Chapter One
Chet the Brah stepped out of the
taxicab and stiffed the driver as he collected his luggage. “Sorry, bro, fresh
out of cash. Next time, though? I’ve got you covered. For sure.”
Chet knew full well there wouldn’t be a
next time. So did the driver. The man cursed at Chet in some language he didn’t
understand, too busy staring at the vast campus to pay the driver any heed.
Tall brick buildings rose on the three other sides of Hartford Quad, and on the
long, tree-lined hill, a few guys tossed frisbees and several girls tanned on
blankets.
At long last… Beacon Montgomery
University. Chet adjusted his
sunglasses and glanced at himself in the taxi’s window. He’d picked the perfect
ensemble for a first impression: an American flag tank top, blue khaki shorts,
and sandals—plus a full-body shave. Satisfied, he picked up both of his bags
and ditched the cab. Four years of great football, epic parties, and hot
chicks… Let it begin.
A small smirk formed on Chet’s lips as
he walked toward the sunbathing girls—only for his path to be blocked by an
overeager upperclassman wearing a blue Move Crew shirt and a green
lanyard which revealed his name: Miles Cappola. Junior. Business major.
Does he really not have anything better
to do? Chet wondered. He
turned his head, looking at the other move-crew students standing along the
street. They greeted freshmen who’d just arrived and carried luggage to the
various dorms.
“Welcome to Hartford Quad!” Miles said
with too much enthusiasm. “I’ll be your helper today. Which dorm are you—”
“No help needed. Thanks, though.” Chet
smiled, knowing better than to create enemies without cause. A smile and a kind
word—even if insincere—tended to go a long way. Still holding his suitcase and
duffel bag filled with football equipment—his only personal possessions worth
bringing to college—Chet tried to walk past Miles. He didn’t know where his
dorm was, but asking the sunbathing girls seemed like the perfect conversation
starter.
And an easy way to invite them up to
his room.
However, the upperclassman just
couldn’t take the hint. Rather than disappear, he walked alongside Chet across
the street and onto the lawn’s green grass. “So, are you excited for Freshman Orientation?”
Freshman Orientation… It’s worse than a
Bring Your Own Beer party. Both
were to be avoided at all costs. That Chet was a freshman didn’t
matter—anything he needed to learn would be taught on the football field or in
the frat houses. Not in an orientation and definitely not in some
classroom. Chet turned his head, dismissing Miles. “Nope.”
“You’re… not?” Miles asked, a frown
tugging at his lips. He still didn’t leave.
Taking notice of Miles’s pencil-thin
mustache, noodle arms, and frazzled red hair, Chet asked, “Mind if I give you
some advice?” Before Miles could answer, he added, “Cut your hair a little
shorter and hit the gym. It’ll make moving stuff easier. Plus, girls will like
you more. Win-win.”
Reaching into his back pocket, Chet
pulled out a clear baggie of white powder: Mach-7, his perfected pre-workout
recipe. It’d taken him three years and seven iterations to get it just right.
Being a third of the price as store-bought pre-workout and twice as potent, it
was his secret weapon to becoming king of the gym rats. “Take this about
fifteen minutes before you start your workout. And if your skin starts to itch,
you know it’s working.”
Miles refused to take the baggie. “Are
those… drugs?” he asked, leaning away as if Chet held a virus—not a
workout supplement.
“And put my football career in
jeopardy? God no.” When that didn’t seem to convince Miles, Chet raised an
eyebrow and asked, “You really think I’d offer you drugs?”
“I… Don’t you… I don’t…”
Chet sighed as Miles just stood there,
unable to form a complete sentence. “Just forget it,” he eventually said,
stuffing the baggie back into his pocket. Nerds. They can write essays but
can’t read them aloud. No communication skills… Some people learn all the wrong
lessons.
“What’d you say your name was?” Miles
asked, his expression tightening.
“Jacob Harris,” Chet replied without a
second’s hesitation. Miles looked like the type of guy who’d snitch on him. No
point in offering his real name, and not answering would only pique his
curiosity. Better to lie.
Patting Miles’s shoulder and ruffling
his hair, Chet abandoned him and joined the girls sunbathing on the hill. He
dropped his bags loudly on the grass beside them, and when they looked up, he
asked, “Either of you know where Neiman Hall is? Got lost and could use some
help.”
The blonde—in a pink bikini top and
jean shorts—smiled at him and pointed toward the dorm at the top of the lawn.
“Right up there.”
Chet frowned, looking up the hill and
pretending not to see it. “Where? I don’t see anything. You mind helping me? I
just seem to be so lost.”
“I’m too sober for that line,” the girl
said, rolling her eyes. But she did smile with that red lipstick, which
encouraged Chet.
“Me too,” Chet said, opening his
suitcase and pulling out the handle of vodka inside. Cheap liquor that he’d
bought with his new fake ID. “Care for a drink?”
“Here?” she asked, scoffing.
Chet shrugged. “It’s as good a place as
any.”
She shook her head. “No—”
“I’ll take some,” said her friend, a
brunette in a red bikini top and identical jean shorts.
“Jenny!” the blonde said, aghast.
“You said no, Amy,” the brunette—Jenny,
apparently—replied while batting her eyelashes at Chet. “Doesn’t mean I have
to.”
Definitely my type of girl, Chet thought, grabbing her outstretched
hand to pull her to her feet. He took a step toward her and handed her the
handle of liquor, positioning himself to hide its contents. After she took a
pull from it, Chet asked, “Still thirsty?”
“Not at the moment,” Jenny replied.
“But I might be thirsty later tonight.”
“Tonight it is then.” Chet smirked,
taking her meaning. “I’m in Neiman Hall, Room 309. Swing by whenever you want.”
Stowing the alcohol back into his bag
and kissing Jenny goodbye, he walked across the lawn toward the brick building
at the far side, ignoring the other move crew students outside and climbing up
to the third floor of Neiman Hall. Halfway down the corridor, Chet discovered
his room—and a sock on the door knob.
“Bullshit,” he said, slack-jawed. Ace
couldn’t have found a girl faster than me.
Chet shoved the door open and
immediately looked around, not seeing a girl inside. Only two beds, desks, and
drawers. A window hung on the far side, overlooking the parking lot. The door
to the semi-private bathroom eventually swung ajar, and Ace Hamilton came into
view.
In some ways, looking at Ace was like
looking in a mirror. A much taller reflection with straight black hair spiked
upward, brown eyes, and a short beard. He wore a torn white tank top with the
phrase Right to Bare Arms and green shorts. No shoes.
“Bro, you didn’t already get a girl in
here already, did you?” Chet asked before anything else.
“Nah, just wanted to see how long you’d
sit out there,” Ace said, grinning. He greeted Chet with an overly complicated
set of hand movements: two palm slaps, one finger snap, three first bumps, and
a shoulder lock. “So, the Brah is finally in the building.”
“Damn straight—and the name’s official
now. Check it.” Chet pulled out his fake ID and showed it to Ace. While the
picture was of him, the ID was for Rhode Island—a place he never had any
intention of visiting. Instead of twenty-year-old Chet Tucker, twenty-three-year-old
Chet Burrah owned the card.
“Chet… Burrah?” Ace asked,
bending it slightly as if expecting it to shatter into a million pieces.
“B-U-R-R-A-H, huh?”
“Well, yeah. Chet the Brah would’ve
just been foolish.”
“Yeah, totally.” Ace seemed to swallow
a laugh. “You know brah is spelled B-R-A-H, right?”
“I think I know how to spell my own
last name,” Chet said with a snort, taking back his fake ID.
“I suppose it could’ve been worse. You
could’ve chosen McLovin,” Ace said. “If you hate the name Tucker so
much, why not just get an official name change?”
Tucker—Chet’s parents’ surname. Not
that they’d ever been his parents, not really. In and out of jail, in and out
of his life. More so out. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a
real conversation with either of them. Three years ago, maybe? Before John
Phillips, his high school coach, had really taken Chet under his wing and put a
real roof over his head.
So why don’t I change it? Chet wondered, not that he had to think
hard to find two reasons. The first? Chet Phillips didn’t have a great ring to
it, and if he did officially change his name, that was really the only option.
And two? If his parents ever got their shit together, he might forgive them.
Maybe.
To answer Ace’s original question, Chet
shrugged, throwing his bags onto the empty bed on the far side of the room.
“Officially changing a name is just too much work. Interviews, paperwork, and
all that. The fake ID is easier and better.”
“Makes sense.” Ace watched him unpack,
asking, “Where’s your backpack?”
“Don’t have one,” Chet said, pulling
his clothes from the oversized suitcase, which contained his limited wardrobe.
Mostly short-sleeve collared shirts, khakis, and sandals for parties. Tank
tops, shorts, and flat shoes for working out. Jockstraps and crop tops for
football practice. One suit for rushing frats. Nothing else.
“What do you mean you don’t have a
backpack?” Ace asked. “What are you going to do for classes?”
Chet shrugged. “I’ve got a couple of
weeks to figure it out.”
“Dude, classes start in two days,” Ace
said.
“Yeah, but I’m not going for two
weeks.” Chet spoke over Ace’s immediate protests, adding, “We’ve got football
tryouts coming up! Until then, I’m going to be grinding in the gym and on the
track. I’ve got to be fast and strong—I’ll need your help with that, you know.
Not all of us get to be 6’4” and on scholarship.”
Chet said so with a light tone, but the
words carried a heavy weight. Ace, his best friend in high school, had been a
five-star recruit and gotten a scholarship to play safety here at Beacon
Montgomery, one of the best football colleges in the country. But at 5’9” and
210 lbs, Chet was a dime-a-dozen football player. A three-star recruit who
could only get a scholarship at small schools. At least until he proved his
worth.
And I will. I’ll be 6’0” and 225 lbs in
no time. Of course, the 6’0”
part would only be on paper. And with heel cups. Nobody else needed to know
that, though.
For the last three months, he’d been
training with Coach Phillips, the man who’d practically raised him. Instead of
focusing entirely on strength like most of the other players had been doing,
Chet spent his time working on speed. Cardio too, as much as he hated it. Lots
of backpedaling, catching, and tackling drills. Anything that could give him an
edge—including his pre-workout.
Seeing Ace frown, Chet continued, “You
know I’m happy you got a scholarship, bro. I really am. But that doesn’t mean
I’m just gonna let you do this thing alone. I gotta get a scholarship too. Even
if I’ve gotta grind for it.”
“I’ll help you out when I’m not
in classes,” Ace replied with a smile. He scratched the back of his head. “Speaking
of which, do you even know what classes you’re taking?”
“Sure,” Chet said, pulling his schedule
out of his back pocket. On it were notes about his four fall-semester classes:
Dream Interpretation, Music Appreciation, Introduction to Psychology, and
Introduction to Gender Studies.
“Dude… What is your major going to be?”
Ace asked.
“Whatever’s easiest,” Chet replied.
“I’m guessing that’ll be psychology, but we’ll see. If gender studies isn’t
unbearable, it might be that one. You?”
Ace rattled off his classes from
memory: Introduction to Psychology—which they shared—Introduction to Economics,
English Composition, and Calculus. The latter three were classes that made Chet
want to throw up. Especially calculus.
“Why would you ever do that to
yourself? Life’s too short to learn… whatever you learn in calculus.”
“Yes, because I’d much rather take Intro
to Gender Studies,” Ace mocked.
“Feel free to go in my place for the
next couple of weeks.” Chet pulled his supplements and pre-workout supplies
from his football bag. Various bottles of individual ingredients, mostly in
capsule form.
Ace picked up the bottle of pure
beta-alanine. “Don’t tell me… This is for Mach-6?”
“Nah. Mach-7. Upgraded it two weeks ago
to add some extra pump,” Chet replied with a mischievous grin. He grabbed the
bottle from Ace and shook it. “This is the stuff that’ll give you the itch.”
“Mach-6 almost gave me a heart attack
last time I took it,” Ace replied, eyeing the supplements dubiously. “What
could you have possibly added to it now?”
“My secret sauce,” Chet replied
mysteriously, taking out one of the baggies of Mach-7 from his back pocket and
dumping it into a workout bottle. While shaking it, he handed another packet to
Ace, who dumped it into his own workout bottle. “Cheers, bro. To the first day
of the rest of our lives.”
“Knowing you?” Ace asked, tapping
Chet’s bottle. “They’ll be pretty short.”
Chapter Two
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 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 already 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 alumni who’d played at the highest level decorated a floor-to-ceiling
shelf alongside a running tally of the total salary earnings of such players.
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 individual backlit stalls personalized for each player along with
complementary reclining chairs, and an indoor stadium lined with astroturf
instead of grass—Chet only pulled out of haze when they entered the strength
and conditioning center.
Hallways branched in all directions,
leading to cryotherapy chambers, saunas, 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 pushups 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. Just need a bit
more is all. Just enough to get the people going.”
“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 Chetorine, the Secret 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 said for him,
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 try 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
got something on your lip, dude.”
“Oh, that? I was saving it for later.”
Chet winked and licked his lip as Ram chuckled. “But I appreciate the heads
up.”
Chet’s eye twitched 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 corrected.
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, faster
than before and 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 them. 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. Ever.”
“That’s the perfect marketing campaign
for Mach-7.” Chet pursed his lip. “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. Get to know them.”
“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 the weight room for
the night. Time to go.”
Chet glanced across the weight room,
realizing he was the only person still there. He then glanced toward 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…
This concludes the preview of Wingman: College Craze…
Witness the rise of the man, the myth, the legend—all before he becomes the wingman.
Chet Burrah is a rising football star, even if nobody else knows it yet. Walking on to the Beacon Montgomery University football team, Chet knows that he just has to outwork everybody else to succeed. That means hitting the gym, perfecting his homemade pre-workout mix, and of course, sabotaging whoever gets in his way—be it professors, teammates, or frat brothers. Chet is dead set on proving himself to be the greatest college athlete of all time, come hell or high water.
…Probably the former.
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