Chapter 1 The Job #12
I guess we all have scars. Some are just more visible than others.
Bruiser finishes by saying, “If Rafe hadn’t been trying so damn hard to impress everyone—me most of all—he’d be alive right now. He would be here instead of me.”
I lean forward with my elbows on the table. “You can’t blame yourself. I mean, it could have happened to anyone. Right?”
Bruiser says nothing in reply. He just sits there with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes slitted, staring out the window.
“So that was the deal?” I ask after a moment. “Did you let me go because I just remind you too much of Rafe? And… what happened to him?”
Bruiser grunts a humorless laugh. “I guess that comes with being young, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“Thinking you’re the center of the damn universe.”
Okay, fine, that makes my ego bristle just a little. But I guess I’ve got to admit, he has a point. I have been looking at everything from my perspective. What Tessa said about me is true—when I go into bulldozer mode, it’s like nothing else exists. I am the center of the damn universe.
Maybe self-pity is the highest form of arrogance.
“It was never about your legs, kid. As far as I can tell, it doesn’t seem to stop you from doing much.
And to be honest, I think that’s pretty incredible.
” He says it with unvarnished honesty, looking me right in the eyes.
“It was never about you, Weston. I wasn’t going easy on you because I thought you were broken.
I was trying to make sure I didn’t make the same mistake with you that I made with Rafe.
When you start looking up to someone, trying to make them proud, it’s not…
” He shakes his head, shoulders stiffening as he averts his gaze again.
“I’m no good for you, kid. That’s it. That’s the truth. I’m no good.”
I sit back, looking at this guy and finally seeing him for the first time. He’s not a beast, not an ex-Marine with menacing tattoos and pecs of steel. He’s just a man who blames himself for getting his brother-in-arms blown to pieces.
He’s the center of his own damn universe, and he doesn’t even see it.
“With all due respect, sir… that’s a load of shit.”
Bruiser’s gaze snaps back to me, surprised.
I smile. Because that look tells me I’ve caught him off guard. And that’s a satisfying feeling.
“If I’ve learned anything from losing my legs, it’s that regretting past mistakes…
is the slowest way to die.” I shrug one shoulder.
“Maybe, if you had a time machine, you could go back and do something differently on that patrol, and maybe Rafe would be alive right now. And maybe if I had a time machine, I wouldn’t be sitting here as an amputee.
But we can’t change the past. We can only change the future. ”
A weak half-smile tugs at one side of Bruiser’s tight-lipped frown.
“What?” I ask.
“You sound just like him.”
I look down at our two cups of coffee on the table.
“I’m sorry for getting angry the other night.
I shouldn’t have assumed those things about you.
It’s just when you walk around in my shoes for a while, you get used to people looking at you a certain way.
Or not looking, in a way that’s almost worse. ”
Bruiser listens, his expression stony and unreadable. I get the feeling he understands, even though he could never really understand.
“And I guess I was also pissed because you told Devon about my legs to make him feel bad and apologize for hitting me.”
Bruiser frowns, confusion written all over his face. “I never told Devon that.”
“But he said… I saw you talking to him after the sparring match, and he came over and said he was sorry—”
“Because I could see right through his competitive dickhead attitude and told him that my gym was no place to get even with someone over personal shit. I told him if he couldn’t put his inflated ego in check and show some sportsmanship and respect, he could consider himself barred from training at my gym for the rest of his life.
” Bruiser grunts into his coffee mug. “The kid clearly has no father keeping him in line at home.”
The last of my self-doubt melts away in that moment as I realize what this means.
I’ve been wrong.
About everything.
This whole time.
I’ve been an idiot. The center of my universe. A black hole of self-pity, self-destruction. I’ve been so caught up in what I thought was happening, it made me completely blind to what was actually happening.
Now, reflecting on the past week, it’s like I can finally see clearly. And it’s like the weight of the world has lifted off my shoulders.
As much as it pains me to admit it, Tessa is right. I’m too defensive for my own good. I am an arrogant moron.
But sometimes arrogance can be a virtue.
Like now.
“Sir, I know you think you’re no good for me—and this job is no good for me.
And maybe you’re right. Maybe you bring out the worst in me.
Maybe you bring out the worst in everyone.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a competitive jackass who wants to be the greatest of all time.
But to be honest… I think I’m good for you. ”
Again, I take Bruiser by surprise. His eyebrows tick upward like, Oh really, kid?
“I realize how cocky that sounds,” I’m quick to add, “which just goes to prove your point that I have too big an ego and need to adjust my attitude… but I’m willing to do that.
It would be good for me to do that. I just think if I walk away from this job, I’ll always regret it.
And I think… maybe you’ll regret it, too. ”
Bruiser watches me for a long moment, a thousand unspoken words flickering through his ice-cold eyes. It feels like an eternity passes before he breaks the silence.
“You think you’re good for me?”
The way he poses the question would make anyone else shut their mouth and realize he’s being rhetorical—sarcastic, even.
But I have the nerve to nod and say, “Yeah. I do. Because even though I don’t know what it’s like to go through a war…
I do know what it’s like to live every day with something that you can’t escape—something that makes you miss the person you used to be.
Something nobody else can ever truly understand.
I know it’s two completely different things, but…
sometimes it helps just to know someone else who has…
” I look down, my throat tightening around the last few words. “Stuff they can’t talk about.”
That’s when the waitress comes by and refills our coffee mugs. A moment of silence comes and goes. Bruiser finally sighs through his nose and says, “You’re right, kid.”
Which prompts me to ask, “About… which thing?”
“You’re an arrogant jackass.”
My shoulders slump.
Bruiser hides his grin in his coffee cup, making me wait before adding, “You’re right about me, too. I like having you around. You remind me of myself when I was your age.”
“Really?”
“Why are you smiling? It wasn’t a compliment.”
I laugh.
“If you want to give it another shot… I’m willing to put up with your shit if you’re willing to put up with mine.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Wait, are you offering me the job?”
“If you have to ask, you weren’t listening.”
“No, I was listening.”
“What’d I say?”
“You’re hired.”
Bruiser laughs. Yes, actually laughs. For the first time since I met him.
“Good answer, kid.”
When I show up for work at Bruiser’s Boxing Gym on Monday night, I’m wearing basketball shorts. It feels a little like that moment when you brace yourself before diving into a freezing lake. But once you take the plunge and your body gets used to it, you’re like, Hey, this water’s not bad.
That’s how it is every time I let someone see that I’m an amputee.
I don’t do it for Tessa. I don’t do it for Bruiser.
I do it for myself.
Because if I can’t be one hundred percent myself—damn the consequences—then there’s no point to this job at all. I promised Bruiser I would adjust my attitude and put my ego in check. I vowed to be a better version of myself.
And tonight, as I was getting ready, I asked myself what the best version of Weston Ludovico would wear to the boxing gym.
Basketball shorts. Every time. Because the best version of Weston doesn’t give a shit what people think, how much they look or don’t look, or what stupid questions they ask.
That’s the Weston I’m going to be from now on.
I know some days, I’ll fail. But that’s okay. Because I’ll always get the chance to try again.
That’s the thing about boxing—and life: everybody gets knocked down, but what makes you a fighter is getting back up and going another round.
When people start showing up for class, I don’t look at them—but they look at me.
As Bruiser calls the students to line up in front of us, they go through all the usual Reactions.
Some people don’t seem to care. Little Steve Rogers stares at me like I’m his new favorite Avenger.
Princess Leia looks like she can’t believe she kissed me.
(And jeez, if I’d known my prosthetic legs would have warded off her creepy stalking, I would have revealed them a long time ago.) Devon looks the most shocked of them all—his mouth is hanging open in disbelief as he sees me in a whole new light.
Bruiser crosses his arms over his chest and leans closer to stage-whisper loud enough for everyone else to hear, “Do you see any flying donuts around here, Weston?”
I swallow a laugh. “No, sir. I don’t.”
“Then why the hell are all these mouths hanging open?”
I pretend to think about it, then answer, “I think they want to do knuckle pushups, sir.”
Bruiser nods, grinning just enough for me to see. “I think you’re right, kid.” He slaps my shoulder. “Count ’em out.”