My arm felt like it was on fire.
By the time Dad called it quits, we had thrown the ball for twenty minutes. My shoulder was throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache that the System helpfully labeled as [Mild Inflammation].
I sat on the back porch steps, chugging a second glass of water.
In my past life, I knew this pain. I had thrown thousands of passes. I knew the difference between "good sore" (muscle building) and "bad sore" (rotator cuff tearing). This was good sore, but just barely. The Mahomes Template wanted to throw 60-yard bombs, but my 12-year-old tendons were screaming for mercy.
"You okay, Georgie?"
I looked up. Meemaw was walking across the lawn from her house across the street. She was wearing a floral blouse and holding a Tupperware container. Connie Tucker—Meemaw—was the sharpest person in Medford.
"Hey, Meemaw," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Just tired. Cleaned the garage."
Meemaw stopped. She looked at the garage, where the door was open and the floor was actually visible. She looked at me. She looked at George Sr., who was happily scraping the grill.
"Well, I'll be damned," she said, clutching her purse. "Did you break something expensive, Junior? Or did you get a girl pregnant?"
"Mom!" George Sr. barked from the grill. "Don't talk like that to the boy."
"I'm just asking!" Meemaw defended, walking up the steps. She poked my bicep with a manicured finger. "You're sweaty. It's disgusting. Go shower before you ruin my appetite."
I smiled. "Yes, ma'am. What's in the bowl?"
"Potato salad," she said. "Loaded with bacon. And don't get any ideas—this is mostly for Moonpie. He likes the way I cut the potatoes."
"I'll fight him for it," I muttered, heading inside.
***
The shower was cold. We didn't have unlimited hot water, and I needed to ice my shoulder anyway. I stood under the freezing spray, letting my mind race.
I had the desire. I had the Template. But I needed a plan.
In my old life, I just did what the coaches told me. But this time, I needed to be efficient. I needed to maximize every calorie and every minute. And there was only one person in this house who understood efficiency better than a computer.
I dried off, dressed in clean shorts and a t-shirt, and walked into the kitchen.
The Cooper dinner table was a sacred, chaotic ritual. Dad sat at the head. Mary sat to his right. Meemaw sat opposite Dad.
"Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts," Mary prayed. We all closed our eyes (except Sheldon, who was peeking to check if a fly landed on his food). "And Lord, we thank you for the miracle of a clean garage. Amen."
"Amen," we chorused.
"Pass the potatoes," I said immediately.
"Sheldon gets first scoop," Mary said automatically. "You know he has to inspect them for onions."
In the old days, I would have rolled my eyes. Instead, I picked up the bowl.
"Here, Shelly," I said, holding it out to him. "I already checked. Meemaw cut them in cubes, 1-centimeter diameter. No onions visible. But you should verify."
Sheldon looked at me suspiciously. He adjusted his napkin. "Why are you using metric measurements?"
"Precision," I said, putting a massive burger on my plate.
Sheldon did a quick scan. "Acceptable." He took a scoop.
I took a bite of the burger. Dry, as usual, but protein was protein. I swallowed and looked at my little brother.
"Hey, Sheldon," I said. "I have a question."
The table went quiet. Georgie asking Sheldon a question usually involved the words "Why are you so weird?"
"Yes?" Sheldon asked, guarding his plate.
"I need to gain mass," I said. "I read that to build muscle, I need a caloric surplus based on my metabolic rate plus energy expenditure from exercise. But I'm bad at the math."
Sheldon's eyes lit up. He put down his fork. "Well, that is a simple thermodynamic equation. It depends on your basal metabolic rate, which, judging by your constant fidgeting, is likely higher than average."
"Exactly," I said. "And I need a schedule. Dad wants me running at 6:00 AM. I need to fit in school, lifting weights, homework, and sleeping 8 hours for growth hormone release. You love schedules. Think you could make me one?"
Mary looked stunned. George Sr. stopped chewing. Meemaw smirked.
"A schedule?" Sheldon asked, looking like I just offered him a trip to the train store. "Color-coded?"
"Is there any other kind?" I asked seriousy.
"I will require data," Sheldon said, pulling a small notepad from his pocket (he always carried it). "Height. Weight. Estimated activity level. I will draft a preliminary protocol after dinner."
"Thanks, Shelly," I said.
"Don't call me Shelly," he said automatically, but he was already scribbling numbers.
"So," Meemaw said, breaking the silence. "Using your brother for free labor. That's the Georgie I know."
"It's not labor if he likes it," I countered.
"He's got a point," George Sr. grunted. He looked at me. "I saw you throwin' today, son. You got lucky with those side-arm slings. But if you want to play real football, you need structure."
"That's what I'm sayin', Dad," I said. "I know the game. I know what a Cover 2 defense looks like. I know how to read a blitz. But my body is..."
"Scrawny," Missy offered helpfully from behind her wall of french fries.
"Aerodynamic," I corrected. "But yeah. I need to get big. That's why I asked Sheldon."
Mary frowned. "I don't like all this talk about weightlifting. I read that it stunts your growth. I want you to be tall enough to find a wife."
"I'll be tall, Mom," I promised. (The Template guaranteed it). "And I'm not gonna go crazy. Just strength training."
"I can help," Missy said. "I can sit on your back while you do pushups."
"That... is actually a good idea," I said. "Added resistance. Hired."
Missy beamed.
"Well," Meemaw said, taking a sip of her 'secret' tea. "Varsity, huh? You think you're gonna be a star?"
"I think I'm gonna be rich," I said, locking eyes with her.
Meemaw's smile widened. She spoke the language of money. "Is that so?"
"NFL quarterbacks make good money, Meemaw," I said. "And they buy their grandmothers Cadillacs."
Meemaw laughed, a loud bark of a sound. "Okay. I like the new Georgie. Keep him."
"We'll see," George Sr. said, wiping his mouth. "Talk is cheap. Tomorrow morning. 6:00 AM. We start running. And none of that fancy Mahomes-style dancing around. We run wind sprints."
"6:00 AM," I agreed.
I looked down at my plate. The System flashed.
[Daily Caloric Goal: 2,100 / 3,500]
[Sheldon Cooper Assistance: Acquired]
[Optimization: +5%]
I reached for the serving platter. "Mom, are you gonna eat that extra burger?"
For the first time in two lives, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.