Five pounds doesn't sound like a lot.
A bag of sugar. A heavy textbook. A roast chicken.
But when you strap five pounds of sand-filled nylon to each ankle and try to walk through a humid Texas morning, it feels like you're dragging a corpse.
[Passive Item Equipped: Ankle Weights (10lbs Total)]
* Effect: Speed -5. Stamina Drain +10%.
* Passive Gain: +0.1 Strength XP per 1,000 steps.
* Status: Hidden.
I sat on the edge of my bed, pulling my tube socks up high to cushion the Velcro straps. They were scratchy and bulky. I had to wear my "husky" fit Levis—the ones Mary bought me that I used to hate—just to hide the bulge around my ankles.
"You are walking strangely," Sheldon observed as I walked into the kitchen for breakfast.
He was eating oatmeal, his eyes tracking my feet like a hawk.
"My legs are sore from squats," I lied, grabbing a piece of toast.
"Incorrect," Sheldon said, pointing a spoon at me. "Your stride length has decreased by 12 percent, and your heel-strike impact has increased. You are carrying additional mass. Have you gained weight? Or are you concealing contraband?"
I glared at him. "Eat your oatmeal, Shelly."
"If you are smuggling contraband," Sheldon whispered, leaning in, "I require a 15% silence fee. In Red Vines."
"It's training weights, you narc," I whispered back, lifting my pant leg an inch to show the grey nylon strap. "And if you tell Mom, I'll tell the bullies you're a Star Trek fan."
Sheldon gasped. "That is mutually assured destruction."
"Exactly. Eat."
***
The Drag
School became a torture chamber.
Walking from History to Math felt like a marathon. Climbing the stairs to the second floor felt like climbing Everest. By third period, my hip flexors were on fire.
The System was ruthless. It kept a running tally of my steps in the corner of my vision.
[Steps: 3,420]
[XP Gained: +0.34 Strength]
It was slow. It was painful. It was boring.
But it was invisible work.
In my old life, I only worked when people were watching. I ran hard when the coach was looking. I stayed late at the office when the boss was around.
Now, I was grinding in the dark.
During PE, Coach Wilkins looked at me weirdly when I ran the warm-up lap. I was slow. Plodding.
"Cooper!" Wilkins yelled, blowing his whistle. "You running in mud? Pick up the knees!"
"Yes, Coach!" I yelled back, gritty sweat stinging my eyes.
I didn't take them off. I couldn't. If I took them off now, I'd lose the streak.
Kyle Benson, the backup quarterback, jogged past me. He looked light. Fast. He gave me a smirk.
"Too much brisket, Cooper?" he laughed.
I didn't answer. I just focused on the next step. *Lift. Plant. Drive.*
***
The Release
Friday Night. Week 4.
Opponent: Lufkin Middle School.
The locker room was buzzing. Lufkin was a speed team. They ran the option. If we couldn't catch them, we were dead.
I sat on the bench, my legs feeling like lead pipes. I had worn the weights all day. through school, through the bus ride, through the team meal.
"Cooper, you okay?"
It was Tiny, my left tackle. He looked concerned. "You look... heavy."
"Just visualizing," I said.
I looked at the clock. 10 minutes to kickoff.
I reached down to my ankles. I unzipped the bottom of my warm-up pants.
*Rrrrip.*
I undid the Velcro on the left leg.
*Rrrrip.*
I undid the right.
I slipped the weights into my locker and slammed the metal door shut.
I stood up.
*Whoa.*
I almost lost my balance. My legs floated. I took a step, and my knee shot up toward my chest with zero effort. Gravity felt broken.
[Status Update]
* Item Removed: Heavy Load.
* Temporary Buff: "Featherweight" (Speed +10 for 30 minutes).
I started to jog in place. I felt like I was running on the moon.
"Let's go!" I shouted, my voice cracking with adrenaline. "Let's go kill 'em!"
***
The Game
The game wasn't close.
The weights hadn't made me stronger yet—my throws were still average velocity—but my *feet* were alive.
In the second quarter, the pocket collapsed. A Lufkin defensive end broke free, aiming for my blind side.
Usually, I would have taken the sack.
But my feet moved before my brain did. I planted my right foot and spun. The torque was effortless. I stepped up, avoided the grasping hand of the defender, and scrambled to the right.
I felt fast. Not NFL fast, but *kid* fast.
I saw Miller downfield. I didn't have the arm strength to bomb it, so I tucked the ball and ran.
I crossed the line of scrimmage. A linebacker came at me.
*Base Strength: 31.*
*Functional Strength: Active.*
I lowered my shoulder. I didn't try to run him over—I was too small for that. But I absorbed the contact, spun off his tackle, and fell forward for an extra three yards.
First down.
The crowd cheered. I stood up, adjusting my pads. My legs didn't hurt. They felt like pistons.
We won 24-10.
It wasn't the miracle of the Odessa game. It was a workmanlike victory. We ground them down.
***
The Cost
The adrenaline wore off in the car ride home.
The "Featherweight" buff vanished, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache in my knees and shins. The ankle weights had taken a toll on my joints.
When we got home, I limped straight to the kitchen.
Mary was there, washing dishes. She turned around, a smile on her face that faded the second she saw me walking.
"Georgie?" she asked. "You're hurt."
"Just soreness, Mom," I said, opening the freezer. I grabbed a bag of frozen peas.
"That's not soreness," Mary said, drying her hands on a towel. She walked over and knelt down. "Let me see."
"Mom, don't—"
She pulled up my pant leg.
My ankles were red and raw. The Velcro had chafed the skin raw, leaving angry red welts. My shins were slightly swollen.
Mary stared at the marks. She recognized them. She had seen George Sr. come home with similar marks back in his playing days.
She stood up, her face pale.
"You're wearing weights," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Just a little bit," I said, sitting on a kitchen chair. "To get faster."
"George!" Mary screamed.
"Mom, stop—"
George Sr. walked in from the living room, holding a beer. "What? What happened?"
Mary pointed at my ankles. "Look at this! He's chafed raw! He's wearing lead weights all day, George! Did you tell him to do this?"
George Sr. looked at my ankles. He saw the raw skin. He saw the bag of peas.
"No," George said slowly. "I didn't."
He looked at me. His expression was unreadable. It wasn't anger. It was shock. He realized I was doing things he hadn't assigned.
"Why?" George asked me.
"Because I'm slow," I said, pressing the ice against my shin. "And I have to get stronger before the hardware breaks."
"Before the *what* breaks?" Mary asked, her voice high.
"My body," I corrected quickly. "I have to be ready for District."
Mary turned to George. "He's twelve! He is mutilating himself for a game! You take those weights away, George, or so help me God, I will burn them."
George Sr. looked at Mary, then back at me.
"Give 'em here," George said.
"Dad—"
"Give 'em here, son."
I went to my bag and pulled out the ankle weights. I handed them to him.
George Sr. weighed them in his hand. He felt the grit of the sand.
"You don't wear these to school," George said firmly. "You wear these during practice, and only when I say so. You're gonna blow out your knees before you hit puberty."
"But—"
"End of discussion," George said. He put the weights on top of the fridge, out of reach.
Mary let out a breath, looking relieved. She went back to the sink, muttering about "foolishness."
George Sr. grabbed another beer. He walked past me, leaning in close so Mary couldn't hear.
"Monday," he whispered. "We start plyometrics. If you want speed, we do it the right way. No shortcuts."
I nodded, clutching the frozen peas.
"Yes, Coach."
I watched him walk away. I lost the weights, but I gained something else.
He wasn't just supervising me anymore. He was *strategizing* with me.
[System Update: Relationship]
* George Sr: Respect Level Increased.
* Status: The Project is now a Partnership.
I leaned back, the cold ice numbing the fire in my shins.
Worth it.