The Case Against William by Mark Gimenez

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