BRAWLER [under contract]

chapter two | SKIP

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The cawing of Rylee's alarm clock blared in his ears, instinctually making his arm swing straight up and down on the off button, bringing silence back to the room. Rylee snuggled further into his pillow, thinking about what he should say to the trainer. He imagined it going one of two ways. Either the trainer would think he was amazing and take him quickly under his wing. Or the trainer would discourage him for even trying, reminding him, yet again, what a failure he was. Fearing mostly the latter, Rylee groaned and looked over at the shower curtain hanging in place of a bedroom door. On the other side was the kitchen and living space. He soon heard the raised voices of his parents, which was nothing new to him – they were also fussing about something.

Rylee pulled the covers over his head and settled down for a couple more winks before getting up and going to do his nighttime training. He was about to drift off back to sleep before the shrieking of the metal rings swooshed to the side and a dark, looming presence entered the room. Rylee didn't have to guess who it was. The strong scent of bourbon was an instant giveaway.

"Heard you were getting into trouble at school, yeah? My money's going to waste again?"

Rylee sat up in bed and looked up at his father's reddening face. He knew that trying to explain his situation would get him nowhere.

"Leave him alone," Mrs. McCormick pleaded from the doorway. "It's not what you think. Please, let's just all go back to bed."

"How about you go back to bed?" Mr. McCormick whipped around with his fist drawn back and aimed all-too precisely at his wife.

Mrs. McCormick ducked behind her arm and cowered against the doorframe. She flinched even though he hadn't struck her yet.

"I want to know why our son is getting into trouble so much," Mr. McCormick growled.

"Dad, please, let's just talk about this tomorrow. It's really not what you think." Rylee's voice was calm and steady, a tone he had trained himself to use whenever his father was drunk. He had learned that the hard way.

Mr. McCormick snorted and shook his head slowly. "Whatever. I'm sick of you two pathetic losers." He turned, shouldering his wife out of the way. He didn't leave the house again like he usually did, but instead laid down on the couch and fell asleep.

Sighing in defeat, Mrs. McCormick walked up to Rylee and sat down on the bed. "I'm so sorry. I was just trying to explain to him why I was late picking him up from work. Just go back to bed. We'll talk tomorrow."

"All right. Good night." Rylee watched his mother leave but didn't lay down again. He knew once his father was home, there was no such thing as peace. Rylee used to laugh a lot—displaying his lopsided smile and crinkles under his eyes—but his father's toxic behaviour dampened such emotions.