Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
I walked into Dad's office. It was late, and he was sitting there drinking a glass of bourbon, the amber liquid glowing in the soft light of his desk lamp. He wasn't reviewing documents or taking calls. He was just sitting, staring out the window. He looked tired. For the first time, he was beginning to show signs of his advanced age. But the moment he saw me enter, he found the energy to straighten his back, his shoulders setting into their familiar, solid line. He put up the façade of the strong general and father who could shoulder the world.
"Brad," he acknowledged. "How are you, son?" he asked, his concern being masked by his stoicism.
"Hey Dad. I feel better," I informed him. "The eye is almost back to normal now, and the ribs will take a few more weeks, but it doesn't hurt as much."
"Good. That's good," he said, his eyes staying focused on me. "So, what brings you here?"
"I—uh, wanted to talk to you about some stuff," I said, feeling suddenly hesitant.
He smiled, a rare, gentle expression. "Come, sit," he said, motioning me towards the chair. I sat down and stared at him as he took another swig of his drink.
"You want a sip, son?" he asked suddenly.
"Wha—what?" I was caught completely off guard.
He chuckled at that. "I asked if you'd like to take a sip of the bourbon."
"But I'm only fourteen," I said incredulously.
That seemed to make him chuckle even more, but then he became pensive, his eyes losing focus on me. He stared into his glass, swirling the liquid.
"My dad did a lot of things wrong in his life," Dad said somberly. "Never premeditated, of course. It was just that he wanted to do ambitious things, but the ambition never panned out. I didn't get it then, and when I was around your age, I even had a fight with him over the fact that he was making the family miserable with his get-rich schemes. We both shouted at each other, and I ended up storming out."
Dad continued after taking another sip from the drink. "I went to the streets, met some of my buddies, and we went around joyriding. Even got into a fight. Beat some people up, got beat up in return."
My own recent brawl flashed in my mind, the shame of it still fresh.
"When I came back that day," he went on, "I found your grandpa sitting on the sofa, drinking a beer while watching TV. He saw me, saw the bruises, but didn't say anything. He just patted the sofa next to him, telling me to sit. That's when he offered me a sip of his own beer. He told me that while he couldn't change the way he was, he hoped that I would find my own way and be happy with it. I took those words to heart. He also told me that a fight deserved a beer."
Dad smiled broadly at that last part. "And while I'm late, I also agree with what he said. A fight deserves a drink. So, I ask again, would you like a sip?"
"I would love to, Dad," I answered.
He offered me the glass. I took it, my hand steady, and brought it to my lips. I took a light sip. The liquid was strong, warmer the longer I held it in my mouth, and when I swallowed it, it slithered down, only slightly burning the back of my throat. It tasted like smoke and oak and something... old.
I was surprised. "That—that wasn't as bad as I'd heard it would be."
"What do you mean?" Dad asked.
"I heard it was supposed to taste very bad and burn the inside of your throat to the point of gagging," I answered.
Dad chuckled again. "Oh, it does. But this is a 25-year-old bourbon." I looked at him, confused.
"The older and better it is, the less it burns," he answered, and then I understood.
"Ohh," I muttered.
He leaned forward, his expression turning serious, his voice dropping. "The other reason I gave it to you," he said, "was so that you learn to control any vices from developing with regards to alcohol. If I can introduce the drink to you, then I can help you understand it and also control yourself from diving into unknown territory."
His gaze was intense, locked on mine. "This can help relieve your mind, son, but it is not and will never be the answer to your problems. Many a man have wasted away trying to find escape or answers at the bottom of a bottle. I don't want my own to be one of them."
He said it sternly, but his voice mellowed out towards the end. He wasn't just talking about "many a man." He was talking about his father. My grandpa. I could feel that he did not want me to go down the wrong path. He was sharing his own pain, his own history, to protect me from it. It was, in its own way, the most profound "I love you" he had ever said to me.
The intensity seemed to leave his eyes when I nodded to his words. He leaned back in his chair, the moment of tenderness between father and son passing. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?"
Now it was my turn to act seriously. I straightened up in the chair, my ribs protesting the movement, but I ignored them. "Dad, I want to take self-defense classes," I told him straight.
"I get it," he accepted easily enough, taking another sip of his bourbon. "We can have you enrolled in classes. Karate? Tae Kwon Do? Your call."
This was not the answer I was hoping for. He wasn't understanding the level of threat I felt.
"No, Dad," I countered, my voice firm, trying to convey the seriousness that I felt the situation demanded. "I—I wish to learn from soldiers."
My dad did not immediately strike down the discussion. He paused, his gaze intensifying. He seemed to consider it for a second, setting his glass down on the desk with a quiet, deliberate click. "Why?" he asked.
I had to make him understand. I had to revisit the memory I'd been trying to bury for the past five days. "When I was in that fight, I realized how helpless I was," I began, my voice tight. "At the mercy of another, until my friends jumped in to help me. I—I don't wanna feel like that ever again." I looked down at my bruised, healing knuckles. "I know there are plenty of defense classes in the city, but I don't want to learn the show business defense. I want to learn to fight, to hold my own. And the best place to learn that is from the United States Armed Forces."
"Son," he said placatingly, his voice gentle, "what you went through that day was an unfortunate accident. And while I agree that defense classes would do you some good, I don't believe you need the extreme training of a Marine or a soldier to be good at self-defense."
He wasn't getting it. He saw the result, the bruises, but not the feeling. The helplessness.
"No, Dad, no, you don't get it!" I said, my voice rose as the frustration and shame and fear from that day boiled over. "I was weak. They were so easily able to trample me, as if I was a piñata to beat the shit out of! I don't want to feel like that ever again!" The desperation rose in my throat, my voice cracking. "I want to be able to beat them into the ground should they even look at me the wrong way! I don't—I don't want to be at their mercy ever again, Dad! Please!" I was resorting to pleading with him, and I hated the sound of my own voice, but I didn't care.
The raw fear in my voice must have hit him. Dad stood up from his seat, came over, and knelt at my knees, holding my hand. His grip was firm, grounding. "Hey, hey, it's okay, son," he said, trying to comfort me. "They won't dare hurt you again. You're safe. I'm here with you."
"But you won't be every time, Dad," I said, forcing myself to regain some control over my emotions. "I have to be able to take care of myself."
He sighed, his eyes full of wisdom I hadn't earned yet. "Bradley, something bad happened to you, and it's only right for you to not want to feel that way again. But taking this extreme of an approach will only lead to more hurt, son."
When I was about to open my mouth to justify myself, he stopped me, holding up a hand.
"I am not saying that you shouldn't take steps to remedy the situation," he said, his tone shifting into that familiar, practical gear. "How about this? You start off with some standard defense classes after school. You pick. Krav Maga, Jiu-Jitsu, whatever. And if, by the time you finish with them, you still feel that you need to learn more, then we can talk about you getting some specialized military training. Does that sound alright to you?"
I pondered on his solution. It wasn't what I wanted. I wanted the end result, now. I wanted that armor, that guarantee of never feeling helpless again. I wanted to directly learn from a military specialist. But... I could see his point. Building a base before getting a professional involved. It was a logical progression. It was a compromise.
"I can work with that," I answered, my voice finally steady.
He stood up from the ground, smiling, the tension broken. "That's good. You can pick the classes yourself. We will go there once you're a bit better."
"Thanks, Dad," I said lovingly.
"Always, son. Always," he said, reflecting the same emotion. Even though we never said it out loud to each other, the feeling was always shared when we spoke.
"I think I'll go now got work to do" I said as I excused myself, Dad only nodded at me.
I left Dad's office, the conversation still echoing in my mind. His trust, his story, his unconventional support... it settled something inside me. The compromise for self-defense classes was a start, but I knew the real fight wasn't in a dojo. It was in my own head. As I was about to head downstairs I saw her.
Erin.
She just stood and stared at me, her small hands clasped in front of her, her eyes wide as they traced the still-visible, ugly purple bruise around my hands.
"Hey, Bug. What's up?" I asked her.
She said nothing, just kept staring with that wide, worried look. It was unnerving.
"Erin? What happened?" I asked her again, trying to keep my voice gentle.
"I'm afraid," she finally whispered, her voice tiny.
"Afraid of what?"
"That if you go out, you'll hurt yourself again."
Her words hit me harder than any of the punches from the brawl. This was the collateral damage. My pain, my fear, had become hers.
I winced as I moved, but I took her by the hand and led her to the sofa and sat with her. "Hey. Look at me." She looked up, her eyes swimming with unshed tears.
"What happened to me was bad," I told her, forcing my voice to be steady. "But I cannot be a cowardly person. I can't just stay safe at home forever, afraid of what might happen. Sooner or later, one must face the world. There's no bravery in hiding, Bug. There is bravery in standing up, even if you're scared."
"But what if you get hurt again?" Erin asked, her lip trembling, the very question I was trying to banish from my own mind.
This was the hard part. I couldn't promise her I wouldn't. "Then I'll get hurt," I told her, meeting her gaze. "But I will get better at defending myself. I'm going to learn how. But I will never stop standing up. Not for me, not for my team."
"But that's not safe," she insisted, parroting the exact words every adult must have been thinking.
"Erin, it's safer than laying low and getting beat up" I told her, the memory of my own helplessness still fresh and bitter. "It's safer than being afraid all the time. Being afraid... that's its own kind of prison."
Erin nodded meekly, still processing the concepts I was throwing at her.
I softened my tone, pulling her a little closer with my good arm. "And you should come to me if you ever get bullied. You hear me?" She looked up, surprised. "I mean it," I said, my voice fierce. "I won't let what happened to me happen to you. Ever."
Her face crumpled, and she nodded, then hugged me, her small arms wrapping around my body, careful of my ribs. "Get well soon," she mumbled into my shirt. "And... and I won't be afraid, ever."
I chuckled at her fierce declaration, the sound a bit wet even to my own ears. I hugged her back, ignoring the flare of pain from my side. "I love you, bug. You know that, right?"
Erin nodded against my chest. "I know. And I love you too."
I stood up after she left back upstairs to head out to my basketball court. The late evening sun was warm, but it did nothing to chase the coldness I'd been feeling for days.
I picked up the ball. The familiar pebbled texture of it grounded me, filling me with purpose. The humiliation of that one-on-one match, of Damien's casual, predatory dominance, burned in my memory. I wanted to beat Damien fair and square. He had exposed the limitations of my game. He had seen my weakness.
I had not been to practice even once since the brawl, using my injuries as a valid excuse. But I knew next week the doctor would likely clear me for light activity, and I would be back in that gym. Back in his gym. I couldn't walk in there the same way I had left: a victim. I needed to be prepared to do better.
I took a deep breath, the air catching painfully in my chest. I then started performing drills on my own.
I started simple. Stationary dribbling, right hand. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The simple impact was a shock. The vibration traveled up my arm, but the real agony was in my hand. The stretching of my palms pained my knuckles, which were still a landscape of swollen, purplish bruises. Each bounce was a sharp, stinging reminder of the fight.
I switched to my left hand. Same pain. I gritted my teeth and pushed through it.
I tried a simple shooting drill. Just a form check, a soft set shot from the free-throw line. I raised the ball, and my entire torso seized. A white-hot, stabbing pain shot from my side, a violent protest from my cracked ribs. The pain... throbs telling me to stop. I froze, gasping, the ball falling from my hands.
"No."
My body seemed to resist everything. This was weakness. This was the helplessness I'd told my dad I would never feel again.
I stubbornly carried on. I picked up the ball, ignoring the fire in my side. I tried again, moving slower this time, breathing shallowly. I got the ball up, pushed it toward the rim. It clanged harmlessly off the side.
Fine. Crossovers. I tried a simple, low crossover, right to left. The quick, lateral shift of my weight, the planting of my feet, the necessary twist of my core—it was a mistake. The pain wasn't a poke; it was a white-hot explosion. I cried out, doubling over, clutching my ribs.
This was impossible. I was broken.
'You lost.' Damien's voice echoed in my head. 'A-a boy k-kissed me.' Alex's voice, full of pain.
Rage. Cold, pure, and aimed at my own failing body. I straightened up, my vision swimming. I would not be this weak.
I stared at the hoop, my breathing ragged. I started repeating in my head his mantra, the words that had become my lifeline, my identity.
'Once more into the fray,' I thought, my voice a silent, ragged growl. I started dribbling again, the pain in my knuckles just a dull throb against the fire in my ribs.
'Into the last good fight I'll ever know.'
I drove for a layup, ignoring the body-slam of pain as I planted my foot to jump. I grunted, the sound ripped from my throat, but I got the ball up. It rolled in.
'Live and die on this day.'
I landed hard, stumbling, catching myself before I fell. I was gasping, tears of sheer agony blurring my vision. But I turned, picked up the ball, and started dribbling again.
'Live and die on this day.'