Gym Candy (11 page)

I shook my head. "I'm not telling anybody."

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

I looked at her. "Do you think that's wrong?"

"No. I guess not." She paused. "Well, I've got to go to math now. See you around."

***

Kaylee wasn't the only person who approached me that day. So did her friends Natalie Vick and Heather Lee. So did Russ Diver, a fat guy in my last-period class who I've known since first grade. And so did a kid with green spiky hair who I didn't know at all. It was as if every single person in the school had heard every detail. They were all trying to be nice; they were all saying that two against one wasn't fair. But I didn't want pity.

For the rest of the week, I went straight from one class to the next, keeping my head down in the hallways. I ate lunch by myself on the steps leading down to the tennis courts. And when the school day ended, I walked straight to the parking lot, hopped in my Jeep, and drove home—skipping weight training.

That weekend my dad had me turn over the soil in a spot behind the shed where my mother grew vegetables. The earth was wet from all the rain, and my arms ached from the work. As I shoveled dirt, my muscles
burning, I kept picturing Drager, on his back, bench-pressing one eighty pounds like it was nothing. Then I saw myself, straining every muscle but only managing a fraction of what he'd done.

It would have been okay if Drager had been a little stronger than I was. That would have made sense, even—he was older and outweighed me by fifteen pounds. But Drager was a lot stronger. And I knew there were other running backs on other teams, guys born naturally strong like Drager but who also worked the weights every day. Drager didn't put in the work, so I could see myself catching up to him. It would take time, but I'd do it. But how could I catch up to guys who were just naturally stronger than I was and who didn't dog it?

Monday I went back to eating lunch with Drew and DeShawn, but nothing felt right. One of them would say something and I'd laugh too hard, and then I'd say something and they'd laugh too hard. After school I returned to the weight room. Guys nodded to me, said "Good to see you," but basically they left me alone. On Tuesday, Nolan Brown came over while I was doing squats. "What those guys did sucked, and Drager is no friend of mine," he said, and then he returned to his station.

That week I hit the wall. Bench press, squats, curls—you name it and I was stuck. I looked at the clipboard where I kept track of my personal bests and I saw that if anything, I was slipping back. In the hall the next day I asked Carlson what I should do. He shrugged. "Everybody hits a dead spot. Keep working and you'll get past it."

For the next weeks I worked and worked, but nothing changed. Around me the guys were laughing, having a good time. I pretended I was, too. I pretended that the whole thing with Drager was over. Over and forgotten. But I kept picturing Drager grinning at me, mocking me.

One Friday night, after my third straight miserable week in the weight room, I was up in my bedroom listening to music, my mind working like crazy. I had an alarm set to remind me to drink my final protein shake. It started beeping and I automatically got up, stepped into my bathroom, and reached for the protein powder.

Then I stopped. I looked at that stuff, and I hated it. I thought of the work I was doing to pay for it: the painting, the pruning, and the cleaning. I might as well go back to eating Snickers bars and drinking Coke, because if I wasn't getting stronger, then all the sacrifices made no sense. My dream of being a big-time football player—it was just that ... a dream.

"Mick," my dad called up from the stairwell. "Do you know where the bucket is?"

"I think it's in the yard," I called down.

"See if you can find it. Your mom's looking for it."

I went downstairs, out the back door, and started across the yard toward the shed. A full moon was shining down. I didn't see the bucket, but in the middle of the lawn I spotted an old football. Without thinking, I picked it up and tucked it tight against my chest.

I took a couple of steps, as if I were playing, and somehow I wasn't in my backyard in the moonlight anymore. Instead, I was in a big-time game under the lights, and tacklers were fighting through blocks, trying to get at me. Everything was confused, cluttered, closed. I had no chance, none; I was going down. But then I made a quick move, and found some space, and then made a second move. A tackler dived for my ankles but missed. I cut back and saw it—an opening. I darted through the hole; a final tackler tried to grab me high, but I shrugged him off, and a split second later all was open in front of me, open and green and empty, and I was running down the field, running and running until I'd run out of space, run through the end zone. I raised the football above my head, then spiked it onto the lawn. It landed just short of the hedge, took a crazy football bounce, and disappeared under the
shrubbery. I stood there, trying to remember why I was out in the yard in the first place. It took a while, but I finally remembered the bucket.

I wasn't giving up, but I couldn't keep doing the same things. I'd worked as hard as anybody in the weight room. Still I wasn't big enough or strong enough to go one-on-one with a linebacker in the red zone. To get bigger and stronger, I had to go back to Popeye's. Sunday, while my mom was at her new church, I asked my dad if he could still get me a membership. "I thought you hated Popeye's," he said.

"You were right about the weight room at school. I'm not making much progress. And I don't think our coach knows much about weight training. It's all three sets of ten and that sort of thing."

"Yeah, that's how the old guys did it. In fact, that's how I did it. I'll call Popeye's and get you an hour a week with that trainer. What's his name? Or do you want a different guy?"

"His name is Peter Volz, and he was fine. He knew what he was talking about. I got it in my head that he was gay."

My dad snorted. "Mick, gay guys are in every gym. Fact of life. You've got to take what people have to offer, whoever they are."

While I washed the Jeep, he called Popeye's. I was drying it when he came outside. "Tuesday," he said. "Three-thirty with Peter Volz.You're all set."

***

At school on Monday morning, I took the stairwell leading down into the basement. I knew Carlson's office was somewhere down there, but I had never been in the school basement before. I wandered around awhile before I saw him through an open doorway. He was seated in front of a computer, his head in his hands, deep in study. "Coach," I said.

He motioned to me with his hand. "Come on in. This will just take a minute more." I stepped into the little office and sat down on a blue plastic chair. "I can check every square foot of the school from here," he said as I sat. "Lights and heat and alarm systems."

"I thought your job was pretty simple," I said, and then I was embarrassed, afraid I'd insulted him. "I mean—"

"It's okay, Mick. You don't have to explain. But there is one thing you should always remember: Nothing in life is simple."

He went back to his computer. A minute or two later, he hit the Enter key and then turned to me. "So what can I do for you?"

I explained to him about Popeye's, how my dad could get me a free membership, and how I was going to start training there after school instead of with the team. "I wanted you to know that I'll still be lifting even though you won't see me."

"I don't check on my players, Mick. I told you that."

"I know," I said, "but—"

"But you thought I might check on players." He smiled. "That's okay. I am glad you told me, because I'd like you to reconsider."

"Why?"

"Because friendship counts for something, too. You work out with guys, you form a bond. Fourth quarter, tight game, everyone's tired—that bond matters. See what I mean?"

I squirmed in my chair. "I'm stuck, Coach. I've been stuck for weeks. You told me I'd get through it, but I haven't. I came up short last time. I don't want to come up short next time." He leaned back in his chair but didn't speak. "So, is it okay?" I said.

"Your decision, Mick. You do what you think is best."

***

When Carlson had mentioned friendship, I'd felt a sting. It had been a month since the run-in with Drager and Clark. Nobody had forgotten about it—not me, not Drew, not DeShawn. We acted like friends. We ate lunch together, and most days I gave one or both of them a ride home at the end of the day. But I didn't meet up with them between classes; and at lunch and during weight training, they talked more and more with each other and less and less with me.

I could never make up my mind how I felt about the way Drew and the rest of my teammates had acted. Sometimes I'd think about them watching while Drager and Clark beat me up, and I'd feel betrayed. But other times I'd picture the whole thing reversed, picture those two guys pounding on Drew or DeShawn, and I'd wonder what I would have done. There was something scary-crazy in Drager's eyes, something almost everybody in the school felt. Ten, maybe fifteen seconds—that's how long the whole thing took. I wanted to believe I'd have jumped in right away, but would I have been any quicker? I didn't know for sure.

When weight training ended on Monday, DeShawn went back to the library to use the computers. Drew and I walked out to the Jeep together. "I can't give you a ride home anymore," I said once I started it up.

"You losing the Jeep?" Drew asked.

"No, it's not that. I'm not going to do my weight training at school. I'm going back to Popeye's."

He flinched. "Popeye's? Why?"

"They've got great equipment, that's why."

"But it was so weird."

"It wasn't that weird."

A moment passed."Is this because of Drager? Is that why—"

"It's got nothing to do with him," I insisted, and then I paused. "Look, you're a quarterback. Nobody expects you to go busting tackles and carrying guys into the end zone. Fourth and one, you're going to hand me the ball and you're going to count on me to get that yard. I've got to get stronger, Drew, and I've got to do it fast. Popeye's gives me the best chance." Neither of us spoke for the rest of the ride. I pulled up in front of his house. "You okay for a ride tomorrow?"

"Hey, what is it? A fifteen-minute walk home? I'm fine. Don't worry."

I was one hundred percent certain about Popeye's, but I was still nervous driving to Fremont on Tuesday afternoon, and I grew more nervous when I saw the mirrors with the guys standing in front. What would Peter Volz think when he saw me? I remembered how I'd acted that day—had he suspected what I'd been thinking?

There was no turning back, though. I pushed the door open and saw Peter sitting behind the main counter. "Hey, what's up, Mick?" he said, sticking out his hand.

I shook it. "Nothing much."

Peter nodded. "I talked to your dad. He said you're not happy with your weight program at school."

"I don't feel like I'm getting stronger."

"Well, you've come to the right place. You'll have to work, but I can help you make that work more effective."

I nodded toward the gym. "Should we get started?"

"We need to talk a little first. Ever had a mango smoothie?"

"No," I said.

"Jamba Juice is right next door. Let's go."

I wanted to buy my own, but he wouldn't let me. "You sit down," he said, and he went to the counter and ordered. A couple minutes later he stuck a tall cup in front of me. I took a sip. It was cold and sweet. "It's great," I said. "Thanks."

He reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. "There are a couple of things we have to clear up if I'm going to be your trainer," he said. He thumbed through his photos. Finally he took one out and dropped it on the table. He was on a beach, and he had his arm around a beautiful black girl wearing a bikini. "First of all, that's my girlfriend, Tamika. She can tell you that I'm definitely not gay."

"I never thought you were—"

He put his hands up to stop me. "Yeah, you did, Mick. Look, you're a kid. It's a strange world. But from now on, if I move your arm up or down on a barbell or I show you how far to bend your knee, you can't freak out on me, because if you do, we won't get anywhere. Okay?"

He could have made me feel foolish—foolish and childish and stupid. But there'd been no mockery in his voice. I took a deep breath and exhaled, and when I looked back at him, he smiled. "Okay?" he repeated.

"Okay," I said.

"Good. That's settled. Now clue me in. What's the real reason you're back? And don't say you want to get stronger. Tell me what makes you tick, what's driving you. The more I know about your goals, the better."

I swallowed. "This is going to take time."

"That's why I got us the smoothies."

I thought what I was saying would bore him, but the more I talked, the harder he listened. It was like talking to an older brother. Better, really, because guys I knew who had older brothers mostly complained about how mean they were. I told Peter about my dad, how he'd been great in high school and college but had fallen apart during training camp in the NFL, and how he'd kept that from me, and how I'd found out only about a year and a half ago. I told him how my dad had taught me football from the day I was born, how it was the only game I'd ever played, and how now it was my turn, and I was right there, so close, but that I needed to get stronger. "I feel like if I can succeed, in a way I'll be doing it for both me and my dad. Lots of times he makes me mad, but he taught me the game. I don't want to let him down."

Peter stirred his smoothie for a while. "Look, Mick, if you work with me, your muscles are going to burn. They're going to be on fire and then I'm going to tell
you to do another rep. And then, when you're done with that one, I'm going to want you to do two more. So if you're here just for your dad, you should go back to your school and work out with your team. Nobody puts up with the kind of pain I'm talking about for dear old Dad. So what I need to know is, are you here for you, too?"

"What do you mean?"