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  * * *

  That week, Mike Harkey, Gainesville’s strength and conditioning coach, phoned Carter. He invited my brother down to the football complex on campus to see the Gators’ multi-million dollar weight room and training facility. I practically begged Carter to let me tag along. But for two days he said no and wouldn’t budge.

  “This isn’t kiddy play time, Travis. This is serious. My future,” he told me.

  “Mom, Carter’s acting selfish,” I said, trying to play her against him.

  But she backed up Carter on everything.

  “Your brother has to worry about making a good impression, not looking after you,” she said.

  So I kept quiet on the whole idea for a few days. Then, the Saturday morning when Carter was headed there, I put on a Gainesville football jersey and used my body to block the front door.

  “Come on. Please. Players my age don’t get chances like this. Maybe I can pick up some lifting techniques, move ahead of other kids,” I said, praying he’d take pity on me.

  Carter exhaled and put his hands on his hips.

  “If I say yes, you won’t get in the way?” he asked.

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “You won’t pick up any weights? Drive Coach Harkey crazy with questions?” Carter continued, as I accepted each condition. “You understand that this is my meeting, not yours?”

  “I get it, completely,” I said, opening the door for us.

  Mom needed the car to go to her job at the dental office. So we hopped a downtown bus that took us past Beauchamp High, my school—Westside Middle—and then to University Avenue, where we caught a second bus to the campus.

  From the outside, the football complex looked like a fancy hotel: tall sheets of glass, palm trees, a smooth marble column, and a bronze statue of a gator. Inside, the lobby was decked out in the Gators’ orange and blue, with life-size photos of Gainesville’s all-time greatest players lining the walls.

  “Someday, my picture’s going to be up there,” Carter whispered to me.

  “Think so?” I said, almost as a challenge.

  “Long before yours ever will,” he said with confidence.

  Then we came to a pair of crystal footballs, each in its own glass case. Those were the trophies for Coach Goddard’s two national championships. The light sparkled and shined off them both, casting two rainbows on the wall behind.

  “I don’t even know how to describe what I’m seeing,” I said.

  “You don’t,” replied Carter. “You just appreciate the beauty of it. And work hard to take that same ride one day.”

  On the other side of the automatic sliding glass doors was a huge weight room, bigger than my middle school’s entire gym. It had every workout machine and weight set you could think of. The hundreds of fluorescent lights shining down from the ceiling made it look like some kind of workout heaven.

  Carter spotted Harkey kneeling beside a weight bench. When Harkey stood up to greet us, I wasn’t that impressed with him physically. He was short with a big barrel chest and stubby arms. He reminded me of the fire hydrant on the street outside our house. I tried hard not to laugh. Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I had the image of Galaxy walking up to Harkey, sniffing at him, and then lifting his leg.

  “Good to meet you, Carter,” said Harkey, shaking his hand. “Who’s this young stud wearing the right jersey?”

  “This is my little brother, Travis,” he said, as Harkey offered me his hand next.

  “His younger brother,” I countered.

  Without showing any effort, Harkey nearly broke my hand inside his steel grip. And I started to rethink my first impression of him.

  “So, Carter, how much?” he asked.

  Carter seemed confused for a second. “How much weight can I lift?”

  “No. How much of a price are you willing to pay?” Harkey asked. “See that sign on the wall?”

  It read: BLOOD, SWEAT, AND TEARS.

  “Go ahead. Touch it, Carter,” said Harkey, picking up a blue binder from his desk a few feet away.

  Carter ran his hand over the sign. Then I touched it too.

  “You know why those letters are raised?” asked Harkey.

  We both shook our heads.

  “So you can really feel it. So they’re not just words,” he said. “Everything you want, everything you gain, you pay a price for. Blood, sweat, and tears—that’s what lives in here. It comes before all of the glory out on the football field. A scholarship doesn’t entitle you to anything. Egos don’t survive in this room. The players who succeed are afraid to fail, to lose their starting jobs. They outwork everybody else. Now, are you willing to reach deep inside, scrape the bottom of your soul to pay that price?”

  “Absolutely,” said Carter, without hesitating.

  I would have answered exactly the same way.

  “Well, we’ll see. Here’s a workout schedule for you to follow at home and in your gym at school,” Harkey said, handing Carter the binder. “We’ve had players from Beauchamp High before. They weight-train okay over there. You look like you’re carrying some decent flesh. But you’ll be a different animal when I get through with you.”

  That’s when I puffed out my chest and tightened my abs beneath my jersey. Only, Harkey didn’t seem to notice.

  * * *

  Dad was supposed to spend five days in Florida for Carter’s high school graduation. That was his idea. We’d planned a day at Disney World, one on Daytona Beach—which is awesome in early June—and one to go deep-sea fishing. It was supposed to make up for Dad not coming to visit us in more than a year—for him driving his stepson to high school swim meets up and down the coast of California on weekends while he missed nearly two entire seasons of our football games.

  Then, less than a week before Dad’s visit, he called Carter’s phone. When he heard me in the background, he asked my brother to put the call on speaker.

  “Here’s the situation, guys. My company needs me to make some presentations at an insurance conference in Columbus, Ohio,” Dad said, in a slow and steady voice that picked up speed the longer he talked. “Unfortunately, the meat of that conference is during the days we had planned together. In fact, the conference actually runs through your graduation ceremony, son. What I can do is fly out of Columbus early in the morning and just go missing for a while. I’ll watch you graduate in the afternoon, maybe have a nice celebration lunch at a place close to the airport, and then fly right back out again.”

  “It’s that important?” asked Carter, staring at the phone in his hand.

  “Your graduation?” answered Dad. “I should hope so. It is to me. That’s why I’m willing to jump through hoops to get there.”

  “No, I meant the conference,” said Carter, shifting his eyes to mine.

  I just shook my head and put my hands over my ears. But I could still make out parts of what Dad said after that: “the economy . . . lucky to have this job . . . you’ll see when you have bosses.” That’s when I started humming to myself, muffling out the rest.

  * * *

  The day Dad flew in, he never came to our house. That was probably because any talk between him and Mom had become an argument waiting to happen. Instead, Dad met us at the ceremony. The auditorium at Beauchamp High isn’t big enough to seat five hundred graduates and their families. So the school rented out the main hall on the campus of Gainesville U. Dad stood waiting for us outside the hall, wearing a business suit and a red-striped tie. He looked the same as I remembered, except for a few gray hairs and some extra weight around his midsection.

  I’d had the idea of running up to hug Dad. But when I saw him standing there, it just didn’t feel right. Besides, his arms weren’t opened wide. They were hanging down at his sides.

  For the first few minutes, Carter, dressed in his cap and gown, got all of Dad’s attention.

  “Son, I just can’t believe they gave you a scholarship here,” he said, draping his right arm around Carter’s shoulder. “They obvi
ously know real talent when they see it.”

  Dad handed me his camera and asked for a photo of him and Carter.

  When I finished, Mom took the camera from me and said, “Now you get into this one too, Travis. I know your father wants a picture with both his boys.”

  “That’s right, Travis,” Dad said, pulling me in close, inside of his other arm. “One day you’ll be grown like your brother. If you work as hard as Carter, it’ll be your turn in the spotlight.”

  Dad still had more than an inch in height on me, while Carter towered over us both. When Mom showed us the photo, it reminded me of Mount Rushmore, with the heads shrinking down from left to right.

  After a while, Carter had to get into line with the rest of the graduates. That left me as the only buffer between Mom and Dad. I sat between them in the hall. I was talking mostly to Dad. But I was trying not to ignore Mom, either.

  “You know, Travis, you’ve got a great body to be a swimmer. You’ve got length and a lot of lean muscle,” said Dad, taking his nose out of the graduation program and looking at me over the top of his reading glasses. “I’ve seen plenty of high school swimmers lately, and you have the build. Ever think of trying out for the swim team when you get to Beauchamp?”

  “Nah, I’m going to stick with football,” I told him, making a throwing motion with my left arm. “If I’m on the water, it’ll be ’cause I’m fishing.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll reschedule that deep-sea trip,” he said, almost like an apology. “But if it’s definitely going to be football, you might think about becoming a receiver or a tight end like Carter. Quarterback’s one of those singular positions. A team can only start one at a time. The odds of making it are much tougher. On top of that, you’re a southpaw.”

  Before I could say anything, the music started and we all stood up as the graduates marched into the hall. There were a bunch of boring speeches from the stage that took almost an hour and a half to get through. The only highlight came when I killed a monster fly that had been dive-bombing us, smashing him flat against the back of the seat in front of me with a rolled-up program. Finally, one by one, the graduates got called up to receive their diplomas. When the principal announced “Carter Gardner” and my brother walked across the stage, I made it a point to clap louder and longer than anyone, especially Dad.

  Chapter 3

  Over the summer before eighth grade, I shot up an inch, to six-foot-even. I put on some muscle too, and got up to a hundred and sixty pounds, pumping iron with Carter three times a week.

  I didn’t see Coach Goddard again until August, on the morning of Carter’s first official college football practice. Mom had the morning free because she was working the late shift at her dental office that day. She liked football more than any mother I knew, so I didn’t have to ask twice before she agreed to drive down to Gainesville. We were among the first in line, getting there about an hour before the gates opened. When they did, Mom and me hurried inside and grabbed two field-level seats in the front row. The Gators don’t practice in their stadium. That’s only for real games. They have a separate practice facility. Even on a Wednesday morning, nearly two thousand fans were there to watch. But that’s a Fightin’ Gators crowd for you—insanely passionate about its team.

  Carter was one of the first players on the field, along with a few of the receivers. My skin tingled as I wished I could be out there too.

  “Woo-hoo! That’s my son! Number eighty-five!” Mom hollered at the top of her lungs.

  I could see Carter fighting back a smile as his teammates poked at him. The practice started with a few wind sprints. Surprisingly, the quarterback hadn’t taken the field yet. Carter threw a pass to his roommate, Alex Moore, missing him by a mile. Then Alex did the same on the pass back to Carter.

  “Honey, they’d be better off with you throwing the ball,” Mom joked.

  Somehow that was all the encouragement I needed. I jumped the short metal railing and my feet touched down onto the field.

  “Travis, what are you doing?” Mom screamed. “You can’t go out there!”

  I didn’t even turn around. Instead, I picked a football up off the ground and waved for Carter to cut across the middle. He hesitated at first, then made the move. I reared back and fired him a perfect strike.

  Next, Alex Moore, number eighty-eight, a pencil-thin sophomore with blazing speed, raised his hand for a long pass. He was one of the Gators’ leading receivers. A few years back, I’d seen Alex play against Carter for Santa Fe High School, Beauchamp’s biggest rival. Now Carter and him were roommates in the athletes’ dorm. I really launched one deep. For a second, I thought I’d put too much arc on the pass, overthrowing Alex. But he glided down the field like a gazelle and caught the ball in full stride.

  I looked up and saw a uniformed security guard heading right for me. I froze in my tracks. Then, just as that security guard got within arm’s reach of me, I heard Goddard’s voice boom from off in the distance, “Leave him be! I’ll handle this!”

  Goddard’s slow walk over to me was like torture. Carter looked concerned too—his entire upper body practically deflated.

  “Big arm, Travis. That’s how to lead a receiver,” said Coach Goddard, behind a widening grin.

  “Uhhh, thanks, Coach,” was all I could get out of my mouth.

  “I watched that game video you sent me, of you at quarterback,” he said.

  “You did? Really?”

  I’d sent it almost four months back and hadn’t heard a word. Mom told me Coach G. probably asked for it just to be polite. So I didn’t get my hopes up about hearing anything back.

  “I was impressed,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “You showed a lot of maturity and poise under pressure.”

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  Coach G. walked out to the middle of the field toward Carter, where they started to talk. Alex jogged over in my direction, flipping me the football and flashing a big smile.

  “My brother’s brother,” he said, making a fist and then reaching out to bump his black knuckles against my white ones. “You can throw that pass even deeper next time. I had another gear left.”

  “I will,” I replied, completing the fist bump. “Careful what you wish for, though. I can really let it fly.”

  “You see this number eighty-eight I wear? Laid out on its side, that’s double-infinity,” Alex said, leaning over nearly parallel to the ground, like he was diving to make a catch. “You can’t overthrow double-infinity. It catches up to everything.”

  “Oh. O-kay,” I said, a little confused as Alex loped away.

  I was totally psyched about that praise from Coach G. But I began to stress, thinking Carter might be catching grief from Coach over me stepping onto the practice field. The two of them were far enough away that I couldn’t hear a word. Still, Carter had a look on his face like he wasn’t completely enjoying the conversation. So I dropped the football on the ground and headed back to the stands.

  Carter’s Take

  Coach walked up to me, squaring his shoulders with mine. I was convinced that I was about to get screamed at for Travis jumping the fence and coming onto the field.

  “How old’s your brother again, Gardner?” Coach asked, as I removed my helmet.

  “Nearly thirteen, Coach. He’ll be starting the eighth grade in September,” I answered, breathing a little easier. “Listen, I’m sorry Travis stepped—”

  “He’s sprouted up like a weed since I’ve seen him last, hasn’t he?” Coach cut me off, looking back in Travis’s direction. “How tall are you, Gardner? Six-five?”

  “Maybe a shade under, if I get measured in my bare feet,” I answered, clueless as to where the conversation was headed.

  “He’ll probably be even taller. You can tell by the size of his hands. Huge for a boy his age,” said Coach.

  I glanced down at my own hands for a moment and said, “I never noticed before.”

  “He’s got a big chance at this game. Could be the best Gardn
er to ever play college ball,” he said. My ears began to burn. “I’d love to have him here in five years.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was to look like I was hating on my own brother. But I couldn’t listen to any more without saying something back.

  “I mean, Travis is talented and all. He’s the best quarterback his age in Alachua. But that’s only out of about two or three hundred kids in his Pop Warner league.”

  “He has all the tools. All he needs to do is mature. You can be a real influence on him,” Coach said, like Travis was my responsibility.

  Somewhere in my head, I could hear Dad’s voice giving me the same advice after the divorce.

  Be sure to keep an eye on Travis. You’re the man of the house now.

  I felt a surge of frustration run through me.

  “Sure, Coach. I’m on it,” I said, squeezing the bars on my face mask until I thought they might snap.

  “Good man, Gardner.”

  It was unbelievable. I hadn’t played my first college game yet, and Coach thought Travis could be better than me. So why was I busting my butt in the weight room and staying up nights studying the playbook?

  One of the assistants came over and told Coach that the team was ready for him.

  “All right, let’s get this season started!” Coach bellowed, before he blew his whistle. “Station drills!”

  Meanwhile, Travis had climbed back into the stands, where Mom gave him a high five. The people seated in that section actually cheered for him.

  I put my helmet back on and jogged over to the other tight ends, almost wishing that Coach had exploded at me.

  Chapter 4

  The next day, I was busy redecorating my bedroom, since Carter had started living on campus. Only, Mom wouldn’t let me move his bed out.

  “Your brother’s just twenty minutes away. He’ll be sleeping here a lot—on vacations, some weekends when football season’s finished. Don’t go overboard, okay?” she said.