The Texas heat in June is not polite. It is a physical weight that sits on your shoulders and dares you to move.
By 11:00 AM, the garage was a convection oven. There was no insulation, just thin wood siding baking in the sun.
I was drenched.
My gray t-shirt was stuck to my back. My arms, which I had optimistically thought could handle a little manual labor, were trembling. The garage was a museum of Cooper family history—boxes of baby clothes (probably Sheldon's, neatly labeled), rusty tools, a lawnmower that hadn't worked since the Carter administration, and enough spiderwebs to film a horror movie.
I dragged a heavy box marked 'TAXES 1982' to the corner. My breathing was ragged.
"Weak," I wheezed, wiping sweat from my eyes. "So... weak."
In my old life, I was thirty-eight. I had 'old man strength.' I could move a couch. Now? I was twelve, and my tendons felt like wet rubber bands.
[System Alert]
[Physical Exertion Detected]
[Muscular Stress: High]
[Reward: +0.02% Muscle Density]
"Point zero two," I grumbled, kicking a loose screw across the concrete floor. "Better be worth it."
I looked at the pile of junk I had cleared. It wasn't perfect, but I had created a 10-by-10 foot open space in the center of the garage. It was enough for a bench press and maybe a squat rack, if I could find one at a garage sale. Buying new was out of the question; Dad would have a heart attack if he saw the price of new gym equipment.
I leaned against a dusty metal shelf to catch my breath. The shelf wobbled, and a cardboard box on the top tier tipped over.
It hit the ground with a dull thud. Dust exploded into the air.
I coughed, waving my hand. "Great. Just great."
I bent down to pick up the spilled contents. It was mostly old trophies covered in dust. A "District Runner Up" plaque. And there, sitting at the bottom of the pile, was a football.
It wasn't a shiny new NFL ball. It was a Wilson Duke, the leather worn smooth and dark from oil and dirt. The laces were frayed.
I reached out and picked it up.
[System Activation]
[Item Recognized: Football (Regulation Size)]
[Template Resonance: 15%]
A strange sensation washed over me. It wasn't magic—it didn't glow or hum. It was just... comfort.
My fingers didn't fumble for the laces. They found them instantly. My grip adjusted without me thinking about it. Index finger on the tip, middle finger on the seam, ring and pinky gripping the laces. It felt like I was shaking hands with an old friend.
I stood up, testing the weight. It felt light. Too light. My brain expected the resistance of an NFL throw, but my arm was a twig.
"You find somethin' you can sell?"
I jumped. George Sr. was standing in the doorway, blocking out the sun. He was holding a glass of iced tea—mostly melted ice by now. He looked miserable in the heat, sweat beading on his forehead, his shirt unbuttoned at the top.
"You actually did it," he said, looking at the cleared space with mild shock. "I thought I'd come out here and find you passed out on a pile of coats."
"I told you, Dad," I said, my voice rasping a bit from the dust. "I'm serious."
George Sr. walked in, stepping over a coil of garden hose. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "Don't work too hard. I ain't paying for an ambulance if you get heat stroke."
I nodded, clutching the ball. "Dad, is this yours?"
George squinted at the ball in my hand. He took a sip of his watered-down tea. "That's my old game ball. From the '68 season."
"The year you won District?"
"The year we *should* have won State," he corrected, a familiar shadow passing over his face. He leaned against the workbench, looking tired. "Put it down, Georgie. Leather's probably dry-rotted. We can't afford a new one if you pop it."
I didn't put it down. Instead, I tapped the ball against my left palm.
"Dad," I said. "Go out to the driveway."
George sighed, a long, heavy sound that rumbled in his chest. "Georgie, it's ninety-five degrees. I'm going inside to sit in front of the box fan."
"Just five throws," I pressed. "Please. I want you to see something."
He looked at me. He looked at the sweat soaking my shirt. He looked at the clean floor. He knew I hated work, so the fact that I'd cleaned the garage meant something.
"Five throws," he grumbled. "Then I'm going inside. And don't throw it near the truck."
***
The driveway was long, cracked concrete leading out to the street. Heat waves were rising off the pavement. George Sr. stood about ten yards away, looking like he regretted every life choice that led to this moment. He set his iced tea on the hood of his truck and held up his hands.
"Don't break a window," he warned. "I mean it."
I stood there, holding the ball. Ten yards. That was nothing. A baby throw.
But as I looked at him, the System overlay shifted.
[Target Acquired: George Cooper Sr.]
[Distance: 10.2 Yards]
[Wind: Low]
[Throwing Lane: Clear]
[Suggested Mechanics: The 3/4 Release]
My body wanted to just toss it. You know, a standard overhand lob. But the Template screamed *NO.*
*Elbow tucked. Hips open. Flick the wrist.*
I stepped forward. I didn't wind up like a pitcher. I dropped my arm slightly to the side—a mechanic that was considered "bad form" in 1987. A coach back then would call it "sloppy."
I flicked my wrist.
The ball left my hand with a *hiss*.
It wasn't a lob. It was a laser. It spun so fast the laces blurred into a solid white line. It covered the ten yards in a blink and hit George Sr. square in the chest with a loud *THUD*.
"Oof!" George grunted, stumbling back a step. He caught the ball against his chest reflexively, almost dropping it.
He stared at the ball. Then he stared at me.
"What the hell was that?" he asked.
"Too hard?" I asked, rubbing my shoulder. A sharp pinch of pain flared in my rotator cuff. *Warning: Ligament strain.*
"Not too hard," George said, frowning. He tossed the ball back to me. It was a wobbly, ugly throw. "But you threw it side-arm. You looked like a shortstop. Do it again. Throw it properly. Over the top. High release. You can't throw like that in a game, the line will bat it down."
"That feels unnatural," I argued, catching the wobble.
"Do it right, Georgie," he commanded. Coach mode kicked in, overriding the heat. "Step. High arm. Follow through."
I sighed. I tried to do it his way. I stepped, brought my arm up high near my ear, and threw.
The ball wobbled. It got there, but it had no zip. It was just a boy throwing a ball.
George nodded. "Better form. But you got no arm strength. You're pushing the ball."
"Let me throw it my way," I said. "Back up. Please."
George rolled his eyes, but he took five steps back. He was now fifteen yards away. "Don't throw your arm out. You look ridiculous releasing it that low."
I gripped the laces. The System hummed.
*Ignore the Coach. Trust the Geometry.*
I visualized the path. I didn't step straight forward; I stepped slightly to the left, opening my hips, and whipped my arm across my body.
*Zip.*
The spiral was tight, cutting through the heavy air. It hit George Sr.'s hands with a *POP* that echoed off the garage door.
George looked at his hands. His palms were stinging. He looked at the ball, spinning it in his fingers. He wasn't bored anymore. He was confused.
"You didn't step into that one," he muttered, mostly to himself. "You threw that off your back foot. That shouldn't have... that shouldn't have had that much velocity."
He looked up at me. His eyes were narrowed, analyzing.
"Where did you learn to throw like that?"
I shrugged, trying to look innocent. "Just feels right, Dad. Like... skipping a stone."
George Sr. didn't say anything for a long moment. He tossed the ball back. This time, he threw it a little harder.
"Again," he said.
"That was three," I counted.
"I don't care," George Sr. said, crouching down slightly, his hands ready. "Back up five more yards. Do it again."
I backed up. My shoulder was aching. My legs were tired. But I smiled.
He was hooked.