Split Decision (11 page)

But this was the new Pork Chop. New, but definitely not improved. Unpredictable as a homemade time bomb.

Cody prayed for wisdom, and for protection, before he spoke. “Nah, Chop. I’m not going to tell the coaches what you’re doing to yourself. I won’t have to.”

Chop crossed his thick forearms across his chest. “Oh, yeah? And why is that, little brother?”

“Because
you’re
going to tell them.”

A bark of laughter escaped from deep inside Chop’s chest. “Okay, you’re really tripping on me now, Code.”

Cody smiled sadly. “Maybe I’m not the one who’s tripping. Maybe that junk you’re doing has affected your memory. We all signed the Grant Athletic Code of Conduct back before football season, remember?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Did you actually read what you signed—what you gave your word about? You remember the section about illegal—and questionable—drugs and supplements? Remember that part about ‘only with parental approval and under a doctor’s supervision?’”

“Of course. I don’t sign anything without reading it first.”

Cody widened his eyes. “And?”

Chop wagged his head dismissively. “I got that covered. See, when I signed my name, I wrote Deke
Parter
, not Porter. So ya see little brother, I’m not breaking my word.”

Cody heard himself groan in frustration. “I can’t believe you’re saying this. This isn’t you, Chop! Think about it. Coach said nobody does sports without signing the form. So, if you really didn’t sign it, you’ve been, like, ineligible all stinkin’ year!”

Cody stared at his friend accusingly. Slowly, the smug Pork Chop grin wilted. “I didn’t consider that till just now,” he muttered. “Why’d you have to go poking around in this, Code? I was doing just fine.”

“No, Chop, you weren’t. You have been building big industrial-strength muscles but not the ligaments and tendons around them. That kind of imbalance can lead to major tears. The kind that require surgery. The kind that end careers. What’s worse—you coulda damaged your liver too. And, to top it all off, you’ve been living a lie! You, the guy who’s always ‘keeping it real,’ competing with a fake name, using fake chemicals, to make fake muscles. That’s what you call keeping it
real
?”

Cody stopped speaking and took a step back. He couldn’t read his friend’s face.
This could go either way
, he thought.
Either he’s gonna pop me or break down and cry. And I’ve never seen Pork Chop Porter break down
.

Seconds crawled by. Finally, Chop cleared his throat. His voice sounded tired and ragged. “Why are you comin’ at me like this? Why are you bringing all this harshness?”

“Because I’m your best friend—you big idiot. That’s why. I do it for the same reason I pray for your soul every night, why I invite you to church. Why I never talk behind your back, and never tell a racist joke—and leave the room if anybody else starts to bring that kinda garbage. And I will not be silent and watch you ruin your body and your mind. You think I’m being harsh, but I’m sayin’ this in love.”

Chop frowned thoughtfully. “So how’s it gonna be then? What are you gonna say? What are you gonna do?”

“For now, at least, I’ve said my piece. What’s next is on you. All I can say is that the Deke Porter I know would go one way. I just gotta hope and pray that the guy I know, my friend, my brother, is still in there somewhere, underneath all the big muscles—and bigger lies.”

With that, Cody sprinted for the track. The day’s interval workout was a blur. Cody felt several times like he would lose his lunch—and his breakfast—in the infield grass. But he wasn’t sure of the cause— whether it was the intensity of track practice or the conversation beforehand.

He said a silent prayer of thanks when he saw Pork Chop and Coach Clayton huddled in the hallway between the men’s and women’s locker room when he headed home.

“So, here’s the deal,” Chop explained to Cody on the phone later that night. “I’m not tossin’ the shot this year, just to be safe, but I’m staying on as a manager. I told Coach that I’m not sure what I took. I think this one, uh, supplement was legal for a while but not anymore, at least not to minors. But we’re taking no chances. And I’m goin’ to the doc later this week to have some tests done. See what’s what. So, you happy now?”

Cody cleared his throat. “It’s not about me being happy. It’s about you being safe. About you being a man of your word.”

“I hear ya. I really do. Coach started to tell me about some of the side effects, and it started to freak me out. It scared me, Cody. For real. And besides all of the internal damage, did you know that kinda stuff can give you man-breasts? Dawg, the Chop does NOT rock the man-breasts!”

Cody tried to muster a laugh. “Well, I’ve been scared for you all season. I guess it’s good that you finally got on board.”

“Ha. Okay, then, dawg. I’m out. I need to call Doug up at college, talk to him for a while.”

“Okay. See you at practice tomorrow. You can fetch me some Gatorade or something.”

“Don’t push it little brother. But, Cody—”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, dawg. You’re still my boy. You always got my back, huh?”

Cody nodded. “Always.”

With Pork Chop bellowing, “Step on your gas now, dawg!” and other encouragement from the infield, Cody picked up his first-ever varsity track points by placing fifth in the 800 meters at a low-key early-May meet on the Grant High track. Coach Clayton decided to rest Gerber and Phelps, meaning that Bryce Phillips would be the only upperclassman to compete. Phillips took second at the five-team competition, and Cody nipped fellow freshman Gage McClintock for the final scoring placement.

He had placed second and third at two late-April frosh meets, motivating Coach Clayton to give him a chance to run with at least a few of “the big dogs.”

“Good race, Co,” Pork Chop said, thrusting a water bottle at Cody. “What was your time?”

“Only two-fifteen,” Cody panted. “Coach isn’t gonna be happy. I ran the first quarter in sixty-two, then died.”

“Well, at least you beat Gage.”

“That’s because he ran his first quarter in a minute flat. He went out even faster than I did. Man, Coach is always reminding me that for every second you go out too fast in the first half of the race, it costs you twice that long in the second half. But I still keep getting caught up in the flurry of the start. I’m running so stupid!”

Chop smiled. “Well, in my book, any running of more than a few yards is stupid. Too much runnin’ hurts my booty, dawg. For real.”

Cody started to respond, but he was interrupted by Drew Phelps. “You did it again, man. You gotta get past that newbie stuff.”

“I know, I know,” Cody said, bobbing his head obediently. “But give me a break; I’m just a freshman.”

Drew narrowed his eyes. “You run with the varsity, you compete like the varsity,” he said.

Whatever
, Cody thought—but definitely didn’t risk saying
. It’s no big deal. This was probably the last time I’ll run varsity this year anyway.

Only a week later, Cody lay gasping in the infield grass, marveling at how wrong his prediction was. Bryce Phillips, Grant’s third-best 800-meter man— and leadoff man on the team’s promising four by 800 relay team—had been diagnosed with a stress fracture. A bad one. His return in time for the state meet would be unlikely.

Coach Clayton had coaxed Craig Ward to move up from the 400 to the 800, but that still left Grant a man short on their relay team. That led to a forced intrasquad race between McClintock, Cody, Brendan Clark, and a sophomore Cody knew only as “Goose.”

Before the runoff, Drew had planted himself nose to nose with Cody. “My man,” he said, “if you run your first quarter in anything faster than sixty-five, I’m going to throw you down and tap-dance all over your body—with my half-inch needle spikes.”

“Whatever, Phelps,” Cody groaned. “I’m just hoping I don’t get last in this thing.”

Drew’s blue-green eyes popped open wide. “Are you kiddin’ me? We are counting on you to win this thing. You’re the only true half-miler in the bunch. Goose is a two-miler; he has no speed. Gage is really a sprinter—you know that. And Clark is an animal, but he’s a pole vaulter, for cryin’ out loud! He probably hasn’t run farther than 100 yards since preseason conditioning!”

“But he’s a stud,” Cody protested.

Drew wagged his finger like a tail in Cody’s face. “Doug Porter is a stud. Pork Chop is a stud. You think you can beat them in the half-mile?”

“Well—”

“Well … nothing! Sixty-five for the first 400; you got that?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Cody mumbled.

Brendan Clark had grabbed the early lead. The other runners settled in behind him, seemingly out of obedience and fear. Cody tucked in behind Clark, thinking,
Man, I don’t usually have a wide torso like this to break the wind for me. It’s too bad there aren’t actual distance men built like Clark—200 pounds of solid muscle. If I could draft off Clark every race, I’d never have to face a stiff headwind all by myself
.

Cody smiled when he heard Coach Clayton call, “Sixty-four, sixty-five!” as Clark led the small pack through the first lap.

As the pack snaked its way down the back stretch, Cody heard Clark grunt with effort, and he noticed the muscle-packed linebacker’s stride begin to shorten. Feeling almost guilty, he swung to Clark’s outside shoulder.
Well
, he thought,
I hope Brendan won’t be mad at me for this, but here goes—

He moved to Clark’s outside shoulder, took a deep but shaky breath, then surged past him.

With 200 meters to go, Cody unleashed his kick. He expected fatigue and tightness to set in, as it had with his previous races. But the steady first lap had left him with plenty of fuel in the tank. He felt footsteps coming up behind him, but those footsteps were accompanied by more grunting and groaning. Clark was making a move on him, but the well-muscled linebacker was straining.

Cody leaned into the turn, concentrating on running it tight. He knew Clark wouldn’t be used to running turns and would probably swing too wide, costing himself precious extra steps.

He sensed he had opened up more of a gap as he entered the home stretch. Pork Chop was wind-milling his good arm, willing Cody to move faster.

Forty yards from the finish, Cody heard footsteps again. It couldn’t be Clark again, could it? He shot a glance over his right shoulder. Clark it was, muscles bulging, cheeks alternately puffing out like balloons, then deflating.

This guy’s comin’ on like a locomotive,
Cody thought, beginning to panic.
What made me ever think I could beat an all-state linebacker? I musta been crazy!

“Don’t you quit! Don’t-you-quit!” Cody heard Drew scream beside him—as he ran parallel to him on the long jump runway.

The exhortation gave him one last burst of energy. He pumped his arms and drove his knees forward.

It’s weird that Clark didn’t move to my outside shoulder, Cody thought as he collapsed just past the finish line. He just ran right up on my heels. Oh well, at least I got to the line first.

Cody’s line of thought was interrupted by a gasping, sputtering Brendan Clark, who yanked him to his feet and draped a muscular arm around his shoulder. “Great race, Cody,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

Cody wondered if he had enough oxygen to speak. He decided to try—“You too. I thought for sure you were gonna run me down.”

Clark stopped for a moment and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Nah, man, I was cooked. I’m not trained for this distance. I just wanted to push you a little. Get you to the line a little quicker.”

“Well, you sure did that. You put a scare in me! I wonder what my time was?”