5:45 AM.
The alarm clock didn't buzz. It screamed.
I slapped it off, groaning. My body felt like it had been run over by a truck, reversed over, and then run over again. The "mild inflammation" from yesterday's throwing session had graduated to "full-body rigor mortis."
[System Status]
[Recovery: 60%]
[Muscle Soreness: High]
[Motivation: Low]
I rolled out of bed, hitting the floor with a thud. Sheldon didn't stir. He was sleeping in his "Dracula pose," arms crossed over his chest, completely immobile.
I put on my shorts and a ragged t-shirt. I tiptoed out of the room.
I expected the house to be dark. It wasn't.
The kitchen light was on. George Sr. was sitting at the table, a mug of black coffee in his hand. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a whistle around his neck.
He looked at the clock on the wall. 5:58 AM.
"You're up," he grunted. He sounded surprised.
"I said I would be," I yawned, grabbing a glass of water.
"Talk is cheap," George stood up, wincing slightly as his knees popped. "Let's see if you can run."
***
The Cooper training camp was not high-tech. It was the street in front of our house.
"Telephone pole to telephone pole," George Sr. instructed. He stood on the sidewalk, holding a stopwatch he must have dug out of his coaching bag. "Sprints. High knees. I want to see explosion off the line."
"Dad, it's six in the morning. Even the roosters are hitting snooze."
"Defense doesn't sleep," George barked. "Go!"
I ran.
My 12-year-old legs pumped. I tried to use the Mahomes mechanics—staying low, driving through the hips—but my body was heavy. My lungs burned instantly. The humidity of East Texas was already rising, turning the air into soup.
I touched the pole and jogged back, gasping.
"14 seconds," George said, looking at the watch with a scowl. "My grandmother runs faster than that, and she's dead."
"You're... a tyrant," I wheezed, hands on my knees.
"Again!"
We did it ten times. By the eighth sprint, I was seeing spots. My legs were jelly. But every time I wanted to quit, I looked at Dad.
He wasn't sitting down. He wasn't drinking beer. He was watching my mechanics. He was coaching.
"Pick your feet up, Georgie! You're dragging! A linebacker sees you running like that, he's gonna eat your lunch!"
I finished the tenth sprint and collapsed onto the dewy grass.
[System Alert]
[Cardiovascular Stress: High]
[Stamina Stat: +0.1]
[Relationship with George Sr.: +1]
George walked over and nudged my shoe with his sneaker.
"Not bad," he said. It was the highest praise he was capable of. "Go shower. School starts in an hour. And don't use all the hot water."
***
Breakfast was a somber affair. I was too tired to chew properly.
But Sheldon was vibrating with energy.
He walked into the kitchen carrying a laminated piece of paper. He placed it on the table in front of me with a definitive *slap*.
"Your itinerary," Sheldon announced.
I looked down. It was a grid. Color-coded. Down to the minute.
**[The Georgie Cooper Physical Optimization Protocol]**
* **06:00 - 06:45:** Aerobic conditioning.
* **06:45 - 07:00:** Hygiene / Sterilization.
* **07:00 - 07:15:** Caloric Intake 1 (High Protein).
* **07:15 - 07:45:** Commute to School.
* **15:30 - 16:30:** Resistance Training (Garage).
* **17:30 - 18:00:** Caloric Intake 2.
"You have scheduled my bathroom breaks?" I asked, pointing to a small yellow block.
"Based on your fluid intake, that is the statistically probable time you will need to void," Sheldon said proudly. "I have also calculated your nutritional needs."
He flipped the page.
**[Required Daily Intake]**
* 4 Eggs (Large)
* 3 Chicken Breasts (Grilled, skinless)
* 1 Gallon Whole Milk
Mary Cooper walked over to pour coffee. She glanced at the list over my shoulder. She froze.
"Sheldon, honey," she said, her voice tight. "Three chicken breasts? Every day?"
"For optimal hypertrophy, yes," Sheldon said matter-of-factly. "Georgie needs 1.5 grams of protein per pound of body weight. Without it, his muscle fibers will cannibalize themselves."
Mary didn't say anything. She looked at George Sr. across the table. It was a subtle look—the *'We Can't Afford This'* look.
George caught it. He cleared his throat and rattled his newspaper. "Sheldon, your brother doesn't need to eat like a grizzly bear. He'll eat what we have."
"But the math—" Sheldon started.
"Enough with the math," George snapped, a little too quickly. "We ain't running a restaurant here."
I chewed my toast slowly. I saw the tension in Mom's shoulders. I saw Dad burying his face in the sports section to hide his embarrassment.
"I can pay for it," I said quietly.
Mary spun around. "Excuse me?"
"I said I can pay for it," I repeated. "I can get a job. Help out."
"Absolutely not," Mary said immediately. "You are twelve years old, Georgie Cooper. Your job is to go to school and... well, try to pass. You are not working."
"But Mom, if I want to play football—"
"Then you'll play football on my meatloaf," Mary insisted. "We are doing just fine. Your father provides for this family."
She looked at Dad, waiting for backup.
George lowered the paper. "Your mother's right. You focus on your grades and your sprints. Let me worry about the groceries."
His voice was firm, but I heard the fatigue in it. He was already stressed about his job security. Adding a 'bodybuilder grocery bill' wasn't in the cards.
"Okay," I lied. "Meatloaf it is."
I finished my breakfast and grabbed my backpack. Sheldon was looking at his schedule, confused why his perfect math had been rejected.
"Come on, Shelly," I said. "We'll miss the bus."
***
As we walked out the front door, I looked across the street.
Meemaw was sitting on her porch swing, smoking a cigarette and reading a romance novel. She saw us and waved.
I waved back, an idea forming in my head.
Mom wouldn't let me work. Dad wouldn't let me help because of his pride.
But Meemaw? Meemaw liked secrets. And Meemaw liked money.
"Sheldon," I said as we walked down the driveway. "Go ahead to the bus stop. I forgot something."
"If you are late, the bus driver will not wait," Sheldon warned. "He is very punctual."
"I'll run," I said. "I'm training, remember?"
I waited for Sheldon to turn the corner, then I jogged across the street.
Meemaw lowered her book and exhaled a plume of smoke. "You missed the bus, genius."
"I'm catching it," I said, leaning on her porch railing. "Meemaw, I have a business proposition."
One of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows went up. "Oh? Does it involve bail money?"
"No," I said. "It involves Brenda Sparks' shed. Mom says she needs it cleaned out. Dad won't let me get a job because he's being... Dad. But I need cash for weights."
Meemaw took a drag of her cigarette, studying me. She saw through the tough guy act George Sr. put on, and she definitely knew the Cooper financial situation better than anyone.
"And what do you want me to do?" she asked.
"I need you to call Brenda," I said. "Tell her you 'know a guy' who will do it cheap. Don't tell Mom."
Meemaw smirked. A slow, mischievous grin. "So you want to go behind your mother's back, do manual labor in a rat-infested shed, just so you can lift heavy things?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And what's my cut?"
"Your cut?" I blinked. "You're my grandmother."
"Ten percent agent fee," she said instantly. "For handling the negotiations."
I laughed. This woman was ruthless. "Five percent."
"Dea," she said, flicking ash into a flower pot. "Get to the bus, Moonpie Two. I'll call Brenda."
I turned and sprinted toward the bus stop, my legs burning.
I had a coach. I had a schedule. And now, I had an agent.
[Quest Accepted: The Secret Hustle]
[Objective: Clean Brenda's Shed]
[Partner: Meemaw]