Page 4 of Centering Kaos

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 earned 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.

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