Time is funny when you're suffering. The weeks didn't fly by; they dragged, heavy with humidity and lactic acid.
But the results? The results were real.
[System Status Update]
[Time Elapsed: 6 Weeks]
[Body Weight: +4 lbs]
[Muscle Density: +1.2%]
[Mahomes Integration: 2.1%]
I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. My t-shirt, usually hanging off me like a tent, was now slightly snug around the shoulders. I wasn't Captain America yet—I was still a skinny kid—but the "noodle arms" were gone. I had definition. I had triceps.
"Are you flexing?"
I jumped. Missy was standing in the doorway, holding a baseball glove.
"No," I lied, dropping my arms. "I was checking for... ticks."
"You were flexing," Missy smirked. "You look like a constipated turtle."
"You're fired," I said.
"You can't fire me," she countered. "I'm the only one heavy enough to be your squat rack."
She was right.
***
We went out to the garage. My "gym" had upgraded.
Thanks to the money from Brenda Sparks (and a few other neighbors Meemaw had 'negotiated' with), I had purchased a rusty set of iron dumbbells from a pawn shop. They smelled like pennies and despair, but iron is iron.
I lay on the wooden bench I had built from scrap lumber.
"Okay, hop on," I said.
Missy climbed onto my chest, sitting cross-legged. She was small, maybe 70 pounds, but when you're twelve years old, 70 pounds feels like a truck.
"Don't wiggle," I grunted, gripping the dumbbells.
"I'm bored," Missy complained as I started pressing. One. Two. Three.
"Talk to me," I wheezed. "Distract me."
"Mom is mad at Dad again," Missy said casually, picking at a loose thread on her jeans. "She says he spends too much time at the booster club drinking beer."
"Dad's stressed," I said, pushing through the burn. "Winning matters in Texas. If the team loses, people look at him like he kicked a puppy."
"Is that why you're doing this?" Missy asked. She looked down at me, her eyes surprisingly serious. "So Dad wins?"
I paused at the top of the rep. My arms were shaking.
"Partly," I admitted. "If I play good, Dad looks good. If Dad looks good, he keeps his job. If he keeps his job, Mom is happy."
"And then I get a pony?" Missy asked.
"Let's start with a new bike," I said, racking the weights. "Okay, get off. My turn to help you."
We walked out to the backyard.
Part of the "Mahomes Template" was arm mechanics. And mechanics worked for baseball just as well as football.
"Show me your grip," I instructed.
Missy held up the baseball. She was gripping it like an orange.
"No," I said, moving her fingers. "Across the seams. Two fingers. Thumb underneath. You want the ball to snap when you release it."
Missy adjusted. She wound up and threw.
The ball zipped into my glove with a satisfying *thwack*.
"Whoa," Missy whispered, looking at her hand.
"That's the Cooper arm," I grinned. "We got good genes, sis. We just gotta use 'em."
***
Later that evening, the smell of victory filled the house. Or rather, the smell of smoke.
Mom was at a church meeting. Meemaw was at Bingo. That left Dad in charge of dinner, which usually meant frozen pizza or cereal.
But I had intervened.
I stood at the grill in the backyard. The System had given me a new quest: **[Protein Optimization]**. It basically meant "Stop eating dry chicken and learn to cook."
I had used my own money to buy a cheap pork shoulder. Low and slow. I'd been tending the coals for four hours, basting it with a vinegar-pepper sauce I remembered from my old life (a Texas classic).
The back door opened. George Sr. walked out, holding a beer. He sniffed the air.
"What is that?" he asked.
"Dinner," I said, flipping the meat. "Pulled pork. Mom's meatloaf is... great, but I needed calories."
George walked over and peered at the grill. The meat was dark, caramelized, and falling off the bone. He looked at me, then at the meat, then back at me.
"You cooked this?" he asked skeptically. "You usually burn toast."
"I read a book," I lied. "About heat distribution."
George reached out and pulled a small piece of meat off the roast. He popped it into his mouth.
He chewed. He stopped chewing. His eyes widened.
"Damn," he whispered. Then he looked around to make sure Mary wasn't home. "Damn, that's good."
"Thanks, Dad."
"Where did you get the money for the pork?" he asked, the suspicion creeping back in.
"Meemaw," I said. "I did some chores for Brenda Sparks. Meemaw brokered the deal."
George chuckled. A genuine, deep belly laugh. "She made you clean Brenda's shed? And she took a cut, didn't she?"
"Five dollars," I confirmed.
George shook his head, leaning against the railing. He looked relaxed. For the first time in weeks, the lines on his forehead seemed smoother.
"You're a weird kid, Georgie," he said, taking a sip of beer. "Running at dawn. Lifting weights with your sister. Cooking pork shoulders."
"Just tryin' to get ready, Dad," I said. "Coach says I gotta be ready."
George nodded. He looked at the sunset.
"I talked to the Junior High coach today," George said quietly. "Coach Wilkins."
My heart skipped a beat. "Yeah?"
"He says you're on the roster," George said. "Second string receiver. But you're on."
"Receiver?" I asked. "I'm a Quarterback, Dad."
"You're twelve," George said. "And the starter is an eighth-grader named Benson. He's got a mustache."
**Kyle Benson.** The bully from the locker room. The kid who shoved Sheldon.
"That's him," George said. "So don't get your hopes up. You'll probably ride the bench. Season opener is next Friday against Henderson."
I turned the meat, hiding my smile.
One week. I had one week to take his job.
"We'll see, Dad," I said. "A lot can happen in a week."
[Quest Update: The Starter]
[Objective: Dethrone Kyle Benson before Friday]
[Reward: Starter Position & +5% Integration]
"Is it done?" George asked, eyeing the grill. "I'm starving."
"Get the plates," I said.
That night, for the first time in Cooper history, nobody complained about dinner. Even Sheldon ate a second helping (after I assured him the pig was raised in a sanitary environment).
I looked around the table. Dad was happy. Missy was tired but proud. Sheldon was full.
I had the fuel. I had the team. Now, I just needed the ball.