It had become a part of my routine, just like brushing my teeth or packing my books. I knew when the final bell rang, it wouldn’t be long before they were waiting. Liam, Trent, and Wes—three variations of the same kind of cruel. They were always near the east gate, where the teachers couldn’t see. I didn’t even bother trying to avoid them anymore. I guess part of me believed that if I acted like it didn’t bother me, maybe they’d get bored. They never did.
Today, they knocked my lunchbox out of my hands, smearing peanut butter and jelly across the sidewalk. Then they laughed like it was a comedy special and walked away, high-fiving each other.
I sat on the bench near the bike racks, pretending it didn’t matter. But my hands were clenched so tight my nails bit into my skin. I stared at the blacktop and tried to blink the tears away. I told myself, You’re sixteen, not six. Don’t cry. Don’t give them that.
That’s when I heard the engine. It wasn’t like the usual scooters or whiny mopeds some seniors drove. This was different—deeper. A low, rumbling snarl that seemed to pulse through the pavement. I didn’t even look up. I assumed it was someone just passing by.
But it wasn’t.
The sound stopped directly in front of me. Then I heard boots hitting the ground. Heavy ones. The kind that made you think of bar fights and biker bars. I glanced up—and froze.
He was massive. Not just tall, but big in the way a bear is big. Bald head gleaming under the sun, beard like steel wool, arms inked with tattoos I couldn’t read. A leather vest over a black t-shirt, chain on his belt, and sunglasses pushed up like he’d just finished something important. He looked like someone who had lived three lives and buried a few bodies in each one.
He sat down beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Didn’t say a word. Just leaned forward, arms on his knees, scanning the street like he was waiting for something.
Or someone.
I noticed the boys across the street—my daily tormentors. They were laughing again. Trent pointed at me, then cupped his hands around his mouth like he was going to shout something cruel.
But he never got the chance.
The biker stood up.
He didn’t move fast. He didn’t even speak. He just stood, like a mountain rising out of the ground, and looked at them.
That was it.
Something in the way he looked—calm, measured, like he could destroy you but didn’t need to—made their laughter catch in their throats. Trent lowered his hands. Wes took a step back. Liam said something, and then, without another word, they turned and hurried off down the street.
The biker sat back down next to me.
“That should buy you a few days,” he said. His voice was deep and scratchy, like gravel in a blender. Still, there was something gentle in it.
I stared at him. “Why’d you help me?”
He looked over at me for the first time. His eyes were pale blue, almost silver. “Because once, I was you.”
He reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a battered wallet. Tucked inside was a faded photo of two kids on a dirt bike—one of them looked a lot like me.
“And because I made a promise to your dad before he died.”
My stomach turned.
“You… you knew my dad?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
But he was already rising to his feet, heading back to his bike. That’s when I saw it—stitched into the leather on the back of his vest, just above an eagle clutching a chain:
“In memory of Gabriel Strickland.”
My dad’s name.
My heart thudded in my chest as he rode off, the engine drowning out my thoughts.
The next Monday, I waited at the bench, unsure if he’d really show. But at 3:17 PM sharp, there he was. Same bike, same presence, like some guardian angel with oil-stained boots.
He didn’t say much that day, or the next. Just sat with me. After a while, I started talking—about school, the way kids acted like being different was a disease, how hard it was to feel invisible and still be picked on.
Sometimes he’d grunt. Sometimes he’d laugh.
Eventually, I asked his name.
“People call me Goose,” he said with a shrug. “Used to be worse.”
I laughed harder than I had in weeks.
Days turned into weeks. Goose became part of my routine, like the bullying used to be. Except now, things were different. The boys never came back. I think Goose had spooked them so badly they’d rather risk detention than go near me. Even teachers started to notice. One of them asked if that “man on the bike” was my uncle.
“I guess,” I said. “Something like that.”
But I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said—about my dad.
One afternoon, I brought it up again. “You said you made a promise to him. Before he died. What kind of promise?”
Goose hesitated. For the first time, he looked unsure. Then he pulled out the same photo. This time, he let me hold it. The boy who looked like me? That was my dad.
“We were fourteen. Ran away from a group home in Akron. Lived on stolen cans of ravioli and dreams of building bikes.”
I blinked. “My dad never told me that.”
“He wouldn’t. Gabe wanted to leave that behind. He got fostered by a great couple. I didn’t. Spent more time in juvie than school.”
I handed the photo back. “So what was the promise?”
Goose rubbed the back of his neck. “He got sick. Cancer. I visited him near the end. He said—‘If anything happens to me, make sure my kid never feels alone like we did.’”
I swallowed. “He knew he was dying?”
“Yeah,” Goose said quietly. “But he didn’t cry. Just held my hand and made me swear.”
He stood, like he always did. But before he left, he turned back.
“You’ve got more of him in you than you think. Just… don’t be afraid to let people in.”
I didn’t cry until he was gone.
Senior year came fast. So did college applications. I started tutoring underclassmen, joined the robotics club, and even stood up for a freshman who was being harassed. I figured Goose would’ve approved.
I saw him less often, but he always came back. Birthdays, holidays. Sometimes out of the blue. Sometimes just a text:
“Still got your back. – G”
Eventually, I learned to ride a motorcycle too.
Last summer, I rode with him to a bike rally upstate. It was the first time I saw Goose smile without hesitation. Said it felt like passing the torch.
That night, around a campfire, surrounded by chrome and old leather, I told the story—about the bench, the bullies, the promise.
A woman leaned over and whispered, “You’re lucky. Most people don’t get their guardian angel in real life.”
I smiled. “He’s not an angel. He’s Goose.”
So now, every May 10th—my dad’s birthday—I ride to that same school bench. I sit there for a while, even if no one shows. Just in case some kid needs to feel seen.
Because once, I was them.
And I made a promise.
If this story hit home or made you smile, give it a like or share it with someone who might need a reminder: sometimes the smallest act of kindness can echo for a lifetime.