He owed Brice that much.
What people didn’t know—and Bruiser wouldn’t tell them—was that beyond the publicity photos taken of him visiting the hospital, there were countless more visits that were never documented. This morning was one such visit.
As soon as he walked off the elevator, Mary, the charge nurse, pulled him aside. “We have a patient we’d like you to work your magic on. He needs a little TLC.”
“Giving you guys hell, is he?” They often steered him toward kids who were tough to handle.
Mary nodded and raised her gaze to the heavens. “Beyond hell. He’s severely burned from a head-on car crash, which killed his mother and father. The firemen on the scene estimated he was trapped in the car for almost a minute before they could get to him. The only thing that saved him was his mother’s body on top of his. The poor kid had second- and third-degree burns over a majority of his body. He just turned eleven, and he’s spent the last several months here in the hospital.”
“Oh, man, that has to be tough for the kid.” Stories like that reminded Bruiser that no matter how bad someone might think their life was, someone else always had it worse.
“His mother and father were professors at the UW. No brothers and sisters. His only living relatives are on a church mission in South America or somewhere. They won’t return for another month or so.”
Bruiser nodded. “So he’s all alone?”
“He had some visitors at first, friends, teachers, but lately no one has come by. It’s pretty tragic. We do what we can, and he tries, but it’s really hard for him.”
“Where is he?”
“Zero-four at the end of the hall. His name’s Elliot.”
“Got it.” Bruiser leaned closer to her. “So, Mary, when are you going to leave your husband and run away with me?” He grinned, enjoying their usual banter, and winked at her, even though she was old enough to be his mother.
“I’ll let you know.” She winked back.
With a chuckle, Bruiser made his way to the end of the hall, stopping to talk to kids on the way before entering Elliot’s room.
Lying on the bed was a small, scrawny little guy with thick glasses and a stubborn set to his jaw. A book was propped in a stand on his table, and he appeared to be lost in it. Bruiser hesitated for a moment, not because the kid’s face set him back on his heels, but because something about this kid struck a chord deep inside him, sliding past carefully constructed walls into that place marked with an “Enter at your own risk” sign.
Bruiser adored every one of these brave kids with a fierce protectiveness. He often rented a suite at the ballpark and took them to baseball games. As they healed, he helped them acclimate to a world that often couldn’t help staring at them. He never once looked at these kids with repulsion like his parents once had. Never.
Stepping into the room, Bruiser plastered a smile on his face. He loved his kids, as he liked to think of them, loved how they put on such a courageous face to the world, how they opened up to him when they realized their outside appearance meant nothing to him but their internal beauty was everything. The kids understood him better than his closest friends—hell, better than he understood himself. But they saw a side of him no one else saw. The therapy worked both ways.
The kid glanced at him, his face wrinkled and red from the skin grafts, one eye partially closed, and only the remnants of a nose and ears.
“Hey, buddy. How’s it going?” Bruiser walked over to the bed.
The kid squinted at him through the thickest pair of glasses Bruiser had ever seen. “I’m not your buddy.” No animosity behind his words, just a factual statement.
Bruiser tried not to smile. “You could be if you gave me a chance.”
“Who are you?” Elliot gripped the remote as if it were a weapon he could wield at any second.
“Not into sports, are you?”
Elliot shook his head. “Nope. I’d rather read than watch a bunch of men chase a ball around.” He pointed to the pile of books on the table next to the bed.
Bruiser picked up one. Shakespeare. Damn. He looked at the stack. Classics, every one of them: Twain, Scott, Dickens, and Poe. At the same age, Bruiser was smuggling Playboy magazines into his bedroom. Elliot turned the page with a bandaged hand on a dog-eared Tom Sawyer hardcover—at least it was a kid’s book.
“I’m Bruiser Mackey, running back for the Seattle Steelheads.” Bruiser patted Elliot on the shoulder. “And you’re Elliot.”
The kid blinked a few times then nodded. “Yeah.” He stared at his book. “I don’t watch football. Mom said it was barbaric, and Dad said it was boring.”
“It can be both at times.” Bruiser grinned and sat on the edge of the bed.
Elliot met his gaze, his forehead wrinkled with worry. “Don’t I bother you?”
Bruiser narrowed his eyes and made a show of studying the kid, looking past the angry red splotches on his face, missing right ear, and bare, scarred head. “Bother me? Hey, just because you’re a bigger fan of Tom Sawyer than Tom Brady?”
“Who’s Tom Brady?” The kid stared up at him with a quizzical expression. He really didn’t know.
“Uh, Super Bowl-winning quarterback for the New England Patriots. Not my favorite team, but it is what it is.”
Elliot gave him his full attention now. “Not mine, either, but then, none of them are. I don’t like football.”
Bruiser held his hands over his heart in a dramatic display that would’ve made the Kardashians proud.
