“Sweetie?”
Eyes tight, I didn’t want to open them. If I did, the truth would topple me. My mother’s voice was soothing, but still scared me. If she was there, in Miami, then things had gone as bad as they possibly could.
“Baby?” she tried again and I moved my arm from my eyes, tilting my head to watch her as she walked further into my room. That suspicion of things being bad was confirmed when Kona followed behind her.
“Aw, shit,” I mumbled, covering my face with my hands.
“Keiki kane,” Dad started, leaning over me with Mom at his side when they made it to my bed. He rested his hand against her back and she didn’t look annoyed by that touch. At least they were getting along now.
“What’s the verdict?” I asked, letting my mom look me over, dote on me like I’d lost a limb and not stupidly let myself get knocked out into another concussion.
“The doctor’s coming in with Kenny and your defensive coach.”
“That’s not good.”
“It could be worse.” Mom sat at the foot of my bed with a death grip on my hand. “But Ransom.... this is the third one.”
“Yeah, Mom. I’m aware.” She sounded like Aly. Well, what I imagined Aly would sound like if she were there. There would be no reason for me to ask why she didn’t come. Why would she?
Mom scooted closer, avoiding my busted ankle to sit next to me on the bed. Kona watched her, eyes guarded and tight before he looked down at me. “Don’t you think this is a good opportunity…” The tone of her voice, that sad, small placating timber made me feel sick. Pity wouldn’t help. I didn’t want anyone’s pity.
“I don’t know what the hell I think right now, Mom. I’m a little…shit.”
“It’s not the end of the world.” Kona rested his arms against the bed railing, trying his hardest not to act as panicked as he looked. “Football isn’t everything. You have other talents…”
“And other opportunities,” Mom added, giving me a genuine smile.
I didn’t need my Mom and Dad fixing my problems. My problems were mine to own, mine to handle and just then, the day, the circumstances overwhelmed me. There was a blanket of hopelessness that fell over me, something that made my chest feel heavy and the listless, uncontrollable urge to lash out and wound came over me. I hated feeling so weak.
“Have you two already got my life mapped out for me because I’d love to hear it. Honest. I mean, I have no idea where I’ll be in a month, but please, go right ahead and tell me what I should do.”
That stung. I saw that my rudeness had landed hard, hard enough that my mom stood up from the bed, shuffling to the foot of it as though she needed a moment to contain her disappointment.
Kona, however, had no such problem. If I was being an asshole, he was the first to call me on it. “For starters,” he said, standing straight enough so he could look down at me, disappointed. “Maybe you can give up the whiny attitude and stop taking shit out on us.”
“Kona…” Mom tried, but the small plea died on her lips when my father jerked his chin at her.
“You’ve always babied him too much,” Dad said, frustrated.
“Maybe you haven’t babied him enough,” she countered.
“Keira, he’s twenty-eight. He’s a grown damn man.” He looked back at me, shoulders still stiff. “Something like this happens, keiki kane, and you decided how you’ll handle it right from the beginning.”
I hated them bickering, especially over me. I hated that the sinking weight in my chest had only grown heavier the louder my parents’ voices rose. “And you’re going to tell me how?”
“No. I’m not. Neither is your mother.” Kona got a little closer, leaning one hand on the mattress next to my head. “You’ve got to figure that shit out for yourself. You either take these lumps and deal with them or you lay on your back and bitch about how unfair life is.” He stood then, crossing his massive arms over his wide chest. “But I gotta say, I can’t believe you’ll take up the second option. Not with how your mother raised you. Not with all that ass kicker blood you’ve got running through those veins. We don’t run, keiki kane. That’s just not who we are, is it?”
That stare was steely cold, meant to boost my confidence, meant to call me out for being a little punk. But that weight felt like forever, as though not even my father’s words ringing true could ease it.
Still, I wouldn’t have him see me weak. I’d get no pity from him, I knew that. “No,” I answered, nodding once when my father watched me. Then came the small voice, nearly silent but firm, the one that reminded me who I was. The one that surfed above the doubt, the anger to tell me I could survive this.
I just had to be willing to try.