43. Kai
Kai
The last thing I remember is crashing through a guardrail.
That and the explosive impact of the airbag.
The harsh beeping of monitors, the presence of an IV bag, and the pain radiating up my side and across my ribs tell me I’m most definitely not in my bed.
I’m in a hospital, groggy and confused, trying to put the pieces of the previous night together.
I turn over to my right side and wince with pain. My mom is asleep in her wheelchair, tightly grasping my arm. God she must have been so terrified.
How could I have done something like this to her, to my family again? What the fuck was I thinking?
I guess I hadn’t been. I’ve been reacting for months. Drinking, partying, gambling, getting in fights, all in an attempt to distance myself from her. The real pain that still hasn’t faded. My mom hears me shuffling in the bed and opens her eyes.
“Oh my god, Kai. You’re awake,” her voice is soft yet strained. I doubt she was able to get any sleep in the position she’s in. “How are you feeling?” she asks while squeezing my hand.
“Like absolute shit,” I reply. “Mom, I’m so—"
But I don’t get the chance to apologize, beg for forgiveness, tell her I have finally come to my senses.
A tall female doctor walks in directly followed by my father.
Her bright fiery hair is pulled in a tight bun, her green eyes scanning me with cursory judgement.
I know what it looks like. Another idiotic, juvenile professional athlete, who thinks he’s invincible and none of the rules apply to him, on his way to a second DUI charge.
Worse, I know what it actually is. Me on the verge of ruining my career because I can’t seem to get my shit together. I’m fucking pathetic.
“Kai, how are you feeling?” she greets me but it doesn’t carry any warmth.
“Kind of terrible.”
“Yeah, I would expect so. Your car collided head on with a tree on Glendale. You were unconscious when the paramedics showed up. The window shattered so you do have some lacerations on your arms and face from that. Thankfully, you were wearing your seatbelt and the airbag deployed, so you’ll have some residual bruising.
You also have a few fractured ribs, but aside from that, you should be fully recovered in a couple weeks. ”
“Was there anyone…” Jesus, how do I ask this? “Did I hurt anyone?” I’m so fucking embarrassed. I’m so angry at myself I want to scream, curl up into this hospital bed until it swallows me whole. I feel tears collecting in the corner of my eyes but I push them down.
“No, it doesn’t seem there were any other cars or people around at the time.
The police are going to want to question you and get your statement though.
They’ll be waiting outside when you’re ready.
” My dad is hovering in the corner, his arm on my mom’s shoulder glaring at me.
His face is cold, hard, impatient. Fuck, he’s going to kill me. He’s never going to speak to me again.
I swallow, my mouth dry and gritty, and look away from them. “Okay. How soon will I be able to play again?” I wonder.
“We’re going to keep you another night for observation. But you don’t appear to have a concussion or anything else that might require an extensive stay here. I’d say a few weeks and once those ribs are healed you can be cleared to play.”
“Okay. Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“A word of advice?” I nod. “If you are going to be drinking that heavily, it is imperative you do not get behind a wheel. You could have died or killed someone else. You are very lucky to be alive,” she pauses, taking in my reaction.
Then she continues, her voice quieter. “There are a lot of great mental health resources and addiction services available at this hospital. I’d be happy to make a referral or recommendation if you need one,” she smiles politely.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, Farrah, that was helpful. I think Kai could use some rest now though,” my father remarks, effectively shutting her up and shooing her out the door. Of course my father knows her by name. He worked here as a surgeon early on in his career.
“Dad, I’m really sorry,” my voice cracks on the last word. He holds his hand up as if to say enough.
“This is the last time we will speak of this foolishness. You’ve been given everything, everything, and you choose to squander it.
Why? I would have killed for the opportunities you have,” he fumes.
“The Bucks director of PR is already spinning a story, controlling the narrative so you come out of this looking relatively decent. The team lawyers have gotten the charges dropped. All you have to do is your part, which is to stop fucking up. You think you can manage that?” he snaps.
My mom stares at him in shock but remains silent. Good. I deserve his wrath, his anger.
There’s something wrong with me. I’m not right, I want to say. And the longer it goes on, the harder it is to admit it, to try and resolve it.
I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out.
The conversation has spiraled so out of control I have no idea how to get it back.
I have a few bruises and scrapes but over time, those will heal.
I haven’t killed anyone but I could have.
I’ve forced my mom to endure the aftermath of another traumatic car accident.
And I’m just getting another slap on the wrist.
How long can I narrowly evade death? How many times can I tempt fate and be rewarded for it?
This isn’t me. This isn’t who I am, or at least it isn’t who I want to be. I don’t willingly endanger myself and other people out of pure stupidity. I’m blowing up my life and watching as the pieces scatter like ash around me. I have to fix this. Now. Today. Yesterday.
I’ve been selfish, immature, and reckless. Not to mention my deplorable behavior won’t change one goddamn thing.
It has to stop.