It was the fifth day of August, and across the state of Texas tens of thousands of high school boys took to the football field for the first day of fall practice. Only it wasn't fall. It was summer. And it was hot. In Odessa, it was 112 degrees Fahrenheit. In Dallas, it was 105 degrees. In Houston, it was only 99 degrees, but with 95 percent humidity the air felt like a steam sauna.
William Tucker's body glistened in sweat, and practice hadn't even started yet. He wore only shorts and cleats; pads came next week. He was sixteen and stood six feet three inches tall and weighed one hundred ninety pounds with only ten percent body fat. He worked out with his personal trainer five times a week. He ate a strict diet designed by a sports nutritionist. He honed his skills at quarterback school and his speed with an Olympic coach. He could bench press two hundred fifty pounds ten times. Squat three hundred pounds fifteen times. Run a 4.5-second forty. Throw a football seventy-five yards. He had a forty-six inch chest and a thirty-inch waist. His body was muscular, his skin bronze, and his hair blond and curly. The leather football he held seemed a part of his body. He was a sophomore about to start his first year on varsity and sitting in the bleachers at his high school's new stadium. Seating capacity was twenty-five thousand. Parents camped out overnight at the admin building when season tickets became available; they became available only when a current season ticket holder forfeited his tickets—which never happened—or died—which didn't happen often enough to suit those waiting in line. Mounted atop the scoreboard in the north end zone was a huge high-definition video screen that showed instant replays during games. The turf was the same grass the pros played on. Behind the stadium stood the new indoor practice arena; it was air-conditioned, but the coaches made the team practice outside so their bodies could acclimate to the heat. That, or the coaches were just—
"Sadistic bastards," Bobby said.
Bobby Davis played center. He stood six-four and weighed two-ninety. He had a dozen scholarship offers from D-I schools. He was a senior and used steroids. Consequently, he stunk. William always stayed upwind of Bobby.
"They're not happy unless someone passes out during practice," he said. "Puking used to be enough, but we lost in regionals last year. Two-a-days this summer are gonna be rough."
"Really?"
Bobby laughed and shook his head.
"Private school kids. You guys come over here to play big-time ball, but you're like a bunch of altar boys going to a strip joint. So, William, you as good as they say?"
"Yep."
"Hey, don't be modest or nothing."
"You asked."
"You get nervous before a game?"
"Is a shark nervous in water?"
Bobby laughed. "If you play up to your ego, boy, you're gonna be all-American."
"It's not ego if you can do it."
Bobby grunted. "You want some D-bol?"
Dianabol. Stanozolol. Nandrolone. Oxandrolone. Anabolic steroids. High school athletes knew the names like preteen girls knew Britney Spear's lyrics.
"I don't need it."
"You should've seen some of the quarterbacks at the summer football camp I went to back in June. They're fucking animals. Hairy fucking animals." Bobby laughed. "So I go in there weighing two-seventy. I'm almost nineteen years old—"
"You're almost nineteen?"
"My dad held me back so I'd have time to get bigger before varsity."
"It worked."
"Anyway, this is a camp for elite players, guys like me holding D-One offers. I tell the offensive line coach I'm gonna start as a freshman. He laughs, says, 'Not at two-seventy you ain't.' Said I need to weigh in at three hundred to start in D-One-A. I said, 'What do I do?' He said, 'Bulk up, Bobby.' "
"He told you to use steroids?"
"No. But I knew what he meant. Everyone knows. They told everyone the same thing, except those fucking fast-ass black receivers from the 'hood. Man, those guys could go pro straight out of high school."
"So you put on twenty pounds with the juice?"
"Shit works. You should try it."
"Like I said, I don't need it."
They watched the cheerleaders practicing their routines down the sideline. Including Becky.
"Your sister's kind of cute," Bobby said.
"Don't go there."
He laughed. William didn't.
"Hey, sorry, man," Bobby said. "Didn't know you were so touchy about your sister."
He was. After a moment, he calmed.
"You like this school?" William asked.
"I like playing football at this school. Not so much going to school."
"What's your GPA?"
"One-point-seven."
"That's low."
"Not for a football player."
"Do you study?"
"Football. Why waste my time on math and English when I'm going to college to play football?"
"Are your grades good enough to get into college?"
"There ain't any academic standards for athletes. If you can play, you get in." He laughed. "College coaches today, they don't worry about your academic transcript, just your criminal background check."
Bobby leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head as if all that he saw was his.
"See, William, the rest of the world's got rules. We don't. If you can play football—I mean, really play—you're on a different level in life from everyone who can't play football. You live above the rules."
A cute cheerleader bounced past; she gave them a finger wave and a smile.
"Hi, William."
He didn't know her.
"She knows you."
They watched her—she peeked back to make sure they did—all the way down the sideline to the other cheerleaders. Including his sister. When his dad allowed William to leave the Academy and attend public school, Becky had demanded equal treatment. She played volleyball, and this public school's teams were great. She wanted a scholarship.
"Name's Chrissie. She's the team punch. You make the team, you make her."
"Anyone on the team?"
"Starters. She ain't gonna screw a sub, William."
As if he should know that.
"Girls line up for the starters."
William knew he was ready to start on one of the top-ranked high school football teams in Texas, but was he ready for the cheerleaders? Bobby laughed and pointed.
"Look at rich-boy Ronnie."
Another player had walked up to the cheerleaders and was obviously trying to flirt. He was an offensive lineman like Bobby, and he was big, but not in a ripped, muscular way; he was big in the "he occupied a lot of space" way.
"Thinks he can buy his way onto a D-One team," Bobby said. "Ain't enough money in his daddy's bank for that."
"What's he doing here?"
"Same thing as you. Another River Oaks rich boy slumming with the trailer trash, hoping to play big-time high school ball, develop his skills, get a D-One scholarship. It ain't never gonna happen for Ronnie."
Down on the track, Ronnie's flirting had fallen flat with the cheerleaders. They had frowns on their faces and now ignored him. He was clearly not pleased. Becky turned away from him, but he grabbed her arm. The beast inside William roared to life. He jumped up, ran down the stands, and vaulted the railing. He landed on his feet and sprinted to his sister. She looked scared. The beast grabbed Ronnie by the throat, yanked him away from Becky, and then drove his fist into Ronnie's—
"Whoa!"
A massive arm wrapped around William's chest and pulled him back.
"Shit, William!" Bobby said. "You're a fucking animal!"
William broke loose of Bobby's grasp and stepped toward Ronnie; he outweighed William by sixty pounds but he stepped back. William put a finger in Ronnie's face.
"Don't ever touch my sister again."
Ronnie's eyes showed the fear of an antelope facing the lion. He turned and walked away. William turned to his sister.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks, William."
Bobby Davis grinned. "Man, it's gonna be a fun year with a beast like you playing quarterback for us."
Bobby spread his arms out to the stadium where they would play their first game in three weeks.
"And you're gonna love it. We go undefeated for seven or eight games, you're not gonna believe this fucking place."