Jag
“Care to tell me what this is about?” Boss flashes the paper in his right hand.
I’d just waltzed into the locker room to shower and change into fresh clothes out of my gym bag after a brutal day of training. Boss going through my gym bag is the last thing I had on my mind. Today was the first time in a long time where my mind was clear, I landed punches, and I only had Sunni and her sweet giggle on my mind.
I freeze, the blood in my veins growing cold as well. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
“Is this what has your head so fucking tied up and you ruining your life?” He stands and moves toward me, eating the distance between us.
Boss is nearing his mid-fifties and still towers over me even though I’m a grown adult. None of that matters because I still cower down to him. It’s not out of fear, rather respect for the man who saved my life.
“Is this what has you so fucked up?” he growls, continuing toward me until my back is pushed up against a wall.
Everything inside of me wants to snap my eyes shut and make this scene disappear. I need tequila to make that happen or my jackass personality to make it all go away. I’m nothing without my shield of armor to hide behind.
“Contéstame, Jag.” His anger flares at me with our close distance.
He’s demanding answers. His voice is raised in pitch while he speaks Spanish, begging me to tell him the answer. And I have nothing. Disappointing this man is my true rock bottom. It’s a place I never want to find myself. He gives me the time to answer him.
“Yes, Boss.” The two words come out weak in a barely-there whisper.
He inches closer until there’s no space between us. His brows are scrunched and eyes glossed over, showing his disappointment on every feature.
“José, are you going to let that piece of shit who used to beat and torture you in a way no little boy should be touched control your life?” He slams his fist into the wall behind me. Its remnants crumble down on my shoulder. “Are you going to let your fucking dad ruin everything you’ve worked your ass off for?”
He’s never called me by my given birth name. Not once since he rescued a broken boy on the sidewalk, even when I’ve disappointed him over the years. The fact he threw it in my face is my reality check.
“No.” The one word comes out firm and without a second guess. “Boss, I’m looking at my father, and I have no fucking idea who José is.”
I shove his chest. The brick wall also known as Boss only budges a bit. It fucking pisses me off. I shove him harder until he steps back.
“Don’t know my birth father, Boss. And sure as shit don’t know any José.” My temples have a pulse of their own, creating a massive ache. My fists are thirsty to take down the biggest and baddest motherfucker around. This man who I respect more than anyone else putting me in my place has my temperature and rage overheating.
“Excuse me?” He steps up, thumping his pointer finger in my chest. “I can’t hear you. Your head has been all messed up, and I’m left here thinking it’s the letter you received from your birth father threatening you. Am I fucking wrong?”
His voice level heightens on every syllable. He’s pushing me and damn well knows it. It’s the reality check that’s been long deserved.
“Fuck you!” I roar. “Fuck you and everybody that dares fucking doubt me.”
“Really? You ready to show it or wallow around like a damn fool who has the world in his hands?” Boss steps back, egging me on when he throws his hands up in the air. I see it in the glint of his eyes. The man who I love dearly is pushing me to take the next step.
“Put me in the fucking ring now! I don’t care if it’s you or Cruz. Put me fucking in there.”
He dangles the letter one more time in front of my face. “Is this gonna stop you?”
“Fuck you!” I spit. I’ve lost all control.
“In a month when this fucker shows up when he gets paroled, are you going to be the guy standing in front of me or the dumbass ruining his life over a piece of trash?”
I don’t answer him. I turn and march right back into the gym, ripping off my sweaty t-shirt. It shreds in an instant and is a long-lost memory. My hands are still taped from practice. My feet drum on the painted cement floor. The echoes of it demand everyone’s attention once I enter the whole of the gym.
I spot Cruz first. Layla isn't far behind him. Their gazes examine me as if I’ve lost my ever-fucking mind. They couldn’t be more spot on. I stomp my way over to the ring, ignoring everyone’s reactions. Once settled in the dead center of the octagon, I raise my hands above my head and roar out a cry that has been bottled up deep inside me.
Trick is the first dumbfuck to enter the ring with me. I let him get his jabs in until I remember that pain from the closet when I was a helpless little boy. I throw one jab and then side sweep him with my leg. I have him grabbed in a chokehold until he taps out.
I don’t shake his hand or play any niceties; I need to get fucking everything out. There’s a stale pause until the next man enters the octagon. I take him down just as easily as I did Trick. It’s not because they were easy opponents. No, it’s way more than that. My internal rage comes out to play the game of its life.
Cruz reaches behind his back, peeling away his shirt, then enters the eight-sided cage that brought me back to life. The fucker is a good six inches taller than me with more mass, but I don’t give a shit. I wait for him. Then it’s on. We dance around for a bit. In slow motion, Cruz’s fist flies up toward my chin. He nails the perfect uppercut. I get drunk on the feeling, letting him get two or three more in. I’ve lost count. When he puts his guard down, I go in for the kill. I know if I can get him down on the mats, the bitch is mine.
He flails backward when I shock him with an uppercut he never saw coming. Once he’s down, I wrestle the shit out of him, not concerned with the fact he’s a good weight class above me. The stubborn bastard doesn’t tap out. It takes Trick and a few other team members to pull me off him.
I’m not done. The adrenaline of not wanting to go back where I came from strums through my veins. I’d take on anyone right now.
Boss steps into the ring. And he’s not in coach mode. He’s stripped out of his shirt, and his fists are wrapped. The old bastard still has washboard abs and guns that could take anyone down. The look in his eyes tells me exactly why he stepped in the ring. He doesn’t give me a hint or wait on me before advancing.
My jaw jerks to the right then left. My kidneys take several knees while his fists batter my face. I take every single blow until I find my angle. And once I do, I let my fury fly. I don’t see Boss in front of me. Everything is a dark tunnel. With each punch I give and receive, light shines back in. I catch glimpses of the Jag before receiving the taunting letter from my birth family.
Nothing stops either of us until our energy runs out. It’s a symbolic gesture like a father encouraging his son at a flag football game. That’s exactly what Boss just gave me.
Boss ends up slumped over me with me on my back. He cradles my head in his massive arms. Streams of sweat run down both of us.
“That letter means nothing, boy. You are right. I am your father by choice, and that’s more powerful than any blood relation. I refuse to watch you destroy yourself. I love you, Jag.” He squeezes me tighter to him.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard him tell me he loves me. It is the first time it destroys me in the best possible way. And I don’t give two fucks—those four words make me cry. Boss jumps to his feet and extends a hand to me. I know it won’t be the last time my hero picks me back up. I brush away the stray tears and grab his hand.
“Layla.” Boss nods to her and then guides me out of the octagon.
He slings an arm around my shoulder. The entire gym follows Boss as he leads us out the back door into the alley. I glance up to see all my teammates forming a silent circle. Layla hands her dad the letter and a lighter then steps on my other side. She wraps her tiny palm in mine and then looks up to her husband on the opposite side of the circle.
“Diablo’s Throne takes care of each other. Always. No questions asked. You all know Jag’s story. The man is a son to me, and when someone threatens him, it pisses me off.” Boss holds the letter up above his head. “Some scumbag thinks he has the power to threaten Jag. He’s after Jag’s money and wants to enjoy the fame. This same asshole is also the one who beat and tortured him. And I’m here to tell you it’s not fucking happening on my watch.”
A sliver of an orange glow strikes from a lighter. Boss holds it up to the corner of the paper. “Who here is with me?”
A chorus of agreement sounds as the paper begins to incinerate, wiping away the hateful words into nothing but ashes. My teammates continue to chant their words of encouragement until the letter floats to the ground in a heap of ashes.
Boss jerks his chin and begins speaking over the chants. Everyone silences.
“I built this gym on three beliefs.” He pats his chest.
It’s the cue his fighters need to join him.
“Heart, fire, desire. Heart, fire, desire.”
Layla squeezes my hand, and Boss slaps my back. And somehow, I know everything is going to be okay.