by Harley Stone
Was she telling me this giant of a man would be sitting with Dylan? Wondering how my son would feel about that, I looked over my shoulder and found him staring at the man in open-mouthed curiosity.
“Dylan,” I whispered.
He shook himself, and then gave me attitude. “What?”
I gestured him forward. “Come here.”
He reluctantly wandered over, and I settled my hands on his shoulders.
Naomi’s expression softened as she looked from Dylan to me. “Kaos wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust him with my toddler. We screen all employees and volunteers, and so does the veteran’s club. My brother only brings in standup men, and he holds them to a crazy high standard. To be around kids, there’s additional training, and Kaos has completed it. We’ll be one room away, and if your son feels at all uncomfortable, he can go right around that corner and find us in the first door on the right.” She pointed in the direction.
Leaving my son with a strange man felt wrong, but if Kaos was a woman, I wouldn’t hesitate. That revelation made me feel sexist, something I didn’t care for at all. I’d researched Ladies First, thoroughly, and found nothing but glowing reviews. The organization had been founded less than a year ago, but they’d helped a lot of women in that time.
I needed to trust them to help me.
Emily knelt, coming eye-level with Dylan. “Hey, buddy. I’m Emily.”
He didn’t look impressed.
Resisting the urge to shake the attitude right out of him, I squeezed his shoulders until he looked up at me. Threatening him with my eyes, I whispered, “Manners.”
He sighed but introduced himself.
Emily pointed to Kaos. “My friend there was a soldier in the Army. He also played professional hockey with the Sharks. Do you like hockey?”
I didn’t have to see Dylan’s face to feel his skepticism. “He was with the Sharks?”
A rumbling chuckle came from the far corner of the office.
Emily bit back a smile and nodded.
“Dylan plays the NHL video game,” I said.
“Good.” Emily smiled. “You two will have a lot to talk about. Kaos knows several guys in the league and I’m sure he has all kinds of fun stories to share. Will you sit out here with him while we talk to your mom?”
“For how long?” he asked.
“An hour, max.”
He shrugged. “I guess. I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
My cheeks heated at his rudeness. We were going to have a serious conversation when we got home.
Kaos covered a chuckle with a cough. I checked him out again. He was a lot less intimidating sitting down, and the humor and kindness in his eyes put me at ease. Remarkably handsome with olive skin, a strong jaw, and dark eyes surrounded by a thick layer of lashes, he looked Mediterranean. Maybe Greek or Italian.
His gaze met mine, and the slightest hint of pity stared back at me, making my stomach roil. I would not fear this man, or any man for that matter. I would not cower and tie myself in knots to please anyone ever again. And I wouldn’t put up with his pity, either. Squaring my shoulders, I squatted and turned Dylan to face me. “No, you don’t have a choice. You’ll be fine. If anything happens, you heard where to find me. Be good and listen to Kaos, okay?”
Dylan shrugged again. It wasn’t exactly a commitment to behave, but it was as good as I was going to get.
“I got this,” Kaos said with a reassuring smile. To my son, he added, “You any good at that NHL game?”
Dylan nodded and moseyed over in his general direction. “Maybe. What position did you play?”
“They'll be fine,” Emily assured me, squeezing my shoulder. “Let's go chat.”
Hoping she was right, I cast them one last glance and followed the women out of the room.
2
Kaos
I GREW UP in a big, Greek family where I learned to survive amongst a horde of savage siblings and cousins. We spent our younger years competing through a series of dares with little to no consideration for our personal health or the mental stability of our parents. There were several broken bones between the lot of us, but surprisingly enough, nobody died. Now, my cohorts were grown, most with little spawns of their own. Although I hadn’t joined the growing list of family breeders, I prided myself on being everyone’s favorite uncle, conquering family gatherings through gifts, horsey rides, wrestling matches, and video games.
The kids in my family didn’t give two shits about my hockey career or military service. To them, I was a walking jungle gym to climb, tackle, and attempt to take down. I didn’t dare show up without my bag of bribes, or they would rip my ass apart. The little curtain climbers kept me humble and always managed to put life into perspective, and I wouldn't change a damn thing about them.
Even outside of my family, children flocked to me. When I was with the Sharks, I’d been a staple in their Sharks & Parks program, delivering donated street hockey equipment to local youth organizations. I enjoyed riling up the kids to play and encouraging them to chase the shit out of their dreams. Our Q&A sessions were the best. I never knew what unfiltered insanity would come out of their mouths. The little bastards were brutally honest and unintentionally funny. Best fucking comedy shows I ever attended.
I volunteered to help the kids, but I’m sure I got a hell of a lot more out of the experience than they did.
The Dead Presidents, the veteran motorcycle club I’d joined after I got out of the military, ran an anti-bullying campaign at a couple local preschools. I’d taken the required classes and was on the waiting list to join them, but the guys who volunteered for that program didn’t give up their spots easily. I’d probably have to shank someone to get a turn. Greedy motherfuckers.
Emily was a ball-busting attorney and the wife of my club president, Link. Naomi, a former Air Force helo pilot, was Link’s sister, and the wife of Eagle, the club’s secretary. Along with several other club ol’ ladies, they’d founded Ladies First to offer support and resources to women who needed a hand getting out of bad situations and back on their feet. The ladies knew I wanted to work with kids, so when they called and asked me to sit with an eight-year-old who was struggling with his parents’ separation, it was a no-brainer. But unlike the thousands of children I’d won over through my family and career, Dylan Parker didn’t jump all over me or ask me to sign a poster or take a picture with him. Instead, he eyed me like I wasn’t worth the oxygen in my lungs before taking his first verbal stab at me.
“They’re gone. You can cut the crap now,” he said, collapsing into the seat across from me.
I eyed him, wondering what his deal was. “Exactly what crap am I supposed to cut?”
“You might be able to fool them, but you can’t fool me. I know you weren’t in the NHL.” He raised his chin, daring me to argue.
“Okay.” I could pull out my phone, google myself, and prove it to him, but I kind of wanted to hear his reasoning. “How’d you come to that conclusion?”
“NHL players are… cool.”
Ouch. That smarted. The kid sure didn’t pull his punches. Hoping I didn’t sound too wounded, I asked, “You don’t think I’m cool?”
“You’re a babysitter. You’re babysitting me. That’s not cool.”
“Ah.” I nodded, letting his reasoning sink in. He wasn’t wrong, I was babysitting him, but if I was falling into the pit of Loserville, I was taking his little punk ass with me. “Doesn’t that make you the baby I’m sitting? Babies aren’t cool, either.”
He stared at me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet. “No. I’m not a baby. When you watch someone else’s kid, it’s called babysitting. It doesn’t have to be a baby, just a kid. Everyone knows that. You’re not very smart, are you?”
I used to think I was, but this little bastard had me second guessing my IQ. I kind of wanted to brag about my BA in business but pulling out my college education seemed petty as fuck. We’d spent less than five minutes together, and my accolades hadn’t ea
rned me one ounce of his respect. I didn’t know what scale Dylan was using, but he’d clearly taken my measure and found me wanting. The kid hadn’t even given me a chance.
“You’re kind of an asshole, aren’t you?” I asked.
He gaped at me, looking a hell of a lot like he belonged in the fish tank in front of us. When his mouth closed again, it drew into a tight line and anger flared in his eyes. “You can’t call me an asshole.”
Impressed by how quickly his shock had morphed into indignation, I asked, “Why the hell not?”
“Because I’m a kid, and you’re an adult. Adults aren’t supposed to call kids names or cuss in front of us.”
“Says who?” I asked.
My question seemed to frustrate him. “Everyone knows.”
“Ah. The all-knowing everyone again. That seems to be your go-to answer for a lot of things. So, let me get this straight. I can’t call you an asshole, but it’s okay for you to behave like one?”
He rubbed his temple like I was giving him a headache. “Look, man, I don’t make the rules.”
I had to clamp my mouth closed to keep from laughing. As a kid, I’d made my mom massage her temples more times than I could count. I was guessing this little dude did the same. Poor Tina. I’d bet this shithead ran circles around her.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a rule, but I’ll tell you what, you stop actin’ like an asshole, and I won’t call you one. Deal?” I asked.
He eyed me. “I’ll think about it.”
Damn, the kid was killing me. “Take your time.” I sat back in my seat, resting my hands above my head. I kept my attention on the fish tank while Dylan’s gaze burned a hole in my face.
We sat in silence for a few minutes as he studied me like he was trying to figure out all my weaknesses so he could use them against me. Finally, he announced, “You’re big, but I don’t think you’re all that tough.”
Another stab. The little bastard was really trying to cut me down to size. Probably so he could look me directly in the eye when he told me I wasn’t shit. Ten minutes ago, my confidence was solid. Now, I was one more insult away from flexing on a pint-sized tormentor out of self-defense.
“You don’t have many friends do you?” I asked.
He frowned, swinging his feet. Since they weren’t long enough to hit the floor, they bounced off the chair’s upholstery and kicked up until they were level with his knees. “I had lots of friends at my old school, but I don’t get to see them anymore.”
Well, shit. He and his mom must have moved recently. The kid was lonely and lashing out rather than dealing with his feelings. I couldn’t blame him. If the fading bruises around his mom’s pale neck were any indication, he was dealing with some heavy shit and probably didn’t have anyone to talk to.
“Why don’t you think I’m tough?” I asked, trying to keep him talking to see if he would open up.
“Those women are your bosses. Tough guys are in control. They don’t put up with anyone’s shit, and they don’t let anyone tell them what to do. They’re the bosses.” He watched me, waiting for my reaction. Probably thought I’d jump on him for swearing, but I was far more bothered by his definition.
“Yeah?” I asked. “What gives a tough guy the right to tell other people what to do?”
“He’s bigger and smarter. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Sounds more like a bully to me.”
Dylan let out a dramatic sigh like I was the one making him want to pop antacids like candy. “You don’t understand.”
Oh, but I was afraid I did. “He's bigger, so he thinks he has the right to tell people who are smaller what to do. And when they don’t comply, he beats them up. I don’t care how you try to sugar coat it, that’s a bully, Dylan.”
He frowned. “Okay. If you’re so smart, what do you think a tough guy is?”
I considered it for a moment, wanting to make this kid realize the ridiculousness of his point of view. A face popped into my mind, and I instantly had my answer. “When I was in the Army, I served with this guy by the name of Hirome Tagashi. He was so tough he earned the nickname Hero.”
“Heroes aren’t tough guys,” Dylan announced.
“You don’t like superheroes either?” I asked, unable to believe my ears. What the hell was wrong with the kid? How could anyone not like superheroes?
“No. Look at Spiderman. He risks his life for people all the time and what does he have to show for it? His uncle died. He’s broke. His girl left him. He’s a schmuck.”
I stared at him. Kids didn’t use words like “schmuck,” which meant that some grown ass adult—probably some wannabe mobster—had planted that word in his head. Undoubtedly accompanied by a lot of nice guys finished last bullshit. “Who told you that?”
“My dad.”
I wanted to point out that the biggest schmucks were those who were so weak they had to beat on women, but I bit off the words before they could pass my lips. I knew better than to talk shit about a kid’s parents. That would only harm Dylan’s self-image and turn him against me. Instead, I had to make him see the truth for himself.
“Look, Spiderman isn’t real, but Hero is, and he’s the toughest man I’ve ever met. He’s not a big guy. Kinda short with a lean athletic build, but I’m tellin’ ya, he’s built out of vibranium wire, concentrated piss, and old-fashioned determination.”
Dylan leveled a look at me. “Vibranium isn’t real either.”
“Nobody’s proven that, but it doesn’t matter. Hero was in Afghanistan when his vehicle hit an IED. That’s like a hidden bomb on the side of the road. He was wounded on impact—got a leg full of shrapnel and dislocated his shoulder—and the vehicle fell under fire. That’s what the enemy does, you know? They set up these traps and then they hide. When the vehicle hits the bomb, they start shooting. But Hero didn’t cower in a corner like some pus…” I thought better of my word choice and censored myself. “Like some pansy. He slammed his shoulder back into its socket and managed to drag three of his unconscious teammates out of the vehicle to safety. All while the enemy was trying to shoot him.”
Dylan stared at me with wide eyes, making me wonder if my story was a little too real and gory for a kid his age. I didn’t want to traumatize him or give the kid nightmares. Before I could decide if I’d overshared, he snapped his mouth shut and skepticism clouded his eyes. “Yeah right. That kind of thing only happens in the movies.”
I reached down and rolled up the left leg of my jeans, showing him the twelve-inch scar running down my shin before releasing my jeans and tugging up my T-shirt. Four jagged scars ran across my left side. I let him get a good look at them before dropping my shirt back into place and pointing out another thin, pale line that spanned from the bottom of my left ear to my shoulder.
“I was in that vehicle.” One of five. Paulombo had been impaled during the crash and died instantly. Hero pulled me, Mayers, and Jacoby out of the wreckage and covered us until the rest of our convoy could surround us and return fire. Mayers didn’t make it. He bled out during the flight to the hospital. But Jacoby and I owed our lives to Hero.
“Before that day, I would have considered myself tough. I can skate circles around most of the players I’ve met on the ice, and I’ve never lost a fight in my life. On or off the ice. But you know what? All my strength and training didn’t mean a thing when my head bounced off the side of that rig and knocked me out.” Still, I was one of the lucky ones, with only a concussion, a handful of scars, and no memory whatsoever of the attack. Jacoby had to have his left arm amputated and reconstructive surgery on his cheek, jaw, and nose. No amount of therapy seemed to help Hero stop reliving the attack in his nightmares. “Tough as I was, if it hadn’t been for Hero, I would have died in that desert.”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and thumbed through pictures until I found the one I was looking for. In the photo, I stood beside an athletic Asian man who barely came to my shoulder and had a medal hanging around his neck and a haunted look in h
is eyes. A stocky white man stood on the other side, his arm a stump and his face still bandaged up from surgery. The three of us were dressed in service greens. Showing the screen to Dylan, I said, “See, that’s me, Hero, and Jacoby. Hero saved us both.”
Dylan’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. “He saved you?”
I chuckled. “Sure did. That’s one tough son-of-a-bitch right there.” I watched the kid as my words sunk into his thick skull. I should have probably been watching my language, too, but sometimes it took a well-placed curse to really drive home a point, and I wanted to make sure this shit stuck with him.
“Any man can pick on those smaller than him, but real toughness… that comes from defending those who can’t defend themselves. Being tough is about character and integrity. It’s about who you are and how you react when the shit hits the fan.”
Dylan’s brow furrowed in thought. “With great power comes great responsibility,” he quoted, and I got the feeling he was more of a Spiderman fan than he wanted to admit. There was hope for the kid yet.
“Fuckin’ A, man.” I’d said enough on the matter and didn’t care to keep preaching. Besides, my street cred couldn’t hold up against being called uncool again. Switching gears, I sought out our common ground. “But enough about all that. Which console do you play NHL on?”
He sat a little straighter and a proud smile tugged at his lips. “PS 5.”
“Wow. Your mom found you a PS 5?” I’d been trying to get one for my nieces and nephews for a while, but the damn things were sold out everywhere. The only way to get one was through a scalper who bought them at retail and resold them at hiked up prices. During my hockey days, I’d invested well and could comfortably live out the rest of my life without ever working again. I had the dough, but I refused to buy from scalpers out of principle. Those fuckers were ruining the entire system, making it so only the rich had access to new tech.