Kayleigh tried, for the third time that day, to hand Kevin his tiny, plastic racquet. For the third time, he threw the racquet at the fence and giggled at his mum’s exasperated sigh.
“Kevi, come on,” she scolded. “Behave.”
“I’m hungry,” he countered.
Arguing with a four-year-old was futile. Even Kayleigh knew that, and she prided herself on arguing with brick walls.
“You can eat if you just do one thing for me. That’s it. Hold your racquet and throw the ball at that cone.”
Said cone wasn’t too far from him, but they’d already established that Kevin didn’t have much of an arm. Or coordination. Or, apparently, any desire to be on the court at 10 in the morning.
“When are we going to church?” He asked, fumbling to pick up his racquet.
“It’s Friday.” Kayleigh positioned him to make the shot. “We go to church on Sunday.”
“Very busy. Hold your racquet over your shoulder.”
“God is everywhere. Put one foot in front of the other. There you go. Now hold tight, leaned forward a bit—“
The ball flew from his racquet, not at all hitting the cone but getting closer than before. Kayleigh cheered, but Kevin was unbothered.
“You did so well, darling!” She picked Kevin up and kissed his cheek, and was quickly captured in a tight hug. When she tried to peel him off, he squeezed tighter. “Are you done for the day?”
“I don’t like this game. I’m not good at it.”
“You just need practice, sweetheart.” Kayleigh combed his hair back with her fingers. It was getting long again. “Don’t be upset. You did really well today!”
He was far from a prodigy, but Kayleigh had been the same. Every sport she mastered had a humiliating history of failures. If she got Kevin up to speed now, though, he could be brilliant.
“I want chips,” he said, muffled by Kayleigh’s hair.
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