Gym Candy (9 page)

My dad nodded toward the keys lying on the table. "Go ahead. Take them. I suspect you'll want to go for a ride."

I went to pick them up, but my mother put her hand over mine and held it there."The contract you signed—
everything in it still stands. You break any of those rules, and the Jeep comes back."

I nodded. "I know," I said.

"And I want to know where you're going, who you're going with, and when you'll be back every time you leave this house. And that cell phone stays on. Understood?"

"Yes," I said.

She let go. I picked the keys up from the table and headed for the door, so excited I was shaking. When I reached the door, I turned back to my dad. "What are you going to drive?"

"I'm buying a Dodge pickup from a guy at work. Very cool-looking, deep purple, oversize tires, lots of bells and whistles. He's bringing it by tonight. It'll help when we broadcast from outside the studio."

My mom held up one finger. "One hour, Mick. I want you home in one hour."

***

I picked up Drew and then went to DeShawn's place and got him. They thought I was incredibly lucky to have my driver's license. I had to tell them the Jeep was mine over and over before they finally believed me. We drove around for a while and eventually ended up at
Carkeek Park. "Does this have four-wheel drive?" DeShawn asked.

"I think so," I said.

He pointed to Piper's Creek, the banks of which were visible from the parking lot. "If it's got four-wheel drive, you could drive right smack into that creek and come up on the other side."

We all stared at the creek for a bit. "Try it, Mick," Drew said.

"I'm not driving into any creek."

"Come on."

"It's not happening." I looked at my watch. "I told my mom I'd be back in an hour," I said. "She's pretty nervous about all this."

The first day back in January, weight training began. Thinking about working hard in the weight room—that's easy. Actually doing it, that's a whole different thing. I'd always figured weights were really important for linemen and linebackers but not so much for running backs. It was a mind-set I had to get out of, not just for one day, but for every day.

I stood outside the weight room with Drew and DeShawn. They were both talking about how much they hated lifting. Normally I would have joined right in with their whining, but now I couldn't let their attitude seep into me.

Guys filtered down in small groups. Some of them were eager—Middleton always loved lifting. But most of them had that dentist's office look on their faces. I kept waiting for Drager and Clark to show.

When Carlson arrived, he opened the door to the weight room and we trailed in behind him. Right away I could see changes he'd made. Banners with the words
BIGGER, FASTER, STRONGER
were plastered over all the walls. So were posters from the Super Bowl and the Rose Bowl and the Orange Bowl.

That wasn't the only change. As Carlson walked us through the room, you could tell how much thought he'd given to everything. The equipment was the same—an aging Smith machine and lots of free weights—but now it was arranged into stations all around the room. On the wall behind each station, Carlson had mounted photos showing what lift we were to do and how we were to do it. Below the photos was a clipboard where we were to write down the weight we'd lifted and the repetitions we'd done.

After he'd explained all the stations, Carlson faced us. "I heard Coach Downs in here every day barking at you guys. But I'm not checking on anybody. I've got my job to do out there in the school; you've got your job to do in here. I'll just say this. You saw Rogers; you saw Pasco. It was pretty exciting for them, playing for a championship, TV cameras rolling, stadium rocking, college recruiters watching every down. They played that game in December, but those guys got there because of the off-season work they did in the weight room. If you want to experience a championship, then you have to put in a champion's effort. Not one day—every day." He paused. "Last guy out turn off the lights."

Carlson left the weight room. We stood, looking around, unsure what to do. Middleton spoke up. "You heard the man. Let's get to it."

You need one guy to spot you during weightlifting. I let Drew and DeShawn work together and partnered up with Middleton. He was stronger than I was by a long shot, but with his easy smile and his easy ways, he didn't make any fuss about having to take weights off and put them back on. And seeing how much he lifted gave me still one more push.

I worked harder in the weight room than I ever had before. I was so focused on my workout that it wasn't
until it was over that I realized Drager and Clark had never shown up.

"They quit the team," DeShawn said as we left.

"What?" I said.

"Laura Shelly told me this morning. Her older sister Kim is Clark's girlfriend. They're transferring to West Seattle. That's a triple-A school—we won't even play against them next year."

By dinnertime, my shoulders and hamstrings had tightened. I took it as a good sign—I'd never gotten stiff from lifting before, which meant that I really had gone at it harder. I took a hot bath and then stretched out on my bed, punching buttons on the TV remote.

On one channel was one of those dumb infomercials peddling some health junk. I was about to switch to something else when this really ripped guy held up a bottle of pills and started talking about how they'd changed him from a ninety-pound weakling into a man-monster. The commercial showed before and after photos to prove it. They were crazy photos—probably of two different guys—but they got me thinking about the supplement stores out there. How could they stay in business if everything they sold was useless? I was committed to the weight room, one hundred percent. And I wasn't going to use steroids like number 50 and the other Foothill guys probably did. But if there were legal things out there that could make me stronger, it would be stupid not to take them.

Saturday morning I drove to the supplement store at University Village. I found an entire aisle filled with bottles promising muscle and weight gain. I floundered around until one of the clerks, a tall guy with a blond ponytail, came over. "You looking to bulk up?"

"I'm starting to lift weights seriously," I said, "and I was looking for—"

"You were looking for this," he said, holding up a bundled package of a protein powder with vitamin and mineral supplements. "You take all these and lift weights, and I promise you fantastic results."

I looked at the price on the package. "It's pretty expensive," I said.

"Nothing worthwhile is cheap," he answered.

That night I sat at my desk and worked the numbers. I had Christmas money from my grandparents and eight hundred dollars in the bank. That would pay for a six-month supply, but no more. Then I thought about
all the clinics and camps my dad had paid for, all the equipment he'd bought me. They'd cost money. Well, this was for football, too.

My dad was out in the shed, cutting boards for new shelving. The table saw was screeching so loudly that it took a while to get his attention. Finally he shut the saw off, and I put a leaflet down in front of him. "What's this?" he said, taking his goggles off.

"You were right—I need more power, more strength. I'm going to work way harder at weight training this off-season. These are supposed to help."

He scanned the leaflet. "I drank a few protein shakes in my time. At Washington, the strength coach was all over us about nutrition." He handed the leaflet back to me. "Looks good, Mick. Take them." He started to put his goggles back on.

"I want to," I said quickly, "only..."

"Only what?"

"Only I don't have enough money."

He scratched the top of his head and smiled. "I get it. Okay, how much?"

"About one fifty a month."

He blew out softly. "Wow. That's a fair amount of money." He thought for a little while. "I'll tell you what. You're working four hours a week for the Jeep—that
doesn't change. But if you want to work more hours, I'll pay you. You can start by helping me with this project. After that there's painting and cleaning the basement and a million other things. You find out what minimum wage is, and I'll pay two bucks more per hour. What do you say?"

I didn't have to think it over. "It's a deal."

I stuck my hand out and we shook.

Sunday morning I took down the old shelves in the shed. The work was gross—there were tons of spiders and spider webs in the corners. My dad rented a U-Haul truck, and I loaded up all the trash and took it to the transfer station. I started at seven and didn't finish until two. He counted out my pay and gave it to me on the spot.

After lunch, I drove to the supplement store and found the same clerk. I took the money my dad had paid me, added a chunk of my Christmas money, and bought four big bottles of pills and two bags of a powdery protein stuff that you added to milk. "You've also got to eat well," the clerk said as he bagged it. "Meat, dairy, fruits, vegetables, nuts, and beans. No junk. You stuff your body with French fries and drink Coke every day and none of this will do you any good."

***

The pills were easy, but the first sip of the protein powder made me gag. I pinched my nose as I swallowed down the rest, and it wasn't as bad. At dinner I told my mom that I was going to eat healthy. "Don't buy any more junk food," I said.

"Glad to hear it, Mick."

Only one thing bothered me: I had to drink a protein shake and take two pills at school during lunch. The clerk had said that timing was key. I was going to have to mix the protein powder into my milk, and Drew and DeShawn would razz me for sure. I decided to try to make a joke of the whole thing.

Sure enough, when I got a cup and added the powder to my milk on Monday, they both grimaced. "What's that?" Drew asked.

"It's a protein powder." I stirred. Most of the powder dissolved, but some yellow stuff floated on the top.

"Looks nasty-nasty," DeShawn said. "What's it supposed to do?"

"Make me bigger and stronger. You want to try it?" I said, pushing the milk toward him.

He shuddered. "No way, José."

I drank it down and then wiped my lips with the back of my hand. "Dee-licious." I flexed my biceps. "This stuff is going to turn me into the Hulk."

The next weekend, my dad had me paint the upstairs computer room. I didn't mind doing the walls, but I hated the windows and the doors. I'd arranged to meet Drew and DeShawn at three on Sunday, and I had to hustle to finish.

I was getting set to carry the paint out to the shed when my dad came up to check on my work. He stood in the center of the room and looked at each wall, and then the ceiling. "Not bad," he said. "I'll move the furniture back."

"Thanks," I said, and I took a step toward the door.

"Wait a minute, Mick," he said. "I want to show you something."

I turned back, thinking he'd found a drip or a gob of paint on something, but instead he was sitting at my mom's desk, a small mahogany box in front of him. He motioned for me to come closer, and I did. "You ever notice this box?" he said, his face serious.

I shook my head.

"It's on the bottom shelf of the bookcase in the far left corner."

He opened it. Inside were a few two-dollar bills and a handful of foreign coins. He tipped the box over so
that the coins and bills fell into his left hand. He put those on top of the desk.

"I'm out late every night now, Mick. And pretty soon I'll be going on trips for a week at a time. Ben Braun stayed in Seattle, but Lion Terry likes to take the show on the road. That means you and your mom are going to be alone more, which is why I'm showing you this." He pointed inside the box to a small button. "The box has a false bottom. Push the button."

"What's inside?"

"Push the button." I pushed the button and the bottom slid back.

In the hidden compartment was a gun.

"It's just like the one you fired at the range. There's a ninety-nine point nine percent chance you'll never need it, but I can't stand the thought of being away and having something go terribly wrong and having you and your mom here defenseless." He stopped. "I'm trusting you to be a man about this, Mick. You never touch it—ever—unless you feel threatened. No showing it to your friends, none of that."

"Is it loaded?"

"There's no point in having a gun unless it's loaded. Now I want your promise that you won't touch this unless you absolutely need to. Do I have it?"

I nodded.

"Say it."

"I promise," I said.

"Okay. One more thing. Not a word to your mom about this. She'd want it out of the house."

He put the gun in the box, then pushed the button, and the false bottom slid back, covering it. Next he returned the two-dollar bills and the coins. Finally he put the box in the bookcase, bottom left.

I brought the paint cans down to the shed, cleaned the brushes, and threw away the masking tape and the papers. After I locked up the shed, I stood a moment in the yard, thinking.

The Jeep, and now the gun. I wasn't a little kid anymore. I'd been saying that for a long time. But now my dad was saying it, too, and that was different. And a little scary.

I was set. I had school, and I had weightlifting after school. I had the Jeep, and I had a way to make money. I was taking my protein and my supplements, and I was eating right. Matt Drager was off the team and was headed out of the school. I was getting along great with Drew and DeShawn, hanging out with them on Friday
and Saturday nights, playing flag football with them on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. So when my dad told me about Popeye's the day before he left for Miami, I wasn't all that interested.

"The radio station just bought it," he said, his voice excited. "The fitness center in Fremont. You know the place I mean, don't you?"

"Yeah," I said, "I know the one you mean."

"I get a free membership with my job. And since you're my son, you get a free membership, too. You could do your weight training there."

"I don't need to; I lift with the team at school."