Page 8 of We Shouldn't Be Together
Dad nods, mulling it over. “If an injury happens on the soccer field, it won’t count toward the car being taken away.”
Mom fires her gaze his way. “It won’t?”
“It’s a sporting mishap,” Dad replies.
“Those concussions are scary,” Mom says with a shiver in her tone. “I can’t watch that again.”
“He’ll be careful,” Dad says, looking straight at me. “Won’t you, Kai?”
“Absolutely.” I sit up taller. “I have an extra practice session with Coach Lyle tomorrow morning to work on my footwork. I won’t let anyone on the field get close to me.”
“Okay,” Mom says softly. “Only injuries off the soccer field will mean no car.”
I gulp. “What if they don’t require a hospital visit?”
Mom clicks her tongue, crossing her arms.
Dad places a hand on Mom’s shoulder and nods at me. “No loopholes, Kai. We’re serious. We can’t have you driving if you’re being too cavalier off the road.”
“Cavalier?” I question.
“Showing no concern for the safety of yourself and others around you,” Mom says pointedly.
I lift my hands defensively. “If you think I don’t care about my friends’ safety, you’ve got it all wrong. I’d never let them get hurt.”
Agreeable appreciation lights up my parents’ faces. “We know, son,” Dad says. “You just need to take the same care for yourself.”
“Okay.” I nod. “It sounds super lame, but I’ll try.”
“You won’t try,” Mom presses. “You’ll do it.”
I double nod. “Yes, Mom.”
A softness appears in her expression. Her thumb swipes the scar under my left eye. “Ever since this happened when you were six-years-old, you’ve been trying to outdo yourself. It’s okay to pump the brakes now and then.”
“I’m not trying to collect scars,” I murmur, looking down at my wrist. That scar is long and twisty, but faint. I have worse ones on my back from close calls when hiking. Thankfully, the ones on my legs always heal nicely.
She pinches my cheek. “You’d better not be.”
I wince at the tender act. “Geez, Mom. I think I prefer when you yell at me.”
She leans in and smacks a kiss on my cheek. “You’re still my little boy.”
I retch and slip off the bed beside her. “Okay, guys. Now, I think we really need to go.”
Dad chuckles to himself and opens up his arms. “Come, give Pappa a hug.”
“Guys,“ I whisper harshly. “We’re in a public place. Can you even be semi-cool?”
Dad scruffs my hair. “Embarrassing you in a public place is a terrific punishment.”
I groan, knowing if I fight this, it’ll only turn out five-hundred percent worse.
Dad pulls his arm around me, walking us in tandem. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispers, leaning his head against mine. “Every time I get a call to come down here, my stomach drops.”
“Geez. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to freak you guys out.”
Mom pats my back as we move down the hallway toward the exit. “That’s why you’re going to be more careful from now on. Aren’t you? You don’t need your parents keeling over from early heart attacks.”
