The alarm clock buzzed at 6:00 AM.
I didn't reach for it. I couldn't. My right arm was glued to my side, stiff as a board.
I lay there for a solid ten seconds, staring at the popcorn ceiling, taking inventory. My ribs ached with every shallow breath. My shoulder felt like someone had poured concrete into the joint and let it set overnight.
"System," I croaked, my voice thick with sleep. "Status."
[Passive Skill Active: Iron Chin]
* Effect: Accelerated Recovery.
* Current State: Functional.
"Functional," I muttered, rolling carefully onto my left side to push myself up. "That's generous."
I shuffled to the bathroom mirror. The bruise on my ribcage had bloomed overnight. It was a nasty mix of purple and yellow, tracing the exact shape of the helmet that had speared me.
It looked terrible. I loved it.
In my old life, a bruise like this was an excuse to call in sick. Now? It was proof I was actually trying.
I splashed cold water on my face, wincing as I raised my arm.
Time to go to school.
***
The Hallway
The bus ride was standard. The walk to the front doors was standard.
But the moment I stepped inside Medford Middle School, the air changed.
Usually, the hallway noise was a mix of shouting, lockers slamming, and kids running. Today, as I walked toward my locker, the volume dropped. It didn't go silent—that only happens in movies—but the chaotic noise focused.
Heads turned.
I walked past a group of eighth graders—the guys who usually took up the whole width of the hall and made seventh graders walk in the gutter.
They didn't move out of the way, but they didn't shoulder-check me, either.
"Cooper," one of them nodded.
It was Miller. The safety who usually ignored me.
"Miller," I replied, keeping my head down.
I reached my locker and started spinning the dial. 18-24-09. My hands were shaking a little. Not from fear, but from the weirdness of it. Fame in a small Texas town is a heavy coat to wear, especially when you're twelve.
"Statistically speaking," a voice droned right next to my ear, "your social currency has inflated by approximately 400%."
I jumped, banging my knee against the locker.
"Jesus, Sheldon," I hissed.
Sheldon stood there clutching his satchel, looking at me like I was a lab specimen.
"A female named Veronica just inquired about your relationship status," Sheldon said, looking disgusted. "I informed her that given your lack of income and questionable hygiene, you are a high-risk investment. She giggled. I fail to see the humor."
I let out a laugh, which immediately turned into a grimace as my ribs caught.
"Do me a favor, Shelly," I said, opening my locker. "Don't be my press agent."
"Press agent?"
"Just... if people ask, tell them I'm busy. I'm focused on football."
Sheldon pulled out a small notebook and made a tick mark. "Noted. However, this popularity has created a geopolitical shift in the ecosystem. The bullies are confused. They wish to harass me, but they fear retribution from the 'King Slayer.' It is an uncomfortable stalemate."
"Good," I said, grabbing my history book. "You're under my protection now. Anyone gives you grief, you tell them to come find me."
Sheldon blinked. For a second, the robot mask slipped. He looked like a little brother who finally felt safe.
"Acknowledged," he said. Then he turned and marched off to class like a tiny, neurotic soldier.
***
The Dungeon
The school day dragged. I failed a math quiz because I was thinking about defensive coverages. I ate my boiled chicken and broccoli while guys I barely knew tried to sit at my table.
But the real test started at 3:30 PM.
When the bell rang, I went to the Middle School locker room first. I changed into my grey PE shorts and t-shirt quickly, keeping my head down so the other guys wouldn't ask about the bruise on my ribs.
While the rest of the 7th graders jogged out to the practice field for drills, I turned left.
I walked across the cracked asphalt parking lot toward the High School side of campus.
The Varsity Field House wasn't glamorous. It was a corrugated metal shed painted a peeling shade of maroon. It had no air conditioning, just two massive industrial fans that blew hot, humid Texas air around the room.
I pushed open the heavy metal door.
The smell hit me instantly—rust, mildew, and stale sweat.
The Varsity team was in the middle of a lift. The equipment was ancient. The benches were covered in duct tape where the leather had cracked. The weights were a mismatched collection of rusty iron plates that clanked loudly every time they hit the floor.
This wasn't a commercial gym. It was a dungeon.
I felt ridiculous. My "Mahomes Template" gave me a pro mind, but standing next to a 220lb senior linebacker in this gritty sweatbox, I looked exactly like what I was: a seventh grader who got lost.
"You lost, kid?"
I looked up. A massive guy with a mullet was staring down at me. He was holding a 45lb plate that looked like it had been dug up from a shipwreck.
"No," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Coach Cooper told me to be here."
The guy squinted. "Coach's kid? The one who beat Odessa?"
The clanging stopped. A few other guys looked over.
"Yeah," I said. "That's me."
The mullet guy grinned. He reached out and slapped my bruised shoulder—hard. "Heard you took a hit from Number 54 and got back up. Not bad, little man. Don't get in the way."
He walked off. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Georgie."
I turned. George Sr. was standing by the squat rack. He wasn't wearing his "Dad" clothes. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a whistle around his neck. He looked at me with zero warmth.
"You're late," he said.
"I had to change in the middle school locker room and run over—"
"I don't care," George Sr. cut me off. "If you're gonna train with Varsity, you get here when we start. Run faster next time. Grab a bar."
He pointed to a rack in the corner. It was rusted, and the knurling was worn smooth in the center.
"Just the bar?" I asked. "Dad, I can—"
"Coach," he corrected. "And yes. Just the bar. Your base is trash. You're throwing with your arm because your legs are weak. Show me a squat."
I walked to the rack. The iron bar weighed 45lbs. It felt cold and rough in my hands.
I stepped under it, rested it on my traps, and stepped back.
[System Activation: Mahomes Vision - Bio-Mechanics Mode]
* Correction: Widen stance. Chest up. Drive through heels.
I adjusted my feet. I squatted down, keeping my back straight, hitting parallel, and driving up.
George Sr. watched, his arms crossed. He didn't say "Good job."
"Again," he barked. "Slower. Three seconds down. One second up."
I did it.
"Again."
By the tenth rep, my legs were burning. By the twentieth rep, they were shaking. My Strength stat was a pathetic 30. The bar wasn't heavy, but my stabilizing muscles were non-existent.
"Stop," George Sr. said.
I racked the bar, breathing hard. The industrial fan blew hot air into my face, doing nothing to cool me down.
"Form is good," he admitted, sounding surprised. "Better than some of my seniors. But you've got no drive. You're all tendon, no muscle."
He walked over and grabbed two 10lb plates from a pile on the floor. He slid them onto the bar. 65lbs total.
"5 sets of 10," he said. "Then we do deadlifts. Then plyometrics. If you puke, do it outside, not on my floor."
"Yes, Coach."
As he walked away to yell at a senior who was slacking off, I gripped the rusty bar. I looked at myself in the cracked mirror on the wall. Skinny. Bruised. Weak.
*This is it,* I thought. *The Bottleneck.*
I closed my eyes. I didn't visualize a trophy. I visualized the "Hardware Warning" the System had flashed at me.
*I have the blueprints. Now I just need to pour the concrete.*
I started the set.
One. Clank.
Two. Clank.
The System pinged in the corner of my vision.
[Grind Detected]
* Current Load: 95% Capacity.
* XP Gain: +2 Strength XP.
I grinned through the sweat. It was going to be a long season.
***
The Ride Home
By the time George Sr. drove us home at 6:30 PM, I couldn't feel my legs.
I sat in the passenger seat of the truck, staring out at the passing telephone poles. The smell of George's brisket takeout filled the cab, but I was too nauseous from the heat in the gym to be hungry yet.
"You did alright," George Sr. said, breaking the silence.
It was high praise.
"Thanks," I mumbled.
"Don't let it go to your head," he warned, glancing at me. "The Middle School coaches... they're gonna treat you like a star now. They're gonna let you slide on sprints. They're gonna let you call your own plays."
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
"If I catch you slacking off because you think you've made it," he said quietly, "you're out of my weight room. You understand?"
"I understand," I said. "I'm not done, Dad. I'm just starting."
George Sr. looked at me. For a moment, I saw the worry in his eyes—the worry of a father who knows how cruel the sport can be. He knew I was small. He knew I was one bad hit away from being finished.
"Eat your brisket," he said softly. "You need the protein."
We pulled into the driveway. The lights were on in the house. I could see Mary in the kitchen window.
I opened the truck door, my legs wobbling as I hit the gravel.
*Pain is data,* I reminded myself.
I grabbed my bag and limped toward the front door. I had a math test tomorrow, a physics session with Sheldon, and a body that wanted to quit.
I smiled.
I loved this game.