup of coffee that's gone lukewarm.

My dad is at the table, the sports section of the newspaper spread out in front of him. He's always been an early riser, a creature of habit. This is his time to catch up on the latest stats, the latest headlines, and to lose himself in the world he knows best. Normally, I'd find comfort in that routine, in the predictable rhythm of our mornings. But today, I can't shake the feeling that something's off.

I watch him from the corner of my eye, trying to gauge his mood. He's quiet—too quiet—the kind of quiet that signals something's brewing beneath the surface. His brow is furrowed, and his eyes narrow as he scans the pages, but I can tell his mind isn't really on the words in front of him.

"Morning, Dad," I say, trying to sound casual, though my voice comes out a bit too bright, too forced.

He looks up, his expression unreadable. "Morning, Lolo."

There's something in the way he says my name—something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It's not the usual warmth, the usual affection. It's...something else. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

I take a sip of my coffee, trying to play it cool, but I can feel his eyes on me; I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical presence. My pulse quickens, and I force myself to meet his eyes, praying that I don't give anything away.

"Everything okay?" I ask, feigning nonchalance as I set my mug down, the ceramic clinking against the counter.

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies me. "You tell me."

I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest. "What do you mean?"

He doesn't answer right away; he just continues to watch me with that same scrutinizing gaze, the silence between us growing heavier by the second. I can feel the tension coiling in my stomach, a knot of anxiety that tightens with every beat of my heart.

"Lately, you've been... distracted," he finally says, his voice calm, measured, but there's an edge to it, a hint of something that sets off alarm bells in my head. "Your mind seems to be elsewhere."

I force a laugh, but it comes out hollow, strained. "I guess I've just had a lot on my plate. You know, with work and everything."

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Is that all it is?"

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. There's something in his tone, something that tells me he knows more than he's letting on. My mind races, scrambling for a plausible explanation, something that will put his suspicions to rest, but I come up empty.

"I'm fine, Dad," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but I can hear the slight tremor in it, the one I can't quite suppress. "Really."

He doesn't respond, just keeps staring at me, his gaze unyielding, searching. It feels like he's looking straight through me, like he's peeling back the layers, exposing everything I've been trying so hard to keep hidden.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he asks, his voice quiet, but there's no mistaking the seriousness in it.

Panic flares in my chest, a cold, sharp spike of fear. Does he know? Has he figured it out? The thought sends my mind spiraling, a thousand scenarios flashing through my head, each one worse than the last.