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"I'm sorry, Carmelina."

"Please don't."

"I gotta go."

"Go then," she said. "Leave me the hell alone."

Bobby took a few quick steps, then stopped. "It's not going away, Carmelina. It's not going away, is it?"

She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

Bobby remembered thinking a few weeks ago, something was going to change his life. He thought it would be Wrestling. He thought it would be winning the districts, the regions, then the states. But none of those, it was painfully clear to him now, were going to be it.

Bobby stepped off the scale in his closet. Though he had weighed himself a half-dozen times over the past few hours, he felt compelled to step on again. He knew a quarter or half pound wasn't simply going to disappear, nor was weighing himself going to distract him from his new reality. Still, he set the counterweight. The scale arm balanced. One hundred thirty-one and a quarter pounds.

His weight hadn't changed.

Bobby walked into the bathroom and stood at the toilet, hoping for a trickle. Nothing. He swirled his tongue in his mouth, trying to gather spit. Nothing. His body was empty.

He looked in the mirror. A dehydrated, pale, remarkably thin person stared back through bloodshot eyes. He saw hopelessness in those eyes. He'd trade everything—even a state championship—to have that reflection be of someone else.

His eyes welled up with tears, and as hard as he tried to rub out the ache in his forehead, it remained. He leaned heavily on the sink.
I can't do this, I just can't. I'm not ready. Not for a baby ... Carmelina, why were you so careless?

He was pissed off at Carmelina, and in his anger, he entertained the idea that maybe she hadn't been careless. Maybe it was exactly what she had intended. Maybe she wanted to get pregnant by a white boy, a rich white boy from Short Hills. Maybe she wanted an easy way out of Newark. Maybe—

Bobby stopped himself. He hung his head, ashamed to look in the mirror again. Carmelina didn't deserve his accusations. She had plenty to lose, too. She had dreams. She wanted to graduate high school in June, just like he did. She wanted to attend college in the fall, just like he did.

He shook his head. How could he go to college now? Fathers don't go to college. And how could he possibly focus on the districts? Or the regions? Or the states? And how in the world was he going to tell his mother and father? This would only make his family's problems a million times worse.

His mother had been right all along. He hadn't understood her warnings. "Watch yourself with this girl, Bobby," she had said. "You're going to get yourself in trouble." And despite explaining every bit of what he felt in his heart, his mother told him otherwise. "You don't know yet what love is. But you have a lifetime to find out." And now he
was
in trouble. And he hated that his mother was so right.

It's all over. Everything is over.

Bobby thought he had plans set for the rest of the season, for the rest of his senior year. But his reality had changed. Carmelina wasn't suddenly going to disappear. Her being pregnant wasn't going away. And he had no plans for that.

What a waste," Ivan said.

Tacked to the locker-room chalkboard was a poster—
CONGRATULATIONS LENNINGS! TIME TO CELEBRATE!
—stenciled in large maroon letters, with the names of the varsity and JV wrestlers written all around.

"Even the scrubs." Ivan snorted.

After twelve consecutive losses, Lennings tasted victory on the final match of the season. Ivan remembered the team erupting when the referee signaled a pin in the heavyweight match to seal the win, and afterward, Ellison's mouth in a howl of excitement, his arms thrown high in the air. And he remembered John Pico and Kerry Jackson whipping their headgear to the ceiling, while the wrestlers mobbed one another and fans spilled from the bleachers onto the mat. Families. Friends. Teachers. Classmates. It seemed everyone in town was there. Shelley was there, too, her face beaming. And still, Ivan had remained stone-faced. Jubilation surrounded him, smothered him. It disgusted him then, and now, four days later, even more.

One win, big deal. We only beat Liberty Hill.
Did he have to remind them they were still the worst team in the county?

And, most of all, Ivan remembered McClellan shaking hands with each wrestler on the team, looking more relieved than satisfied. He shook Ivan's hand last, as if out of some stupid obligation, and said, "Great team effort today."

More of that rah-rah crap that got us so far this year.

Ivan hung his blue jeans and flannel shirt inside the locker and sat down. For the sixteenth time this season, he had pinned his opponent, breaking the record he had set the year before. But did anyone on the team say a thing to him? Not a damn word. They took what he did for granted, expecting him, without question, to pin every opponent.

Ivan looked at the poster again. He saw the names, printed in different colors and sizes, some in script, some in capitals. There was Pico's, Jackson's, and Ellison's. Ivan moved closer. He saw Walt Stone, Tim Kimble, Willie Franklin, Phil Hannen. Even McClellan's name was there. But not his own.

The locker-room door opened. Ivan didn't bother turning around.

"You're early," he heard McClellan say. "I've been going over the practice schedule up until the districts. Anything you think needs more work?"

"I'm ready."

"I'm sure you are," McClellan said. "What about the team?"

If they don't get it by now,
Ivan thought,
they sure as hell won't get it by Friday night.
Stripped down to his underwear, he moved over to the scale. He felt McClellan's stare as he set the counterbalance to 132 pounds, then stepped on. The scale arm moved up.

"Friday night's going to be a real test," McClellan said. "Most of our guys haven't been to the districts before."

Ivan tapped the counterbalance to the right: 132¼... 132¼... The scale arm balanced.

"You've been through this three times," McClellan said. "They'll be looking to you as their captain."

Ivan stepped off the scale. He pulled on his white T-shirt, the material rubbing against his dry, chafed skin, and stepped into his black shorts. The quicker he was dressed, the better.

McClellan gestured toward the poster. "A shame we couldn't put it all together a little earlier in the season. That might've turned things around. A case of too little too late, I suppose."

Ivan looked over his shoulder. McClellan seemed to be staring somewhere beyond the locker room.

"A victory is a victory," McClellan said. "At least we finally know what victory tastes like."

McClellan blew the whistle long and loud. The Wrestling stopped. "Lennings, we're Wrestling like garbage! Three months and you guys still aren't executing. Tim, how many times have we gone over the fireman's carry?"

Kimble shrugged. "Hundreds, I guess."

"And how many times have I said the arm goes up the crotch?"

"Hundreds."

"And how many times have I shown how to make it a throw, not a roll?"

"Hundreds."

"So why in the world did you
roll
with it?"

Kimble didn't answer. The other wrestlers stood around, while the furnace clanked, and pumped, and pounded.

"That's what I'm talking about," McClellan said. "You guys are thinking too much and reacting too little. This has to be instinct now. You can't think,
Do I throw a fireman's or do I roll with a fireman's?
Damn it, it just has to happen. Ivan," McClellan snapped.

Ivan shot a look at McClellan.

"What happens when you roll through on a fireman's?"

Ivan's eyes narrowed.
You tryin' to embarrass me?

"I'll ask again," McClellan said. "What happens when you roll through on a fireman's?"

"Let's move on." Ivan didn't mutter or whisper the words. He spoke them loud enough that everyone in the room heard.

"Is that your answer?" McClellan said. "Come over here."

Ivan walked to the middle of the mat and stood defiantly in front of McClellan.

Before Ivan was set, McClellan drop-stepped hard into his midsection. McClellan held the position, clamped down on the overhook, and lifted his right arm between Ivan's legs.

"Here we lift," McClellan said. "Now the throw."

With one knee up and one touching the mat, he pulled down on Ivan's right arm while throwing his own right arm toward the ceiling. Ivan flew off his shoulders, landing hard on the mat.

"
Now,
" McClellan said, "how do we do a fireman's?"

Ivan popped back up to his feet. Heat rose from inside his chest, his body suddenly wired to strike. He grinned, a tight, pissed-off grin. "Don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Three-time district champ, twice region champ, third in the state. I'll ask one last time: How do we do a fireman's carry the
right
way?"

Ivan said nothing. His thoughts were focused on ripping McClellan apart.

"Don't roll through," someone answered.

Ivan looked around. So did McClellan. The other wrestlers turned. Hannen stepped forward.

"Don't roll through," he repeated.

"Exactly," McClellan said. "Someone's been listening."

Ivan's smirk faded. He glared at Hannen. What gave this freshman any reason to think he should even be in the same practice room as him?
Nice going,
Ivan thought,
I'm gonna whip your ass.

But Hannen wasn't quite the pushover he had been at the beginning of the season, and he certainly wasn't just another sorry face in the practice room. In fact, Hannen had become a nuisance. Not that he was a threat to Ivan on the mat, not even close. But every practice, without fail, Hannen tried tirelessly to score a point on Ivan, as if one takedown or reversal would suddenly make him
somebody.

"Split up into pairs!" McClellan said.

Ellison said to Ivan. "You and me?" But Ivan ignored him. Instead, Ivan pointed at Hannen. "You. Now!" Ivan cleared space on the mat, then stood in his stance. "You got all the answers, freshman."

Hannen crouched in his stance. "Only to Coach's question."

"Shoulda kept your mouth shut."

When everyone on the team was set, McClellan said, "Wrestle!"

Ivan stepped to his right, then pivoted to a duck-under to the left. Hannen tried to square off, but it was futile, Ivan was far too powerful. He lifted and tripped, driving the freshman down to the mat, digging his shoulder into Hannen's rib cage.

"Ahhh!" Hannen curled into a ball, gasping for breath. Wrestlers nearby stopped.

"You okay, Hannen?" Ellison said.

Hannen managed a nod.

Ellison said to Ivan, "Take it easy. We wanna leave some wrestlers for next year."

Ivan ignored him. "Done, freshman? I got the districts on Friday and no time to waste."

Hannen held a hand to his rib cage and grimaced when he stood. "Relax," he said, then added, with the smallest hint of mockery, "Champ."

Ivan quickly stood ready in his stance, waiting for Hannen to be set. Hannen adjusted his right knee pad and tucked his long-sleeved shirt inside the top of his shorts. He moved slowly, too slowly.

"You gonna wrestle, freshman?" Ivan said. "If not, then sit your ass down."

"Lay off me."

"What'd you say?" Ivan said, though he had heard him well enough.

Hannen suddenly smirked, as if he had had enough and was willing to live with the consequences. "I said, drop dead, prima donna."

The room fell silent, and for the briefest moment Ivan was startled. Never did anyone—not even opponents—show defiance toward him on the mat. Sometimes they did during weigh-ins, sometimes during introductions, but none
after
they had a taste of Wrestling with him. Now, this freshman punk was trying to show him up.

"I'm sick of everyone thinking you're some kinda god," Hannen said. "I'm sick of hearing about you. And you know what? I'm sick of hearing about your goddamn family."

Rage exploded. "You're fuckin' dead," Ivan breathed. In that moment, Hannen was everyone and everything he hated. With starding quickness, Ivan bear-hugged Hannen and slammed him to the mat. The sound echoed in the practice room.

A knee pressed to his chest, Ivan reared back. His fist sliced through the air, striking Hannen above his ear, snapping his head back. He cocked his fist again and unleashed another punch, this time cutting a gash on Hannen's temple.

Chaos ensued.

Ellison tackled Ivan, allowing Hannen to scramble to his feet. Blood trickled into the corner of his eye. Hannen brushed it away with his hand. Seeing the crimson on his fingers, Hannen's eyes widened and he unleashed a fury of profanities at Ivan.

Ivan felt himself being grabbed from behind. He spun around. "Get your hands off me!" He was facing McClellan.

"We're not gonna have any more of this," McClellan said. "Out of my practice, Ivan! Right now!"

McClellan put his hands on Ivan's chest and shoved him away. Then a second time. Ivan stood his ground and raised his fists. An eerie silence cottoned the room as the team stood stunned from the chaos that had swept through the practice. No one moved; no one talked.

McClellan pointed to the door. "You're not bigger than the team, Ivan. Don't even think about coming back. You're done!"

Ivan's eyes shrank into a tight squint. "Done?
I'm
done?" he said. "No, I'll tell ya what, you're the worst goddamn coach in the state." He scooped up his headgear and bolted out the door. In the hallway, his ears turned rigid, waiting for the slightest word, or sound, or muffled laugh.

Gimme a reason to go back in there. Gimme one good reason.

Ivan stalked the dimly lit hallway, his fist still cocked, his mind a hair trigger from going off again. All he wanted to do was hit something, anything.

Behind him, he heard McClellan say, "Lennings, we've got the districts this weekend. We're drilling takedowns now. You know the routine."

"Fuck you," Ivan yelled. "Fuck you all!"