He didn’t push after that. Just said he’d arrange a field for the weekend and he left, and I sat at Betty’s kitchen table for a long time after, listening to my sons celebrate in the yard.
?
I spent the next few days looking up statistics on dirt bike injuries, which was a mistake. Then I looked up statistics on supervised instruction versus unsupervised dirt bike riding, which helped marginally. Betty caught me at it on Thursday and said, “He learned to ride at four years old and he’s still here,” and that was the end of the conversation.
The morning of the lesson, Knox ate three pancakes and vibrated so hard he nearly fell off his stool. Luca ate carefully, methodically, the way he did before anything he considered important. I watched them both over my coffee and thought this is what it looks like when they have two parents.
It was a twenty-minute drive to the field. I let Knox talk the whole way and didn’t try to quiet him once. Luca sat quietly beside him and watched out the window.
When we pulled in, Colt was already there. He’d backed his truck up to the gate, bikes off the tailgate, two small helmets lined up on the hood. He was crouched beside one of the bikes, checking something. He stood and turned when he heard the car.
Knox had his seat belt off before I’d fully stopped.
“Wait,” I said.
He waited. Barely.
I got out and stood by the car door for a moment, watching Colt walk toward us. Calm. Ready. The same steadiness he brought everywhere. It had unsettled me, once—I’d been waiting for the performance to slip, for the real thing underneath. But this was the real thing. I was beginning to accept that.
“Hey,” he said, looking at me first. Not at the boys, who were already circling the bikes.
“Hey.”
“You doing okay?”
“Getting there,” I said.
He nodded once. Then he turned to the boys, and I stepped back to the field’s edge—arms folding over my chest—and I watched their father begin to teach them.
Chapter 17
?
— Colt —
I’d never been more nervous in my life, which was ridiculous. I’d been riding since I was four years old, had taught dozens of prospects over the years, had ridden through situations that should have killed me. Two kids on dirt bikes in a controlled field should have been nothing.
But these weren’t just any kids. These were my sons. And their mama was watching from the edge of the field, arms crossed, ready to swoop in and end everything if I screwed up.
“Okay.” I crouched down in front of the boys, who were still vibrating with excitement. “First things first. What’s the most important rule?”
“Helmets!” Knox shouted.
“Listening to you!” Luca added.
“Both good answers.” I picked up the helmets I’d brought—kid-sized, top of the line, nothing but the best for my boys. “Helmets first, always. Never get on a bike without one. That’s non-negotiable.”
“What’s non-negotiable?” Knox asked.
“Means it’s not up for arguing or discussion. Ever.”
Luca’s chin lifted. “Helmets. Non-negotiable.”
“Helmets, non-negotiable,” Knox echoed.
I helped Knox strap on his helmet, checking the fit, making sure it was snug but not too tight. Then Luca’s. Both boys stood there looking like little astronauts, grinning at each other.
“Now. These bikes—” I gestured to the two small dirt bikes I’d borrowed from Handful, who’d got them for his nephews. “—are designed for beginners. Low power, easy to control. But they’re still machines, and machines need to be respected. You don’t mess around, you don’t show off, you don’t do anything I haven’t taught you. Understood?”
