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“And if I don’t make it?” I choked out, voicing my biggest fear. “If I’m not fit by then?”
“Then you don’t make it,” he replied simply.
I shook my head and released a pained sob. “Da, I can’t cope—”
“If you do not make it this summer, then you do not make it this summer,” he repeated. “You are still Johnny Kavanagh. You are still an honor student. You are still a good man. And you are still my best decision.”
For the millionth time in my life, I found myself looking up at the man that raised me and thinking: Will I ever be as strong as you?
I watched my father as he pulled over a chair and set it down in front of me.
“Now,” he said as he sat down and loosened his tie. “Let’s get real, son.”
Oh shit.
“Real?” I croaked out.
Dad nodded. “Say you don’t make it onto the U20s in June—”
“Da, I can’t—”
“Hear me out,” he said calmly.
Glumly, I nodded.
“Say you don’t make it in June,” Dad continued to say, voicing my worst nightmare out loud. “It’s devastating. Your mother and I understand. You might not think we do, but we brought you into this world, and every single painful moment in your life that you endure, and every obstacle you stumble over, we’re there, Johnny. We’re right behind you, feeling everything. Your pain and frustration and fears. It’s all mirrored back to us. Your achievements are ours and your heartache is ours. Because you are all we have, Johnny. Just you. That’s it.”
Now I felt worse than when I woke up. “Da…”
“When you’re older and you have children of your own, a son of your own, you’ll understand what I mean,” he added, calm as ever. “But for now, you’re going to have to take my word for it.”
I nodded, feeling like a piece of shit and knowing full well what was coming next.
“What you did, Johnny?” Dad said. “The danger you put yourself in?” He shook his head and exhaled a shaky breath. “There are no words to comprehend how devastated we were to get that phone call last night.” He leaned forward in his seat and clasped his hands together. “To know that our boy was risking his health and his future like that, and that he had been for months.”
My shoulders slumped in shame. “I’m sorry, Da.”
“I don’t need an apology,” Dad replied without a hint of anger in his tone. “I need you to understand. To take a step back from this dream you’ve been chasing and realize that your life is already happening.”
“I just want it so bad, Da,” I confessed, biting down on my lip. “So fucking bad.”
“And I want it for you,” he told me. “I want you to chase your dreams, Johnny. I want you to make them come true. I want every single thing you want from life to happen for you. But I need you to do all that with a steady head.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at me for a long moment before speaking again. “Even the best fall down sometimes, son. What you do next—with clear, calculated, logical thought—is what will define you.”
Yeah. I got it. I heard him.
Exhaling a heavy sigh, I rubbed a hand over my face and asked, “So what’s the plan?”
Dad smirked.
I frowned at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He tilted his head to one side, still smirking. “I’m just looking at my boy and feeling thankful to see the fire in his eyes again.”
I shrugged helplessly. “Was it gone?”
“Not for long,” he told me. “And the plan is recovery and bedrest. Seven to ten days.”
I exhaled a ragged breath. “Jesus, Da—”
