The first thing I felt was the humidity. It was thick, heavy, and smelled faintly of cow manure and cut grass.
The second thing I felt was hunger. A hollow, aching pit in my stomach that felt less like an appetite and more like a biological emergency.
I opened my eyes.
I wasn't in my studio apartment. I wasn't in my Honda Civic wrapped around a telephone pole. I was staring at a popcorn ceiling that had a water stain shaped like Texas. To my right, a poster of Bon Jovi was peeling off the wall.
I sat up, the mattress springs shrieking in protest. I looked down at my hands. They were smooth. Small. The hands of a boy who had never worked a day in his life.
It wasn't a dream, I realized, the memories of the white room settling into my brain like wet concrete. I'm him. I'm Georgie.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Below me, a lump under a Star Trek duvet shifted. Sheldon.
I paused, waiting for the annoyance I used to feel when watching the show. But it didn't come. Instead, I just felt a strange sense of responsibility. In my last life, I had ignored my little brother until we were strangers. Not this time.
A blue, semi-transparent box flickered into existence in the corner of my right eye. No sound. No robotic voice. Just text, crisp and clean.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
[Host: George Cooper Jr.]
[Current Age: 12 Years, 4 Months]
[Date: June 14, 1987]
[TEMPLATE SELECTED: PATRICK MAHOMES II]
[Integration Status: 0.5%]
[Physical Condition: CRITICAL WEAKNESS]
Warning: Current bone density and muscle mass are insufficient for Template torque. Attempting "The Mahomes Throw" now will result in immediate dislocation.
I snorted. "Critical weakness." It wasn't wrong. I stood up and walked to the small mirror on the back of the door.
I was scrawny. I had a mullet that needed urgent intervention. My shoulders were narrow, and my posture was a slouch. I looked like a stiff breeze could knock me over.
"Two years," I whispered to the reflection.
I had two years before the main events of the show started. Two years before Sheldon went to high school. Two years to turn this noodle body into a weapon.
I flexed a bicep. Nothing happened. It was like a mosquito bite.
[Daily Objective: Caloric Surplus]
Consume 3,500 calories today.
Reward: +0.01% Bone Density.
"Time to eat," I muttered.
***
The kitchen was exactly as I remembered from the show, bathed in the yellow morning light of East Texas. Mary Cooper was at the stove, aggressively scrambling eggs. George Sr. was at the table, hiding behind a newspaper, looking like he carried the weight of the world on his neck. Missy was poking at a bowl of cereal, looking bored.
I walked in. Usually, Georgie would drag his feet, complain about the noise, and ask for money.
I walked straight to the cupboard, grabbed a glass, filled it with milk to the very brim, and downed half of it in one gulp.
"Morning, Dad," I said clearly.
George Sr. lowered the paper just an inch, peering over the top. His eyes were tired. "Morning. You askin' for money?"
"Nope," I said. I reached for the platter of eggs and scooped half of them onto my plate.
Mary gasped, spinning around with a spatula in hand. "George Junior! Leave some for your brother and father!"
"Make more, please," I said, shoving a forkful into my mouth. I wasn't trying to be rude; the System was practically screaming at me to eat. "I'm gonna need the energy. I'm mowing the lawn after this. Then I'm cleaning the garage."
The kitchen went silent. The only sound was the ticking of the clock and Missy crunching her cereal.
George Sr. folded the paper completely. "You feelin' alright, son?"
"Never better," I said, grabbing three slices of toast. "But I'm tired of being small, Dad. I want to make Varsity by freshman year. And I ain't gonna do it lookin' like this."
Missy snorted. "You? Varsity? You can't even throw a paper ball into the trash can."
I looked at my little sister. In my old life, I would have snapped back with an insult. But I saw her—really saw her. The smart, sassy kid who always got ignored because her brothers were "special."
"You're right," I said, nodding. "That's why I need help. You wanna time my sprints later? I'll give you a dollar."
Missy's eyes widened. "A whole dollar?"
"Deal," I said.
Just then, Sheldon walked in. He was wearing a bowtie and holding a device that looked like a Geiger counter. He walked past me, sat down, and inspected his toast for structural integrity.
"Hello," Sheldon said mechanically.
"Morning, Shelly," I said.
Sheldon paused. He looked at me, blinked once like a lizard, and then looked away. "Your breathing is louder than usual. It is disrupting my concentration."
"I'll work on that," I said.
I turned back to my dad. This was the moment. The pivot point.
"Dad," I said. "After I clean the garage... I found some of your old playbooks in there. The ones from when you were at traction."
George Sr.'s face tightened. He didn't like talking about his past failures. "So?"
"So, I was lookin' at them," I lied (I hadn't looked at them yet, but I knew football). "You run a lot of I-Formation. Ground and pound."
"It wins games," George grunted.
"It wins games in 1980," I said, taking another sip of milk. "But the game's changing, Dad. Speed. Spacing. I was drawin' some stuff up. Maybe we can look at it later?"
George Sr. looked at me for a long time. He saw the grease on my chin, the messy hair, the same kid he'd been raising for twelve years. But he also saw something else in my eyes. Focus.
"You clean the garage first," he grumbled, picking his paper back up. "Then maybe we'll look at your little doodles."
"Yes, sir," I said.
[Objective Update: Relationship with George Sr. +2]
[Status: Cautiously Optimistic]
I finished the eggs and stood up. My stomach felt like it was going to explode, but the System text flashed green.
[Caloric Goal: 30% Complete]
[Current Integration: 0.6%]
I walked to the back door. The Texas sun was blazing outside. It was going to be a hot, miserable day of manual labor.
I couldn't wait.