The bus ride back to Medford was quiet.
On the way down, the silence had been fear. On the way back, it was exhaustion.
I sat in the back row, pressing a bag of frozen peas against my ribs. My shoulder throbbed with a deep, grinding ache that synced perfectly with the hum of the bus tires on the asphalt.
It wasn't a scary pain. It was a receipt.
In my previous life, I had treated pain as an excuse. A tweaked hamstring meant I skipped practice. A sore shoulder meant I sat out. That softness was why I never made it.
But this pain? This was the cost of doing business.
I looked down at my arm. It was skinny. Bruised.
*The software is perfect,* I thought, closing my eyes and seeing the "Mahomes Template" grid still lingering in my mind. *I can see the field in 4K resolution. I can process coverages faster than any kid in this state.*
*But the hardware? The hardware is a Commodore 64.*
"System," I thought. "Show me the loot."
A blue screen flickered into existence next to me, invisible to the sleeping teammates around me.
[Quest Complete: The Giant Killers]
* Opponent: Odessa Middle School
* Result: Victory (21-7)
* Performance Grade: S
[Rewards Issued:]
1. 5 Free Attribute Points
2. New Title: The King Slayer
3. New Skill: Play Action Specialist
4. New Skill: Iron Chin
I looked at the points. Five points was a massive haul. Usually, I had to grind in the garage for weeks just to squeak out a fraction of a point.
But before I could spend them, a blinking yellow icon appeared next to my "Status" tab.
[System Warning: Hardware Bottleneck]
* Analysis: Your "Football IQ" and "Technique" are rated Pro. Your "Body Structure" is rated Child.
* Diagnosis: You are outputting torque that your current ligaments cannot support.
* Risk: Continued use of "Mahomes Template" at 100% output without increasing Base Strength will result in critical structural failure.
I stared at the screen. The System was confirming exactly what I felt.
I wasn't just "sore." I was redlining the engine. If I kept playing like this without building the armor, I would end up exactly like the old Georgie—or worse, I'd blow out a knee before I even got to High School.
I tapped the new skill to read the description.
[New Skill: Iron Chin (Passive)]
* Description: Pain is just data.
* Effect: Recovery speed from soft tissue injuries increased by 20%.
* Hidden Bonus: "Grinder Mentality" — Morale is not reduced by physical damage.
I nodded. Iron Chin was essential. It wouldn't stop me from getting hurt, but it would help me survive the season.
I looked at my Attribute Points. I didn't hesitate. I didn't put them into Speed or Throw Power. I needed armor.
I dumped all 5 points into Durability.
[Updated Status: George Cooper Jr.]
* Durability: 45 -> 50
* Throw Power: 42
* Speed: 38
* Strength: 30 (CRITICAL WEAKNESS)
*Strength is 30,* I noted grimly. *That's the bottleneck. Even with the Durability boost, if I don't get my Strength up, I'm just a sturdy glass cannon.*
I closed the menu. The System had given me the tools, but it couldn't lift the weights for me.
***
Homecoming
We pulled into the Medford Middle School parking lot around midnight.
I expected it to be empty. It wasn't.
There were cars everywhere. Parents, teachers, random townspeople. In a small Texas town, beating an Odessa team—even a Middle School one—was front-page news.
As we stepped off the bus, people honked their horns. High beams flashed in the darkness.
"Way to go, boys!"
Coach Wilkins walked off first, puffing his chest out. He looked like he had just conquered Rome.
I grabbed my bag, wincing as the strap dug into my bruised shoulder. I walked down the aisle, trying to hide the limp. I was "The King Slayer" now. Kings don't limp.
"Georgie!"
Mary Cooper was there in a second. She looked frantic.
"Oh my Lord," she gasped, grabbing my face. "Look at you! You're blue! George, look at his face!"
George Sr. walked up behind her. He was wearing his "Head Coach" windbreaker, holding a clipboard even though he wasn't coaching this game.
He looked at me differently this time.
In the show, George Sr. often looked at Georgie with mild annoyance or disappointment because Georgie was lazy. He didn't like to work.
But right now? George Sr. was looking at me like a scout evaluating a prospect who just played through pain.
"He's fine, Mary," George Sr. said, his voice calm.
"He is not fine!" Mary shouted, pointing at the grass stain on my cheek. "He looks like he was in a car wreck! That's it. No more football."
"Mom," I said, "I'm okay."
"You are limping!"
"It's just a bruise," I said. "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?"
She turned to George Sr. "You are the Varsity Coach! You know how dangerous this is! Tell him to quit!"
George Sr. sighed. He looked at my shoulder, then at my eyes. He saw that I wasn't whining. I wasn't asking for sympathy.
"He's the Quarterback, Mary," George Sr. said. "He took the hits. And he won the game."
He stepped closer to me. He didn't hug me. He didn't high-five me. That wasn't his style.
"You need to work on your drop-back," George Sr. said abruptly. "Your feet got sloppy in the fourth quarter when you got tired. You lost your base."
I grinned. That was the most affection he had shown me since I arrived in this world. He wasn't treating me like a kid; he was treating me like a player.
"Yes, sir," I said. "My base isn't strong enough yet. I can feel it. I'm too light."
George Sr. raised an eyebrow. The "Real Georgie" would never admit a weakness like that. The Real Georgie would make a joke and ask for a snow cone.
"You want to fix it?" George Sr. asked.
"Yeah. I need to get stronger. I'm tired of bouncing off people."
George Sr. nodded slowly. He looked impressed.
"Come by the High School weight room on Monday," he said. "I'll write you a program. We'll put some meat on those bones."
My heart skipped a beat. The Varsity weight room. That was sacred ground. Middle schoolers weren't allowed in there.
"Yes, sir," I said.
He walked away to calm Mary down.
As I got into the car, I saw Sheldon in the backseat. He was holding an X-Men comic.
"Did you win?" Sheldon asked, not looking up.
"Yeah."
"Excellent. Does this mean your social status will increase?"
"Probably."
"Good," Sheldon said. "Perhaps your popularity will decrease the probability of bullies targeting me by association."
I laughed. It hurt my ribs, but I laughed anyway.
"Don't count on it, Shelly," I said.
I looked out the window as we drove home. The Texas stars were bright.
I had the Loot. I had the Title. And now, I had the key to the High School weight room.
The "Hardware Bottleneck" warning was still flashing in my mind, but I wasn't worried.
Monday, the real grind started. I wasn't going to end up a tire salesman. I was going to build a tank.