Broken Secrets (The Daddy Secret #2)

Chapter One

The medical office lobby smells faintly of sanitizer and stale coffee. A toddler shrieks near the fish tank while her mother scrolls on her phone. I hear sounds of a man coughing into his sleeve. The few remaining fish dart in frantic loops as if they’re trying to escape their glass prison.

I check my phone again, tapping my fingers impatiently on the screen. I haven't received a text from Mom. She promised she’d be here but the parking lot outside holds nothing but strangers’ cars.

The receptionist slides a clipboard toward me without looking up. “Fill these out and bring them back when you’re done.”

I take it from her and sink into a nearby chair; crossing my leg and balancing the clipboard over my knee.

Maternal side of the family history: easy.

Mom’s side is an open book, diabetes, high blood pressure, panic disorder.

Paternal side: blank. Always blank. I tap the pen against the page, half-hoping answers will appear out of nowhere. They don’t.

“Olivia Kline?” a small voice calls. I look up from writing and see a nurse smiling as she sees me. I stand up and follow her to the back and into a cramped exam room.

“Step on the scale,” she says.

I slip my shoes off, she weighs me, then writes it down on her clipboard.

“Against the wall for height.”

I move away from the scale and approach the height chart using the wall for support. She lowers the stadiometer over the top of my head, and then she writes a note on her chart.

”Sit, please.” She says and grabs the blood pressure cuff and placing the clipboard down on the counter. She wraps it snug around my upper arm, the Velcro keeping it held tight. With each mechanical hiss it squeezes harder and my fingers start to tingle.

“Is it supposed to feel like my arm’s about to explode?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

The cuff deflates at last, leaving my arm tingling and marked with red indentations.

“Blood pressure’s a little elevated,” she notes, tone as flat as day-old soda.

She clips a pulse oximeter on my index finger and I stare at the numbers blinking green on its little screen waiting like it’s a pop quiz I didn’t study for.

“Pulse is elevated too,” she murmurs. “Doctor will be right in.”

She walks out and shuts the door. Leaving me alone with the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint tick of a wall clock.

I swing my legs from the exam table and the paper crinkles underneath me with each movement.

Through the thin walls, I can hear muffled conversations, a phone ringing; and everyday sounds of other people’s medical dramas.

My phone buzzes against my leg and I pull it out of my pocket. I unlock it and read a text from my mom.

MOM

So sorry, sweetie! Emergency at work - patient crisis. You’ve got this! Text me after. Love you!

Exclamation points and hearts, all sunshine in a bubble. Easy promises look good on a screen but don’t always hold up in reality.

Dr. Jensen knocks once and enters wearing a crisp white coat. She smiles as she reaches out to shake my hand. I accept with a smile back.

“Olivia, right? What’s been going on?”

“My heart races sometimes like it’s trying to escape my chest. And I get dizzy. Lightheaded. Sometimes it feels like I can’t get a deep breath.”

She nods, jotting notes as I speak. “How long has this been going on?”

“A few weeks? Maybe longer. I thought it was stress from school and soccer.”

“Any family history of heart problems?”

Here it is. The question I’ve been dreading. “On my mom’s side, my grandmother had high blood pressure. But my dad’s side…” I gesture helplessly at the blank forms. “I don’t really know anything about my dad’s medical history.”

Dr. Jensen glances at the clipboard, then back at me. “It’s not uncommon. Lots of families lose track of medical information.” She flips through my chart. “Your vitals show elevated blood pressure and heart rate. Given your symptoms, I’d like to play it safe and refer you to a cardiologist.”

My stomach drops. “A heart doctor? Is something wrong with my heart?”

“It’s probably nothing serious,” she says quickly. “But chest pain and palpitations in someone your age warrant a closer look. The cardiologist will do some tests—an EKG, maybe an echocardiogram. They’ll want as complete a family history as possible.”

“What if I can’t get that information?”

“They’ll work with what you have. But if there’s any way to get your father’s medical background, it could be helpful. Heart disease, high blood pressure, sudden cardiac death; these things can run in families.”

Yikes. Can she be any more blunt?

“Their office will call you once the referral goes through,” She continues, standing. “In the meantime, try to manage your stress. Get enough sleep, eat well, maybe cut back on caffeine where you can.”

She hands me a pamphlet about heart health and heads for the door, probably already thinking about her next patient. I sit there staring at the cartoon heart on the cover, wondering if mine looks anything like my father’s.

I barely make it to soccer practice on time. The drive from the medical office felt endless. Dr. Jensen’s words looped in my head. They’ll want as complete a family history as possible. Sudden cardiac death. Things that run in families.”

By the time I change into my practice gear, my hands are still shaking slightly. I stuff the medical forms deep into my bag, but I can feel them there like they’re radioactive.

“Kline! Let’s go!” Coach Martinez’s voice carries across the sunlit field as I jog out late. “We’re working on corner kicks.”

I take my position.

The ball comes my way, a perfect setup. The kind I usually bury without thinking. Instead, it rolls pathetically past the goal, joining a growing collection of my failed attempts.

“Kline! Get your head in the game!” Coach Martinez’s voice carries across the field, weathered hands cupped around her mouth. She wears the kind of tan earned from decades of outdoor practice. “This is your third missed shot today.”

I jog back toward the center circle, cleats digging into the turf. “Sorry, Coach.”

“Take five. Get some water.” She blows her whistle, sharp and final. “Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, leave it in the locker room next time.”

My cleats drag faint grooves in the grass as I trudge toward the bench.

I snag my water bottle from the mesh bag, twist the cap, and gulp until my throat cools.

A long breath escapes as I sink onto the bench, shoulders sagging.

My green Adidas practice jersey clings to my back with sweat, sticky against the wood.

Seagulls circle above the bleachers, dipping low like they’re hunting for forgotten sandwiches from yesterday’s game. Even birds have better aim than me today.

Coach Martinez settles onto the bench beside me, her clipboard balanced on her knee. Up close, I can see the sun damage etched around her eyes; a testament to decades spent on outdoor fields.

“You’re usually money from that range,” she says while looking up and down at me. “This isn’t like you, Kline. What’s going on?”

I twist the cap back onto my water bottle, the plastic threads catching. “Just some stuff I need to handle. Medical stuff.”

“Ah.” She nods. Everyone knows the basic story about my family situation. “Everything okay health wise?”

“They’re running some tests. Heart stuff, maybe.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, but the words feel heavy in my throat. “Might miss some practices for appointments.”

“Your health comes first. Always.” She stands then pauses. “Whatever’s going on, you don’t have to handle it alone. There are people who care about you.”

The words lodge somewhere between my throat and my chest as I watch her rejoin the team. My phone buzzes with a text.

MOM

How did the appointment go? Everything okay?

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. How do I explain everything’s not okay, I need information she won’t give me, and her convenient absences are starting to feel like a pattern?

OLIVIA

Fine. Need to talk when I get home.

By the time I get to school for third period, the medical forms feel like they’re burning a hole in my backpack.

I slip into AP English right as the bell rings, trying to ignore Mrs. Devonne’s pointed look as I slide into my seat.

Her yellow sundress ripples in the sea breeze drifting through the open windows.

Derek Lance drops into the chair next to mine in his goalkeeper jersey, still damp from his own morning training. Because of course he’s been on the beach, throwing himself around like a Labrador who lives for fetch.

“Rough morning?” he asks, pulling out his copy of The Great Gatsby. His margins are a total crime scene. Ink bleeding everywhere, and handwriting so messy it looks like the words are trying to escape the pages

“Something like that.” I flip through my own book; not really seeing the pages.

“You missed first and second period.” His voice has that careful tone he uses when he’s worried but trying not to push.

“Doctor’s appointment.” The words come out sharper than I intend.

Mrs. Devonne clears her throat from the front. “If Mr. Lance and Ms. Kline are finished with their private discussion…”

Heat crawls up my neck as twenty-five pairs of eyes pivot toward me like vultures.

Derek mutters an apology, ducks into Gatsby, but his glances buzz around me the rest of class.

He’s known me since eighth grade; long enough to recognize when I’m not okay.

Long enough that he probably already sees right through me.

The rest of the morning drags. My notes turn into doodles in the margins, half sentences trailing off.

My gaze keeps snagging on the windows: surfers catching waves, tourists dragging coolers, locals tugging dogs that stop to sniff everything.

Out there it looks like a postcard. In here I feel like I’m suffocating.

When the lunch bell finally rings, Maya intercepts me at my locker like she’s been lying in wait.