Chapter 1

the footage of me squatting is horrific. Not my form so much, but my body. It’s like a baker’s piping bag, overloaded with frosting and about to burst.

Quinn slides weight onto the bar. “We’ll review later. Relax.”

“Yeah. All right.” What else can I say? Quinn’s been right so far, and I don’t want to screw this up.

If I can create a badass film portfolio using this transformation as a crucial element, then by this time next year, I’ll be accepted into a good school, and on my way. Possibly, if all goes well, I’ll be a skinny-jeans wearing beast, too.

But first, the workout.

Quinn slides the last of the weight on and then reaches to me. “Hand it over.”

I give him my phone and he steadies it to record. “You ready?” he asks.

I nod and get myself under the bar. “Set up?”

“Good man. Two steps back. No more. Remember to send your butt back first.”

I take a deep breath, brace my belly, and step back, one-two. This is a burnout set, max reps, and my ass already feels twitchy. I squat.

“Good, Greg. Keep that chest up.”

I stand and feel all right and I’m right back into the next. Sweat’s dripping and I think of it as fractions of pounds I’m shedding. I squat another handful of reps.

“Easy, Greg. That last one looked like dick.”

“Your dick, maybe,” I manage to say around the pressure. The bar feels wobbly, but shit, I just want to finish. I was hoping for at least twenty.

Q grabs himself and laughs.

I try to take a deep breath, but I’m tired and can’t and the laugh trickles out. It feels like I’m pinned to the floor and resisting a tickle torture. “Damn.” I rack the bar, slide out, and lean on it.

Quinn stops recording and slaps my back. “You needed to cut that. Your form was for shit.”

I nod and sweat flies off my nose. “Felt that way.”

“It’s good you’re feeling the difference.” Q starts stripping off the weights.

I join him, but moving makes my legs feel like Jell-O.

“A little hustle, G. I need to get my workout in, and no one’s saving me.”

“That’s because you like to kill yourself.”

He ignores me because I’m right, and we slide the weights onto the tree stand.

“So, two weeks in, ten pounds gone. That has to make you feel good.”

“It does. But the long haul, that’s the hardest. I have no stamina.”

I expect him to crack a joke because I realize I’ve left the door wide open, but he doesn’t laugh, just tilts his head.

“You hear that?”

“What?”

Q raises a finger. “There it is again. Chanting?”

“Or some weird-ass music.”

We look at each other and it feels as if we have the same realization simultaneously. Quinn hands over my phone and we make our way to the practice gym doors.

I grab the handle, but the giant Warrior logo on the door doesn’t split in two.

Quinn tries, too. Same result. “That makes no sense. The bros are practicing now,” he says.

“Unless they locked it.”

Quinn looks past me. The noise from the bros has grown louder. “There’s an access door for the bleacher crank through that closet.”

I ask how he knows this, but Q ignores me, and in a moment, we’re passing through a supply closet and through another door that opens up beneath the bleachers.

It’s dark and dusty and tough to tell which way to go. The lights are dimmed.

“This one must be perfect. In unison, you shits.” Andrew Alva’s voice is instantly recognizable. We move toward it, stepping over the bleachers’ tracks and litter.

We emerge near the middle of the gym, thirty feet from ten guys on their knees in nothing but shorts. Another ten players stand behind them, holding their lacrosse sticks. Alva is in front of them all. He raises his hand. “Remember. Perfect.”

I hit record and zoom and can see the boys on their knees shaking. One has blood dripping down his side. Another looks like he might cry. What is this?

Alva drops his hand and the boys start chanting: Our allegiance is to the Warriors, our bodies are weapons, ready for sacrifice. We will dominate at whatever cost to our opponent or to ourselves.

Some of the boys stutter through the ending and Alva flexes his thick biceps and shakes his head. Then he goes still. “Not. Good. Enough.”

I pan back to get the entire room.

Alva raises his hand again and the players raise their sticks. Alva drops his hand and the sticks fly, cracking into the backs of the kids in front of them. Some drop to the floor, others cry out. Some try to fight the pain.

“Get up! Get up, you stupid fucks! You want part of this team? You want to be a man? Get the fuck up!”

Alva’s words frighten me, and I’m thirty feet away. I cannot imagine how those boys must feel. I look at Quinn and he’s ready to run out there. But he can’t. They’ll kill him.

I grab his arm and he whips around. “No, Q!” I check to see if they’ve heard me, but they’re too busy screaming and bleeding. I point at my phone and Q nods. I motion to head back, but Quinn stays rooted in his spot. We have to go. The bros on a regular basis aren’t safe to be around. If we interrupt this moment, I honestly think everyone will find our bodies in the woods. And would look the other way.

Finally, Q turns and we pick our way back. Some kid’s voice asks them to stop, and Alva’s laughter echoes around us. I shut off my phone.

We pack our gear without speaking and head to Quinn’s car. I climb into the passenger seat and Quinn gets behind the wheel. We just stare out the windshield at the Warriors’ stadium, and say nothing. I shiver from the sweat now gone cold, or something else all together.

I find the thumbnail on my phone and press play. Alva’s screaming, the kids are being hit, and everything is so damn dark.

“The hell, man?” Q says and holds a hand to his mouth.

I hit pause and stare at Alva’s contorted face. The kid’s an animal. Always has been. Him being captain was the most logical event that I’ve ever seen happen around here. Which is one of the reasons I want out of this town. But, now, I feel safe with him on my phone, because he’s there, and not real in a way.

“I figured they did this kind of shit, but damn . . .”

“Yeah. We’ve got to let someone know.”

My response wriggles though my mind, and I feel like such an asshole for it. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Think about it. Who am I going to bring it to? Callaghan?”

“He’s our principal, first, their coach second.”

“You think that’s how it works? Besides, what did we really see?”

“I don’t know, but he has to do something, regardless of whatever that was. Let him make the call.”

I love how naive Quinn is, and I also hate him for it. He’s a good-looking guy, has an easygoing attitude, gets along with everyone, so he has no clue how the world works for the majority of us. The ugly, the nerdy, the obese. Especially the fat. We can’t hide under goth makeup or just be in with the nerd herd. Nope, it’s best we’re by ourselves.

The amount of shit that’s happened to me, that I’ve had to listen to and endure because principals up and down the line haven’t done shit, could be its own documentary.

I look at Quinn. “In theory he has to do something. That doesn’t mean he will.”

Quinn squints. “What are you saying?”

“Do you trust Callaghan?”

Q scrunches his face some more. “Not really, but . . .”

“But what?”

“But with that evidence, come on, he has to.”

The gym door opens and the lax bros file out, Alva taking up the rear. It’s March and still cold, snow on the ground, but the boys are all wearing shorts and T-shirts. Through the zoom on my phone, trickles of blood stain their shirts and shine red. Alva barks something and the boys take off running, pounding up the hill, through the snow. He turns back, as if sensing us, but only pauses for a moment and then is on their heels. The last thing I want is for him to be on my ass. Well, any more than usual.

“You see that? They’re still bleeding.”

“I saw.”

“And?”

The shock of that scene from the gym has worn off, and I fully understand who we’re dealing with. That changes things. “Why do you care? The lax bros are assholes.”

Quinn looks at me like I’ve just shit on his mom. “So we just let that go because they’re dicks?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“No. That’s exactly what you’re saying.”

I take a deep breath. “Fine. I am. But it’s not so simple.”

“Bullshit!” Quinn shakes his head. “You don’t want to help them because you’re afraid of the heat.”

“Maybe.” I don’t look at him when I answer. “Or maybe they don’t deserve the help.”

Quinn starts the car. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. We know the truth. You’re scared to put your neck out there.”

He’s right. I am. But I have good reason. “We working out tomorrow?”

“Of course. But don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not. Let me get more of that on film. Not because I want to see them suffer, I just know one piece is never enough. But two. Maybe? Then we can take it to Callaghan, or someone else. All right?”

Quinn grunts. “I feel ya. A stronger case makes sense.” He looks back at the field. “Promise you won’t let them all hang just ’cause Alva’s psycho and you hate everything around here.”

“I promise,” I mutter. “Shit, why you gotta always do the right thing?”

“Unlike you, I’m not afraid of the truth.” Quinn starts the car and we roll out of the parking lot. The lax bros are running hill sprints, and their skin is already that cold color pink.