Gym Candy (18 page)

When I crossed the goal line, I felt like a jet breaking through low clouds and coming out into the blue skies of the upper atmosphere. I'd done it. On my own, in the clutch, I'd broken a big play.

The touchdown turned the game around. After that, we were the team that was pumped; Garfield was the team in a state of shock. Rashard Braxton kept running like a man possessed—reversing his field, cutting this way and that, doing everything for his team. But by the middle of the third quarter, he started wearing down, and by the fourth quarter, it was time to stick a fork in him—he was done.

By halftime I was drained, too, but I kept going. Sometimes I'd run a sweep; sometimes I'd run off tackle; sometimes I'd catch a little swing pass in the flat. Always I turned upfield and put a lick on somebody before I went down. Nothing came easy; I fought for every yard and every first down. At the start of the fourth quarter, Carlson pulled me and sent Kane in. Only then did I look at the scoreboard.

Shilshole 41, Garfield 20.

Other than the long run in the first quarter, I hadn't broken anything big. But in the locker room, Gabe Reese, our team manager, showed me the stat sheet. Three touchdowns and one hundred forty yards. "You've got eight touchdowns and over four hundred fifty yards for the season," Reese said. "That's more touchdowns than Drager scored all last season, and nearly as many yards."

When I got home, my dad and mom were sitting in the kitchen, waiting for me. My dad had gone to Just Desserts, a super-fancy chocolate place near Seattle
Center, and had bought three slices of cake. "I should have done this last week," he said. "I was just so excited, I didn't think."

I was tired and sore, but I was also starving. While I washed the cake down with an ice-cold glass of milk, my dad described the game to my mom. He remembered every play I'd made, every tackle I'd broken. It was as if he'd memorized the game, or at least had memorized my part of the game. "You really should come, Patti," he said. "Your son is a thing of wonder."

My mom smiled. "You know how I feel about that. Hearing about it is great. Seeing it?" She shook her head.

***

The next morning the newspaper was right by my breakfast plate. The headline was a little smaller, but it was still a headline.

Johnson Leads Shilshole over Garfield

The writer said that I'd followed up my record-setting performance with another outstanding effort. Then he quoted the Garfield coach. "The Johnson kid was the difference. He's fast and he's powerful. We just didn't have an answer."

I got a bunch of congratulations again on Monday at school, but there were fewer than the week before. Part of me was disappointed, but in another way it was good. That black hole was always in the back of my mind. If I could keep myself from climbing too high, then it might keep me from dropping too low.

We had a light practice, the lightest ever. Shorts, no pads, hardly any time with the helmet on. It was all timing and execution. Carlson had us walk through the plays, then we'd go half speed, then full speed. "Everything crisp, everything precise, every time." That was Carlson's challenge.

As I was changing after practice, Mr. Stimes, the trainer, came over.

"Got a minute, Mick?" he said as I laced up a shoe.

"I guess, but I got to go pretty quick."

"This won't take long. I'll be in the trainers' office."

I finished lacing my shoes, grabbed my duffel, and walked to his office. Stimes waved me in. As soon as I sat down, he picked up a clipboard. "I've been entering the data from the tryouts into a spreadsheet for Coach Carlson.As I was typing in the numbers, that forty-yard dash of yours caught my eye. I decided to go back and
retrieve your stats from last spring, and then compare them with the August numbers. That got me looking at some of your other numbers." He stopped looking at the clipboard and instead looked at me. "I discovered some interesting things. Amazing things, actually."

"Like what?" I said.

"Like you've gained twenty-one pounds since June. Like you bench-press seventy-five pounds more. Like you're two seconds faster in the agility drill. You squat one hundred ten pounds more." He paused. "Frankly, I've never seen anything like it. It's as if you've become a different person."

I kept my eyes down. "I worked out every day over the summer, just like Coach wanted us to. It paid off."

"Where did you work out?"

I almost lied, but then I realized Stimes might have talked to Drew or DeShawn. "At Popeye's. It's a gym on—"

"I know where it is," he said. "How did you end up there?"

"My dad's business. He gets a free family membership. My dad used to play for the—"

"I know all about your dad," Stimes said. "I want to know about you and Popeye's."

I looked out the glass window. My heart was pounding and I could feel the blood flowing to my face. It was
a nightmare. All the time I'd been using, nobody had suspected. Now I'd stopped, now I was clean, and Stimes was circling in.

"There's nothing to know," I said evenly, choosing every word carefully. "My dad arranged for me to have a personal trainer. Nothing against Coach Carlson, but the trainer had me lift differently, with better equipment, and it worked. I got bigger. My dad had the same sort of growth spurt when he was my age. He wasn't that big as a freshman, but then between his freshman and sophomore years, he took off, and he ended up in the NFL. I'm his son. So, you know, genetics and all that. You can ask him if you want. He'll tell you." I stopped, aware I was talking too much. That's what liars always do: talk too much.

Stimes interlaced his fingers and rested his chin on them. "Your trainer at Popeye's. Does he have you taking anything?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Pills. Anything like that."

"I take vitamins and drink a protein shake, but not because of the trainer at Popeye's. I found out about that on my own. All I do at Popeye's is lift. They've got cables and Smith machines and—"

"Mick, are you on steroids?"

I made myself look him in the eye. "No way, Mr.
Stimes. I'm not," I said. It was the truth. But somehow it didn't feel like the truth.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then I stood. "I've got to go," I said, and started for the door. I'd opened it and had one foot out when Stimes's voice stopped me.

"What's the name of your trainer?"

"My trainer?"

"Yeah, your trainer. What's his name?"

"Peter."

"Last name?"

I screwed up my face. "I'm not really sure. Walsh, or something like that. I just call him Peter."

Once I was away from Stimes, I drove straight to Pop-eye's. I walked through the gym, searching for Peter. When I couldn't find him, I started my regular workout, doing lifts for the lower body. As I worked, I kept looking for him. He had to hear about Stimes.

Forty minutes went by, then fifty, then an hour. I walked to the main desk, where a guy with about forty earrings was reading
Body Builder
magazine. "Peter coming today?" I said.

He turned and shouted to someone in the back. "Did Peter quit?"

"No. At least, not yet."

The earring guy turned back to me. "I don't know where he is."

I returned and tried to do my squats, but my head was reeling. What would I do if Peter left? He was more than my trainer; I trusted him, as a friend. He knew everything and nobody else did.

I lifted for ten more minutes. Finally, just when I'd decided to leave, Peter strode through the door. He waved to me, and I motioned for him to come over. "What's up?" he said, smiling.

"You're not quitting, are you?"

His eyebrows went up. "Is that what they said?" He shook his head. "I just had an argument with the owner. And if I ever did quit this place, I'd still be around. All Fitness up in Shoreline has been after me for a year."

I took a deep breath, relieved. "Listen, probably nothing will happen, but..."

As I described what had happened with Stimes, Peter's face soured. "Do you think he'll come here?"

"I doubt it," I said. "Teachers always talk about making calls, but they hardly ever do it."

Peter chewed on his lip for a little. "It's illegal in Washington to test high school athletes for drugs. That
means he could never prove anything unless you said something."

"I wouldn't say anything. You know I wouldn't."

He pointed his finger at me, and his face was different, almost menacing. "You'd better not, Mick. It would be worse for you than for me. All those dreams about going on to college and the NFL and all that. You get nailed with a steroid rap and you can kiss them goodbye. You'd never play anywhere, not even at Southeast Louisiana Junior College."

"I told you I wouldn't say anything."

The look stayed on Peter's face. "And don't tell any of your friends what you've done. Not a word to anybody, ever."

"I haven't told anybody and I never will."

"Okay," he said, but there was still anger in his voice.

I left then, feeling confused. I don't know what I'd expected from Peter, but it hadn't been what I'd got-ten—his distrust.

I drove home, ate the steak dinner my mom made for me, and then started up the stairs to my room. I'd taken a couple of steps when I reversed myself and went down to the den. Sure enough, there was the second article, framed, hanging next to the first.

I heard footsteps and turned to see my mom. She came and stood by me. "I'm proud of you, Mick." She
gestured toward the articles. "I know how hard you've worked to accomplish all this. I'm very, very proud."

***

The following school day went along like most school days. Practice was the same, except the whole time I kept sneaking looks at Stimes, afraid of what he might be thinking. Nothing happened on the field, though, and nothing happened in the film room. After practice, as I was heading out, Drew called out to me. "Hey, Mick, wait up." I stopped, and he caught up to me. "So, you going to Heather's birthday party?"

The invitation had come a week earlier—she was having a swimming party at Green Lake pool. After I'd opened it, I'd shoved it in a drawer, undecided what to do. Part of me wanted to go so that I could try somehow to make things right with Kaylee. But another part of me wanted to let all that go, at least until football season was over.

"I don't know," I said.

"Why not? It'll be fun."

"I'm not that big on swimming."

Drew's voice went low. "Is it the acne, Mick?"

"What?" I said, startled.

"Your acne," he repeated. "That's why you stopped
going to Green Lake in the summer, isn't it? You were afraid we'd want to go swimming and you'd have to take your shirt off and Kaylee would see your zits."

I reddened. "I have no clue what you're talking about, Drew."

"Just listen to me, Mick. Okay? And don't get mad. My dad had bad acne. He's always been afraid that I'd get it, too. And I started to, last year. But the thing is, there's medication now. He took me in and I take these pills and they work. Just get your parents to take you to your doctor, or go on your own."

As he spoke, all the shame I'd felt on the pier came back. Right after, the anger came, too.

"Say something, Mick," Drew said at last.

"I've already taken care of it, Drew," I answered, my voice cold. "All my zits are gone. If you'd like me to take my shirt off for you, I will."

"Forget I said anything, Mick. Okay?"

I took a deep breath. "Okay."

He looked me in the eye. "I was just trying to be a friend," he said.

"I know," I said, suddenly realizing he was my only real friend.

Our next three games were against Roosevelt, Inglemoor, and Juanita—the weakest teams in the league. When I saw them on the schedule, I started picturing the long runs I'd make against them. But before the Roosevelt game, Carlson called me into his office. "I'm going to cut back on the number of carries you get for a few games, Mick," he said. "I'm going to open up the passing game more, run Kane out there to give you a breather. You're still our number one running back. I just don't want to wear you out." It was the exact strategy Downs hadn't used the year before.

"Coach," I said, "I'm not wearing out at all. I feel great. I can carry the ball as much as you want. I get stronger as the game goes on."

He drummed his fingers on the top of his desk and then slid a piece of paper to me. "There's your breakdown, quarter by quarter, for the Garfield game." I looked at the sheet. In the first quarter, I'd gained ninety-two yards. In the second it was thirty-one. In the third only seventeen.

"But that's because the game changed," I protested. "We got ahead and—"

"Mick," Carlson said, "you'll play when I say."

***

When I complained to my dad, he shut me down. "Smart coach," he said. "After your fast start, every team you face will be scheming to stop you. Drew clicks on a few touchdown passes to DeShawn, they'll be forced to drop the linebackers and safeties back a few steps, and that should open up things for you. And letting that other kid take some hits, that won't hurt you late in the season."

It all made sense, but one thing clouded the picture: those yardage stats. I hadn't known I'd dropped off so dramatically. Tuesday at the tail end of practice, we watched the game films. Guys all cheered my big touchdown run, but after that it was a grind-it-out game. I studied my own performance. As the game progressed I wasn't as quick off the snap, not as fast to the corners. On a couple of plays, there'd been gaping holes that somehow I'd missed, instead running right into tacklers. When the film session was over, I was too quiet and Drew noticed. "What's eating you?"

"You saw the films. After the first quarter, I did nothing."

"What are you talking about? You got the hard yards, Mick. The first downs on third and two. They knew we weren't passing; they were keyed entirely on you. So
you didn't break any long ones. So what? You're the league's leading rusher; you're playing on an unbeaten team. Enjoy it."

That made me feel better, but I was determined to make the most of my chances against Roosevelt. I worked hard at practice and hard at Popeye's after practice. I wanted to break a couple long runs.