He turned back to Ghost. That’s who he was now – Ghost, and not Dad. Aidan brought his arms up, fists loosely curled, ready as he’d ever be. Ghost had taught him to box, but Ghost was –
The president lunged, faster and tighter than expected, getting right in Aidan’s space with total control.
–an army boxing champ.
Aidan deflected a jab, danced, evaded. Ghost kept coming, never letting him collect himself, pressing him relentlessly back until he was spinning to keep inside the manmade ring.
Ghost dropped his shoulder, an opening. Aidan snapped out a hard right. No, not an opening. Atrap.
Ghost grabbed his arm and wrapped his own around it, pulled him in close, his whiskey breath hot across Aidan’s face.
“Does your girlfriend know you have a kid on the way?”
It was a vicious whisper, designed to incite him.
It did the trick.
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his bad shoulder, Aidan wrenched free and caught one lucky blow to his old man’s jaw.
A collective “oooh” went through the crowd.
Ghost’s head snapped back, expression comic with shock for one perfect moment, the firelight flashing in his eyes. In that moment, he looked old, lined, and exhausted.
Aidan charged…and the punch caught him full in the face.
He went down like an empty sack, not even able to brace his fall before he hit the concrete. He saw stars, little birds, all those old cartoon clichés. And then his eyes cleared and Ghost stood above him, framed in Christmas lights, face unreadable. He offered a hand down, to help him up.
Aidan rolled onto his stomach and forced himself up on his hands and knees, reeling.
“I ought to slap the shit out of you,” he heard Maggie say, and heard her boot heels clip toward him. She was talking to Ghost, he knew. Then, to him: “Baby, are you okay?”
He couldn’t talk just yet, still wrestling with the sense that his face had caved in.
“He’s alright,” Ghost said, voice gruff with irritation.
And then Sam was there, her hands against his shoulders. “Aidan.”
He managed to get to his feet, and he went with her, not a backward glance for his father and president.
~*~
Sam found a clean washcloth in the en suite bathroom of Aidan’s favorite dorm and wet it with cold water under the tap. “I take it your dad has boxing experience,” she said dryly, walking back into the room.
Aidan sat on the end of the bed, forearms braced on his thighs, staring at the orange carpet. He lifted his head as she settled on her knees in front of him. “He boxed in the army,” he explained. “He never got to see active battle – a shame, he would have liked shooting people – so he got stir crazy on base. Took up boxing.”
“He’s got the personality for it.” With great care, she reached up to press the cool cloth to his face. His eye was swollen and probably going to black; bruises were coming up faintly along his cheekbone. “It’s a miracle he didn’t break your orbital,” she said, and felt her lips press together in anger.
Aidan flinched beneath her touch, but didn’t pull back.
“Hold that there,” she said gently. “I’ll go wet another one.”
As she stood, he said, “You don’t like my dad.” Not a question.
“No, I can’t say I do.” It felt good to say it aloud. “He’s more of a warden than a father.”
He grinned, but it was faint. “That’s dear old Dad for ya.”
“Why is he like that?”
