XAVIER
The dining room feels colder than usual. Maybe it's the long stretch of silence between us, broken only by the soft scrape of utensils and the occasional distant hum of traffic outside the windows. Dad sits at the head of the table like always, back straight, shirt crisp, his watch glinting under the chandelier.
My father cuts into his steak with clean, robotic precision. He doesn't look up when he says,
"How's school?"
"Fine."
"And football?"
"Same."
He finally lifts his eyes. Sharp. Calculating. “Still wasting your time on that nonsense.”
"It’s not a waste," I mutter.
He sets his knife down with a clink. “You know where your future lies. Not chasing a ball like some brain-dead jock, but building something real. At the company.”
Here we go again.
"I didn’t say I wasn't g
