Wingman: Rise of Chet Preview

The pump kicked in fifteen minutes after Chet and Ace ingested Mach-7. By that time, they’d walked halfway across campus to get to the athletics facility. Being an elite football team, Beacon Montgomery expected nothing less than the best—and that expectation showed in the architecture alone. The Cobbs Football Facility connected to the colossal Carrey Field and sat adjacent to the practice facilities for the other, less-important sports. Like baseball.

God, I hate baseball, Chet thought, eyeing the baseball field in the distance. Nine guys on the field and only one doing the work. You just sit around for four hours, and you don’t even get to hit anybody.

“You know the deal,” Ace said, pulling Chet from his thoughts. He looked nervous as they approached the football facility. “If anyone asks—”

“You didn’t let me in,” Chet replied, glancing at the front entrance. “I won’t rat on you, bro. Trust me.”

A giant bull—the mascot of BMU—stood proudly outside the entrance at the base of a set of stairs, spouting dark-blue water from its gray horns. In a half circle, four bronze statues of the prior head coaches stood around it, along with plaques commemorating their accolades. Between them, nine conference championships and three national titles.

But the current head coach had four by himself.

Chet swallowed the nervousness in his throat. Coach Phillips is friends with the director of operations, and that guy already told the head coach about you. You’ve turned in all your applications and signed all the paperwork for the walk-on tryouts. Now all you gotta do is show up and prove your worth. Easy.

Exhaling, Chet released his worries as Ace placed his student-athlete ID card against the door at the top of the steps. When it unlocked, Chet opened the door and walked inside like he owned the place. Not too slow to be a tourist. Not too quick to be suspicious. Confident and calm. Almost bored. Without a word or a glance at the people at the entrance, Chet walked down an adjacent hallway toward the football locker rooms—if only because Ace already told him which way to go.

But after he passed the front desk and walked down the hallway, Chet slowed down. On the walls were pictures of famous players who’d gone on to play in the NFL. From the ceiling hung tenets: honor, strength, and courage.

“Crazy, right?” Ace asked, catching up to Chet. “First time I was in here, I thought I was dreaming. Check this out.”

Instead of going right toward the workout facility, Ace went left, and Chet followed. Together, they entered a trophy room filled with Heisman Trophies, Lombardi Awards, and championship-ring replicas. Plaques hung on the walls beside the trophies of bowl games, conference championships, and national titles. Even NFL helmets for all the pro-football alumni decorated a floor-to-ceiling shelf alongside a running tally of their total salary earnings. Currently, the number was well in the billions.

Chet stared in awe as Ace talked to him, barely hearing the words. He could only imagine making his mark in the trophy room and adding to the team. Though Ace dragged him to other areas—a multi-purpose room filled with studying tables and arcade games, locker rooms containing personalized stalls for each player, and an indoor stadium lined with astroturf instead of grass—Chet only pulled out of his haze when they entered the strength and conditioning center.

Hallways branched in all directions, leading to cryotherapy chambers, saunas, and warm pools—even a medical pool and a nutrition bar. But Chet’s eyes feasted upon the weight room, a two-level area with machines as far as the eye could see. Cardio on the second floor—to be avoided at all costs. Natural light streamed in through the giant windows, revealing the outdoor practice football field beyond. Grass this time, not turf.

“We share this place with our other athletic teams,” Ace whispered, nodding to a door on the other side of the facility for non-football players to enter. Two kids walked in from that entrance, though Chet couldn’t call them athletes—not when they wore baseball caps. One had on a yellow tank top, the other a blue one that read, Why brew? Because I can! And he definitely looked like he’d drank more than one brew before coming.

Still, the shirt made Chet pause. Whybrew… That’d be a great fake name. I’ll save that one for later.

“It’s not too difficult to get a workout here, so long as you have a badge,” Ace added. “Especially right now, before our season starts.”

“If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I’m on the swim team. No way anybody will know.” Chet eyed the various athletes, wondering if he could steal a badge without anybody noticing. Maybe I can snatch a girl’s badge—after I bang her.

Putting on his headphones and starting his Pump Playlist, Chet sauntered over to the free weights and started his warm-up routine: curls and lat raises with ten-pound dumbbells. Then twenties. He stretched before doing push-ups and body squats, at least until Ace called him over to one of the machine stations.

Joining his roomie at a sophisticated bench press station, Chet glanced at the screens outfitted to it, not only keeping track of Ace’s reps and weights but the velocity of each push. “Woah.”

After cranking out a set of presses, Ace shelved the bar and sat up. He wiped the sweat from his brow and said, “Welcome to the next level, my guy. Crazy, right?”

“I gotta get me one of these,” Chet said before pushing Ace off the bench to do his own set. He cranked out a set of fifteen reps at 225 lbs. He glanced up at the screen, noticing that he did more reps than Ace did but with a slower velocity. Shaking his head, he started pulling out supplements from his bag.

“What’s wrong?” Ace asked, getting back under the bench as Chet pulled out a paper plate and started mixing ingredients. “Oh, dude… Come on. Not here.”

“I need more pump if I’m gonna make the team,” Chet said, pulling apart a caffeine tablet and dumping in more chemicals to make another batch of Mach-7.

“Trust me, the last thing you need is more of that stuff. I already feel like I’m going to burst,” Ace said, grimacing as he put a hand to his chest.

Chet shrugged. “Only because you haven’t been taking it every day. I can barely feel it anymore.”

“But that’s… 400 milligrams of caffeine,” Ace whispered, looking disgusted. “Wasn’t Mach-6 300 milligrams?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t really working for me anymore. Had to up the dose and fix my secret sauce.” Chet pointed at a duct-taped container labeled The Sauce.

“Remind me, what’s in that stuff again?”

“Trade secret, bro,” Chet replied, having spent months experimenting with certain chemicals and doing piss tests to create a formula for an untraceable concoction of stimulants guaranteed to help his alertness and performance. Not that anybody needed to know exactly what was in it.

Adding a dash of the stuff, he mixed the powder with a finger and separated it into eight separate baggies. Before Ace could stop him, Chet dry swallowed the powder in one bag, managing to get some on his lip.

“Ace! That you?” Chet looked up to see a tall, dark-skinned athlete waving at Ace from across the weight room, wearing a Hold the Line football tank. Probably a lineman, considering his size. 6’7” and 290 lbs, at minimum. His curly brown hair made him even taller.

Shit. Chet hurriedly stashed his supplements in his workout bag as the lineman approached, greeting Ace before eyeing Chet with a cocked eyebrow. “What’s going on over here? Who’s this?”

Prepared to lie, Chet said, “I’m—”

“Ram, this is Chet,” Ace interrupted, giving Chet a knowing look. Let me handle this. “He played high-school ball with me. Got scholarships to other schools to play linebacker, but he wanted to test his luck here. He’s trying out, so I thought I’d bring him for a workout. Hope that’s all right.”

So much for not telling anybody, Chet thought.

“I won’t say a word. Snitches are bitches, right?” Ram said, slapping Ace on the back and looking at Chet. “You’ve got something on your lip, dude.”

“Oh, that? I was saving it for later.” Chet winked and licked his lip as the second hit of Mach-7 started to enter his bloodstream. His heart pounded in his chest, and he had trouble blinking. But that was what he loved most about pre-workout. Enough pump to lift the world.

“Pre-workout?” Ram guessed. “Which brand do you use?”

“Mach-7, bro,” Chet said.

Ram frowned. “Never heard of it.”

“Not surprised. I—” Chet stopped, gauging the best way to answer. If I say I make it and he can’t handle it, it might come back to bite me… Can’t risk it. Not when I’m not even on the team. Smiling, he continued, “A friend of mine makes it. His name’s Chad Whybrew. Best shit on the market. Cheapest too. Take a sample.”

Chet handed him a baggie of white powder, and Ram stared at it. “This is pretty sketchy.”

“That’s why you know it’s good. They don’t even need to market it.” Chet sat back down on the bench as his arms started to shake from the energy. He cranked out another set of reps, beating Ace’s velocity. Pointing up at it, he said, “See? Already made me faster. This stuff isn’t like anything you’ve tried before.”

Ram studied Chet before nodding, apparently satisfied. “Fine. Been needing a boost today anyway.” He dumped the powder in his mouth and took a swig from his water bottle to wash it down.

Ace rubbed his chin as Ram saluted and walked back over to the other machines. “I really hope he doesn’t have a heart attack.” Then, as an explanation, he added, “Met him when I toured last time. Ram’s a solid dude.”

“If he’s solid, then he’ll be fine,” Chet said, spotting for Ace after his roommate placed more weight on the bar: 315 lbs. Then 405 lbs for max. Ace got one. Chet got two, nearly losing a tooth in the process with how hard he gritted his teeth.

Incline sets followed close-grip and svend presses. By the time they transitioned to a pec deck machine, Ram came back over, his eyes wide and unblinking. He brought a couple of other linemen with him.

“You said your name was Chet, right?” Ram asked, far more intense now than earlier. He sniffed and twitched his head as if he was seeing demons. “You got anymore of that Mach-7?”

“Told you he’d like it.” Smirking at Ace, Chet handed the lineman three more bags. One for him and his two friends. “Wouldn’t take more than one a day. Not until you’re used to it.”

Chet small-talked with the three of them, lying through his teeth for most of the conversation about his height, weight, and scholarship offers. Though his lies were sneakier than most: I went to Bama and got a scholarship. While Chet had toured the Alabama universities and had received a scholarship offer, but he hadn’t received a scholarship to play at Bama.

Not that it mattered. Ram seemed far more interested in Chad Whybrew. And being in need of allies on the football team, Chet told him everything he wanted to know—making it all up as he went along.

“My God,” Ram said, slack jawed as Chet finished his latest story—spinning Chad into a MIT chemistry graduate student who’d discovered his own chemical compound to get an athletic edge. “If Chad’s ever in town, you gotta introduce me to this guy. He sounds like a legend.”

“Oh, he is,” Chet said as Ace turned around to hide the shit-grin on his face from the linemen. “Once I’m on the team, maybe I can bring him by. He’s looking to really expand Mach-7. He might end up needing a few other sales reps.”

“Look. You keep bringing that stuff, and I’ll help you out however I can. Tell me whenever you want to work out, and I’ll get you in here.” Ram itched his scalp and shook his head like a dog. “I feel like I could fight a bull right now.”

“Please. You’d beat the shit out of a bull,” Chet said, slapping him on the ass as if they’d been friends for years.

Before Ram could reply, another player walked over. Roughly Ace’s size. Maybe an inch taller. He wore a brandless, black-hooded tank, which was a level of douche even Chet struggled to compete with.

Chet held out a fist. “What’s up, bro?”

The newcomer glanced at Chet’s outstretched hand and ignored it to bump Ram’s instead. “Who are these guys?”

Hiding his annoyance, Chet quietly lowered his fist as Ram introduced them. “Ace here is our new strong safety. His friend’s a walk-on. Linebacker just like you, Jared.”

“As if. No one’s like me.” Looking down at Chet, he continued, “Don’t even think Coach is looking at linebackers this year. You shouldn’t even bother with it. Just a waste of your time.”

Chet snorted. Sarcastically, he said, “Oh, all right. Guess I’ll just quit then.”

Jared frowned, pushing Chet’s shoulder. “You got a problem, huh? Think you’re better than me or something? How about we walk out to the practice field and see who the better linebacker is?”

“No point,” Chet said. “I already know I’m better.”

“Grow a foot, then you might have a chance, shorty.” Jared turned his head back to Ace. “Welcome to the team, new guy, but find better friends than this asshole.”

I’m a dick, Chet thought, pissed that Jared insulted him by not knowing the difference—even angrier that Jared had the balls to call him short. Still, Chet said nothing as Jared walked away and returned to his workout. Had he been a part of the football team already, then maybe, but not until then. Not until he was certain he could get away with it.

“Sorry about that,” Ram eventually said with a sigh. “Jared’s a douche, but he is good at football. He’s probably going to be captain of the defense this year, so stay on his good side.” Then he glanced at Chet. “Just so you know, Jared sees any other guys trying for the linebacker position as a threat.”

“Fair enough.” Chet nodded, making it seem as if he didn’t care. He still needed Ram to like him and talking shit about Jared would only alienate the lineman. So secretly, he glared at Jared’s back and thought, There’s two other starting linebackers I can befriend. And the rest of the team. I’ll just have to stick to bribes and flattery—and if making more Mach-7 is what it takes to get me on the team, I’ll make it snow in this bitch.

***

“I can’t believe this is working,” Ace said, staring in wonder at the weight room.

Half of the defensive line and a couple of their offensive counterparts sat at bench presses, practically frothing at the mouth as they tossed weights around. Ram set a new PR for the third day in a row, and his unit wasn’t far behind. As he got up from the bench, his friend slapped him in the face, leaving a chalky imprint. Ram only screamed. A terrifying sound, even from halfway across the room.

“Told you it’d work,” Chet said after finishing the last rep in this latest set of free-weight squats. He wiped the sweat off his head with a towel and tossed it back into his bag.

“But look,” Ace said, gesturing at them. “If they can keep this up, they’re going to be the greatest defensive line in college football history.”

“That’s the perfect marketing campaign for Mach-7.” Chet pursed his lips. “I wonder how Chad Whybrew can leverage that.”

Ace pinched his nose. “Dude, you made Mach-7.”

“Nah, bro. Chad Whybrew did. I’m just a marketer,” Chet said with a wide grin.

Ace rolled his eyes and ducked under the bar to carry it on his shoulders. “Keep talking about Chad Whybrew long enough, and you might develop a split personality.”

As Ace completed another set of squats, Chet thought more on that concept. If I did have a split personality, I could just blame wrongdoing on the other part of my personality. Even if I don’t, I can just say I did. Like, who can prove me wrong? Chet snickered. “Not a bad idea, honestly. Wonder what our psychology teacher would say about that.”

“Class started four days ago. You really should go, you know,” Ace said after finishing his last rep and switching places with him. “He’s taking roll every day. I can only cover for you so many times. He’ll notice eventually.”

Chet shrugged, hissing between squats. “300 kids in class… Won’t notice… Not going… until I’m… on the team…” He stopped, grunting as he pushed on his final reps. Finishing, he added, “I’m not even banging right now. That’s how serious I’m taking this.”

“Honestly, if you take Mach-7 right before tryouts start, I think you’ll be fine,” Ace said, gesturing to Ram and his friends, who were repping 405 lbs ten times. Each. “What’d you put in that secret sauce? Steroids?”

“No. Something even better,” Chet said, rubbing his hands together evilly. “Nobody will ever know. Drug tests can’t detect it. It’s the greatest.”

“What could possibly—” Ace stopped and grimaced. “You know what? The less I know the better. Forget I asked.” He glanced down at his watch. “Speaking of forgetting, my econ class is about to start, so I’ve got to run. Ready to head back to the dorm?”

Chet shook his head. “I’m not leaving until I’m on the team.”

“You’ve been here all day for like a week straight, Chet.” Ace threw his water bottle into his bag and hefted it over his shoulder. “I respect the hustle, but don’t gas yourself out before tryouts.”

Chet ignored him, getting under the squat bar again. “I’ll take a break tomorrow. There are frat parties I wanna go to.”

“Same. We’ll go to the Daddies first,” Ace said, referring to Delta Alpha Delta. They were the top house at Beacon Montgomery—the best of the best. “Later, C.”

“Later, A.” Chet inclined his head in farewell, then did more squats until his legs started to shake. From there, he went to the quad machines. After calf extensions, he supersetted hip abductors and adductors. Then to a stair climber. Much as he hated cardio, he needed it to keep up in tryouts. Chet knew from Ram and others that it would be awful. Lots of suicides, lots of yelling. Anything to break him.

I won’t break, Chet thought, eventually returning to the squat rack—doing overheads and Bulgarians this time. I trained hard all summer for this weekend—hell, all of high school. Middle school too. A couple of insults won’t stop me. Nothing will.

As he threw down the barbell yet again, Chet stumbled backward and took a long breath while putting his hands on his hips. Sweat dripped from his brow and steam rose from the top of his head as he glanced out the window and frowned. Last time he’d looked, the sun had still been in the sky. Since then, darkness had swallowed the yellow orb. “Huh.” He noticed the clock on the wall but couldn’t read the analog hands. Instead, he pulled out his phone. 8:59 PM.

“Hey, we’re closing up for the night. Time to go.”

Chet glanced across the weight room, realizing he was the only person still there aside from the speaker: a bald, middle-aged guy with a gut. He wore thick glasses that magnified his blue eyes, which blazed with intensity. Chet had seen that man dozens of times, but always on television. The head coach of the Bulls: Kelly Lewis. Runner-up to the Heisman, three-time pro bowler, two-time super bowl champion.

I’m gonna be just like him… Except, not fat or bald.

“Didn’t you hear me, son?” Coach Kelly asked, frowning.

“Yes, sir,” Chet said, immediately racking the bar, offloading the plates, and grabbing his bag. He walked right up to the coach with his hand outstretched.

Still frowning, Coach Kelly shook his hand, then turned to cough over his shoulder. A smoker’s cough by the wheezing sound of it. “Which team are you on?”

“Yours—after tryouts. The name’s Chet Burrah.” He paused, realizing his mistake. “It’s Chet Tucker actually, but I go by Burrah.” Clearing his throat, he added, “Director Owens might’ve mentioned my name to you, sir. I play linebacker. Got some scholarships to other teams, but I came here to tryout instead.”

“Oh? Is that right?” Coach Kelly asked.

“Yes, sir,” Chet said, speaking slower to avoid accidentally using words like bro or shit. If he made a poor impression here, he’d never make the team. “I wanted to play for the best, scholarship or not. So here I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Chet, huh?” the coach asked, not looking impressed. He squinted through his glasses to appraise Chet. Then he frowned further. “You look like a graduate student. Just how old are you?”

“Twenty, sir, but I’m a freshman.” Chet scratched his head. “Held back twice to prepare for college ball.”

Coach Kelly grunted. “If you’re not on a team, how did you get in here?”

“I met one of your players in my classes,” Chet replied. “He let me in, sir.”

“Which one?” When Chet didn’t immediately answer, Coach Kelly coughed, then added, “Well? Out with it. I don’t have all night.”

“I forgot his name, sir,” Chet said. “Good guy, though.”

“That’s convenient.” Coach Kelly glared at him. “You sure you don’t want to tell me? You’re not making a good impression.”

Chet paused, feeling his shoulders round. Better to be cut from the team than rat on Ace. He forced himself to straighten his shoulders and met Coach Kelly’s blazing blue eyes. “Sir, I’m no snitch.”

“Good.” Surprisingly, the coach smiled, though without revealing his teeth. “You’ve got guts, kid. And loyalty. Both are traits I expect from all my players.” Growing more serious, Coach Kelly pointed a finger at Chet’s chest. “But I don’t like shenanigans. Don’t cause me trouble. You can keep coming before tryouts this weekend, but if you don’t make the team, then I don’t want to see you in this facility again. It’s for players, not fans. Understand?”

“I understand that I’ll be seeing you more often, sir,” Chet said, smirking.

Coach Kelly snorted, but he slapped Chet’s back good-naturedly. “Enough of that sir talk, Chet. Just call me Coach. Now get out of here. I’ll be looking for you come Saturday. Don’t let me down.”

“You, Coach? Never.” Chet hid his excitement as he left the training facility, but fist-pumped the air as soon as he walked outside. He patted the statue of the bull, thinking, One step closer. I’ll be one of them next week…