One Shot Away (17 page)

T
REVOR ENTERS HIS MOTHER'S ROOM FROM THE ADJOINING
door and freezes. London's shirtless, sitting on the edge of his mother's unmade bed, pulling on his socks. His dark hair sticks up, uncombed. Their eyes meet.

“Morning,” he says.

“I thought my mother was here.”

“She's taking care of a mess. The toaster oven in nine A caught fire.” He shakes his head. “Ruined all the work I did in that kitchen.”

Trevor can't think of London's hairy chest in bed next to his mother without being nauseated. “I'll come back later,” he says.

“No, no, please, come on in,” says London.

Trevor goes behind the counter in his mother's kitchenette. He plugs in the blender. He needs something to fill his stomach after the weigh-ins. He removes a package of protein powder from the cabinet. His phone rings. He says, “Hello,” but there's no one there. He checks the phone: “private number.” Last time Gino called, it was a private number.

“I fixed the clog in your sink,” says London. “You don't want to know what was in the drain. First, I remove a wad of crud, looked like something from the black lagoon, and then I find a nail file. Believe that?”

Trevor dumps the powder into the blender. He's trying to concentrate on making the protein shake. He doesn't want to look at London, or hear him. Trevor opens the refrigerator for skim milk.

“You missing a nail file?”

“No.” Trevor clenches his teeth with his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Well, it was there.” He slips on a pair of work boots. “It would help if you'd get a little more involved around here. I could put you on the payroll.” He pulls on a shirt.

Trevor studies the back of the protein package. Forty-four grams of protein. London is sleeping with his mother. Fat calories 30, total fat 3 grams. London is sleeping with his mother. Does she have real feelings for him?

“How about some painting tonight?” asks London. “I need the ceiling in five A painted pronto. I had the roof fixed, and there's a water stain right over the bed.”

“Tonight?” Trevor's already painted four rooms at ten dollars a room. That's below minimum wage. He doesn't want to paint any more rooms. Especially not tonight, a Saturday. Maybe the team will get together, or he and Jimmy might do something.

London folds his arms. “This is a motel. That room could be making money.”

“I never wanted to move here in the first place,” says Trevor.

“What's so bad? You have a roof over your head, your own room, not to mention a mother who would do anything for you, anything in the world.”

“She regrets it, and I hate it here.”

“She regrets it? Are you sure? Because she told me things were finally coming together for her.” London steps closer, cornering him next to the microwave. Trevor feels his height and weight. “I'm asking you man to man, give this a chance. Your mother is a good woman.”

“You don't have to tell me that. I've known her a lot longer than you.” Trevor tries to pass, but London doesn't budge.

“I know you're having a hard time.”

“You got us here and you chained my dog outside when I told you not to. Now you're messing with my mother.”

“What was I supposed to do, let your dog eat my motel? Remember, I'm not a rich guy. I couldn't let you live in that house for free. But I did the next best thing.”

“Get away from me!” He's trembling.

“I ask you to paint one room, one room.”

“I've already painted four rooms. I have a match today. I'm not painting anything!”

The door opens. Camille's carrying a bouquet of flowers. “Look what I found in seven A,” she says, then frowns.

“We were talking.” London straightens the blanket on the bed.

“About what?” Her eyes narrow on London.

“About everything,” says Trevor.

“Har-ry,” groans Camille.

London grabs his coat and goes out the door.

“What happened?” she asks.

“You're sleeping with a manipulating asshole,” yells Trevor. “That's what happened!”

She follows him into his room. “I wanted to talk to you. I'm so sorry sweetheart, so sorry.”

“Sorry about what? Living here? Sleeping with London? What?” Trevor faces the window. A blonde girl he's seen a few times slips out of a room and enters a taxi. She's got to be a hooker.

“Sorry about everything,” she says.

T
HE FIRST MATCH OF THE SEASON IS ALWAYS AGAINST THE
C
OLTS.
The gym will be standing room only. Jimmy should be warming up with the team. Instead, he's in the locker room, slumped over on a bench, shirtless, barefoot, wearing a pair of green boxer-briefs covered with shamrocks. He hasn't slept a full night since going to the lawyer's office. A feeling that something bad is going to go down is cemented in his brain. He can't shake it.

He examines his reflection in the mirror hanging in his locker. His eyes are half closed. His cheeks are hollow. His lips gray. He needs to go back to bed for a week.

Diggy bursts from a stall, smiling. “I just killed a mule in there.”

Jimmy tries to laugh, but can't release the ache in his chest.

“What's the matter?” asks Diggy.

“I'm over. A pound and a half.”

Diggy finishes washing his hands, then sits next to him. “You can run that off.”

“I know, but I'm already burnt. I haven't eaten since yesterday at three o'clock. I had a protein bar and I can't even take a crap.” Jimmy opens his bag, revealing a pair of silver-colored rubber sweatpants. “My father gave me these to sweat off water weight.” He looks around to see if anyone else is watching. “These suits are illegal.”

“Illegal?” asks Diggy.

“You know, against the regulations. I've got to go run in the basketball gym where no one will see me.” Jimmy pushes the silver suit back into the bag. He walks to the electronic floor scale, which sits on a block of marble next to the toilet stalls. Over it hangs a drawing of an orange, with the words “Remember the Five-Pound Orange.” Greco's anecdote about a wrestler, who after weighing-in five pounds over whined, “All I ate was an orange,” is told at the start of every season. Greco finishes the story by saying, “Everything you do counts. Everything.”

The scale shows 161.

“One pound,” says Diggy. “You put that spaceman suit on and you can drop it in five minutes.”

Jimmy leans against a locker and tugs on the aluminum-colored pants. “I don't know if I can do this. I'm hungry, and I'm wiped.”

Diggy pulls the top of the suit from the bag. “Man, you can do it.”

“It takes about thirty minutes to burn off a half pound, and my mind quit like five minutes ago.” His face runs with perspiration. He sits and hangs his head above his knees.

“You don't look good.” Diggy steps back. “You're hands are shaking. You want me to get Greco?”

“I don't have the flu, if that's what you're thinking. I'm just tired of pretending. I'm the team captain. I'm supposed to have things under control, but nothing's right.” Jimmy shakes his head at the floor, then looks up with a sudden thought. “If things go the wrong way for me, you'll be captain.”

“What are you talking about? You're captain. I got three votes.” Diggy folds his arms. “Did you knock up Roxanne?”

“No.” Jimmy heaves a deep breath. “But I probably already lost her.” He doesn't want to tell Diggy anything else. Strong people don't advertise their problems.

Diggy sits next to him. “Jimmy, what are you bugging about? You can tell me. I'm the Dig-Master General, remember?”

He used to call Diggy that. “All I can say is my father put me in a bad place and I'm gonna have to suck it up.”

Diggy doesn't budge. “Look, Jimmy, I got secrets of my own. You don't have to worry.”

“Diggy, if I do tell you, it's got to be in the vault. Don't go blabbing it around, especially not to Greco.”

“One thing I can do is keep information underground,” says Diggy.

“It's something bad,” says Jimmy. “This is for real.”

Diggy grabs Jimmy's shoulder. “Look, I won't tell anyone.”

“I can't trust my own father.” Jimmy's voice quavers. “That's part of it.”

Diggy laughs. “Once you know that, it's not a problem anymore. I don't trust mine either.”

“He talked me into stealing some stuff with him and the cops already figured the whole thing out. I could be arrested today, tomorrow, the next day. I could leave the gym and detectives could be waiting for me.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“That doesn't matter.”

Diggy is silent. He looks stunned.

G
RECO LOCKS THE LOCKER ROOM DOOR, SEALING OFF THE
noisy crowd in the gym. Trevor waits with the Minute Men, all dressed in matching hooded jackets and sweatpants. Greco looks them over. “Today is the season's opening day,” he says. A few guys clap. “You've all put in the work to get here. I saw you all at the practices. I ran you from here to Lake Lakookie and you made it there and back.” A few guys laugh.

“Wherever that is,” says Bones.

“You put sweat equity in at the summer program,” continues Greco. “Trevor, you were there. How hot was it in the gym?”

Trevor looks up.

“Hot as J. Lo,” pipes up Bones. Everyone laughs.

“The practices are in the bank, and you've made weight. You've already earned a win today. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah.”

“What was that?”

“Yeah!” they shout.

“And don't let me see you give up. If you're down ten points, you can still get a pin. You're just a shot away from a pin at any point in the match. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah!”

“One shot, one properly executed shot, is all it takes. Think about what you've done in practice. Let's put them in.” The guys stand and toss their headgear in a small pile on the tile floor. Trevor drops his on the others and they form a circle around the pile.

Greco grips a hockey-stick handle, painted red and white, the school colors, and mixes the stick around the headgear, stirring them. Guys place their hands over the headgear as if they are warming them above a fire. So, this is the team's tradition, thinks Trevor. He's heard that they stirred “the soup” before every match, but never understood it. Now, he's in. It feels good. He searches the pile of new and battered headgear until he finds his. Last year, his father taped the straps of his headgear with cloth first-aid tape. “Now it should stay where it belongs,” he said.

Greco grabs as many hands as he can, cupping them into a large mass. Trevor peers around the circle: Pancakes, Bones, Jimmy, Gino, Diggy, Turkburger, Mario, Cleaver, Salaam, Paul, and the rest of the guys. He feels good about all of them. Even Diggy. Maybe he'll win today at 170 and the wrestle-off will be behind them.

Trevor has to prove he can hold his weight class. “That's Crow,” he imagines Greco remarking to another coach. “He can go the distance with anyone at one-fifty-two.”

“God, keep us safe today. Help us do our best,” says Greco. “Let's show everyone what we are made of!”

They line up in the locker room—lightest to heaviest. Trevor looks down the row of red warmup jackets.

“Let's get stoked!” shouts Bones.

“Show them some attitude,” yells Diggy.

They charge from the locker room into the darkened gym and jog around the mat to their team song that blares over the loud speakers. Fans are cheering and clapping. In unison, the wrestlers bend over backwards, hands extended over their heads into neck bridges. They flip over to front neck bridges. They rehearsed the warmup routine a dozen times, and now with the music, under the spotlight, Trevor feels it was all worth it, all of it, all the practices, the sweat, the hunger, and the wrestle-off.

Jimmy slides on his stomach to the center of the mat and slaps his hand on the red vinyl. All of them, all fourteen, dive onto their stomachs, creating a giant pileup of gray sweats and red jackets. Trevor feels a knee in his back and Jimmy's hot breath on his face.

“Are we gonna kick some today?” yells Bones.

They roar.

“Minute Men on three! Let's do it,” he yells louder. “One, two, three!”

They roar again.

J
IMMY DANCES ON HIS TOES LIKE A BOXER, SHUFFLING SIDE TO
side in the corner of the gym. He made weight. At least that's over. Six foot two. 160. He swings his arms in circles. He breathes in and out, in out, in out, in out, hoping that telling Diggy wasn't a mistake.