I was wondering the same thing when Coach Nelson led us into the heart of the gorilla cave. The varsity weight room is technically open to all team athletes, no matter what sport, but during fall season, the unspoken rule is no one comes in here except football players—until today. My eyes wander from Studblatz to another gorilla pacing in front of a mirror, holding thick dumbbells, pumping them up and down.

“Get some, bitch,” Tom Jankowski huffs at his reflection, focused on the image of his log-arms bulging with each dumbbell curl, missing the nervous monkeys skittering past him, staying as close to our coach as possible.

Coach Nelson walks right up to Mike Studblatz and yanks out his earbuds by their wire. Studblatz’s eyes open wide in surprise and his mouth drops. Coach Nelson cuts him off before his little brain can think to speak.

“Careful how you talk to a teacher, Mike. I’ve just given you your warning.”

Mike stands there—stupid—but doesn’t say anything.

“Cool,” Vance Fisher whispers, his eyes twinkling. Fisher is the type who likes trouble, even if it may lead to getting his ass kicked. About now most of the other gorillas have stopped grunting and heaving long enough to notice our little group gawking at them. We stick close to Coach Nelson and his protective sphere of adult authority.

Tom Jankowski stops cursing at himself in the mirror and drops his dumbbells onto the rubberized floor with a loud boom that silences the room. He turns to face us. “This is our house,” he huffs. He doesn’t look like he cares that Coach Nelson is an adult and a teacher and, technically, off-limits.

“Actually,” Coach Nelson levels his voice at Jankowski, keeping it steady and strong enough to be heard over a few remaining clinks and clanks as other players rack their weights and gather around us, “this is our house, as well.”

“Hey, Ted.” Assistant Coach Stein steps into the free weight area from the connecting room where rows of bench presses lie like empty morgue tables. “What seems to be the problem?”

“No problem, Frank.” Coach Nelson smiles and holds up his hands. “We need to work on some strength training, same as your boys. I figured now would be a great time to teach both teams a little lesson in economics and accounting while I’m at it.”

“I’m not following,” Coach Stein says.

“Let me explain,” Coach Nelson replies. “I just found out our team’s operating budget all but disappeared. That means no money for buses to our away meets and no money to pay the judges who score those meets. Found out the same thing’s happening to cross-country and swimming.”

“What’s that got to do with my team’s weight room?” Coach Stein asks. His players cinch closer around us. Like Coach Stein, I’m wondering what the hell Coach Nelson’s talking about. So’s everyone else. Tom Jankowski and Mike Studblatz are both breathing like draft horses and shifting their weight like they can’t wait to stomp us. There’s only one player not standing around, not paying attention, and it’s the new guy, Kurt Brodsky. He’s strapped into the squat rack machine, ignoring all of us while pushing up a warping bar of steel plates equivalent to the mass of a small planet.

“Our weight room,” Coach Nelson corrects their coach. “Turns out all the money’s gone to paying for that shiny new TV going up in the football stadium, that nifty new Jumbotron. So here’s where the economics and accounting lesson comes into play. You gotta pay for what you take in the real world. Since football took our money, we expect football to start sharing some of the wealth. So we’ll be using the weight room for the season.”

We will?! I gulp. No way I’m coming into this place again.

“Like hell!” Studblatz shouts. Coach Nelson turns on him fast and moves close, jamming his finger up into Mike’s Adam’s apple. “Son, I already warned you about talking to your teachers in a disrespectful manner. Now, I’m not going to warn you again.”

Coach Nelson’s shorter than Studblatz but he’s layered with wiry rock climber muscle. Mike Studblatz, as angry as he’s getting, holds his tongue for the moment.

“This weight room is for real athletes,” Tom Jankowski tells our coach. Jankowski keeps making his hands into fists and opening them like he’s seriously considering taking a run at Coach Nelson.

“You’re right,” Coach Nelson counters. “And that’s why I’m not sure my gymnasts should even tolerate you guys in this room. Everyone knows the weakest gymnast is a hell of a lot stronger than your average football player.”

What?! What is he doing to us? I’m thinking. He’s going to get us all killed.

“Ted.” Coach Stein holds up his hands and he’s chuckling.

“You have got to be kidding,” says Scott Miller, the Knights’ quarterback. He steps forward and just stares at all of us like we’re insane. Except for Tom Jankowski and Mike Studblatz, the other football players seem more amused by our coach than anything. I don’t think it’s funny, though. We should not be here. We should be in the gym—our gym—working on sets.

“Tell you what,” Coach Nelson addresses mostly Scott Miller and Coach Stein. “I’ll make a deal with you right now. One of our guys against one of your guys on one exercise in this room. If our guy demonstrates superior strength—like I know he will—we come in here whenever we want.”

All the football players—except Kurt Brodsky, still doing his own Atlas-lifting-the-world thing—erupt with laughter. Meanwhile, Bruce and my teammates look like I feel—miserable and sensing impending humiliation.

“Coach?” Bruce cautions, but Coach Nelson holds up his hand to quiet him. My teammates look beyond worried and Ronnie Gunderson just may crap his pants. Only Fisher, a natural-born con man, appears relaxed. He’s enjoying himself as much as the football players, like he senses where Coach Nelson is going with this whole thing. Wish he’d tell me.

“So whaddya say?” Coach Nelson asks.

“Coach Brigs isn’t here to make any deals,” Coach Stein says.

“Forget that,” Scott interrupts. “This is easy.”

“I thought you’d approve,” Coach Nelson says to Scott. “Okay, I’ll pick the exercise, something easily done in this weight room. After all, we don’t want to take advantage of you fellas.”

Snickers break out among the football players.

“You get to pick the competitors,” Coach Nelson continues. “One player from your team and one from our team.”

A new round of laughter erupts as dozens of football players’ fingers start pointing at Ronnie and me. We’re the smallest on the team and, they assume, the weakest. I’m starting to get angrier and angrier, mostly at Coach Nelson. I feel my face grow hot with embarrassment. Ronnie steps closer like he wants my company, but all I want is to get farther away from him. I hate him at the moment, hate feeling like they think we’re the same. We’re not the same. Ronnie’s a punk freshman who just started gymnastics. I’m aiming for state champion in high bar. I’m going to be a full-ride scholarship athlete one day. We’re not the same at all.

“Deal,” Scott Miller says.

“You all heard him, fellas,” Coach Nelson announces like a carnival barker. “Deal. We’ve got plenty of witnesses, so neither side can go back on it.”

“This sucks,” Bruce gripes. Guess he’s not in on the plan, either.

“Okay,” Coach Nelson announces with a smile. “Pick your competitors.”

“This is too easy,” Scott Miller says. “Jankowski, crush these little girls and try not to yawn while you’re doing it.”

The weight room bursts out in full-throated laughter as ginormous Jankowski, layered with a thick slab of butterball fat, steps forward, his hands still clenching into fists. His arms, neck, legs, and butt are huge and can easily squat, bench, curl, throw, punch, kick, or slam any of us into oblivion. He’s also got a hefty gut that overhangs his sweatpants like he’s about seven months pregnant and due to deliver a baby keg.

“Solid choice.” Coach Nelson smiles. “Now pick one of our guys—anyone you want.”

Whistles, shouts, and woofs as more fingers aim at me and Ronnie like daggers.

“Pick the midget pussies, pick the midget pussies,” one of the players shouts, meaning either me or Ronnie.

“Twin needledicks. Give ’em one of the twin needledicks.” Someone guffaws. I feel abandoned, feel like no one in the world exists for me, feel like I did the day Dad told me Mom died. More than I hate all those football players, more than I hate Ronnie Gunderson, I hate Coach Nelson for putting me through this. I trusted him and he does this to me?

“That one,” Scott sneers, his finger casually aiming somewhere between Ronnie and me as if either choice is a guaranteed victory for his side, so who cares?

“Danny,” Coach barks. “You’re up. Let’s go.”

I hope Coach feels my eyes burning into him, hope he feels my hatred boiling into his lungs, giving him tuberculosis as we speak. Teammates push me forward with that better-you-than-me sorry backslap until I’m almost pressing into Jankowski’s sweaty, fat belly. The angry breath coming out of his nostrils streams down on me like hot stank.

“Okay, let’s see, here. We pick the exercise,” Coach Nelson says, steepling his hands together as if in great concentration. “Hmmm. . . .” He scans the large weight room before pausing for dramatic effect. The football players and my teammates quiet down with anticipation, waiting expectantly for the challenge.

“I’ve got it!” Coach Nelson snaps his fingers. “That one over there. That’s it.” All eyes follow where he’s looking and we’re staring at a pull-up bar bolted into the wall ten feet off the ground. “Hanging leg lifts,” Coach says. “That’s the challenge.”

The football players just stand there, blinking, not exactly sure what hanging leg lifts are. No one does them except gymnasts. That’s when I hear a lone laugh.

“Beautiful, Coach,” Vance Fisher says, and keeps laughing. “Freakin’ beautiful.”

Vance Fisher laughs because he knows I’m going to win this contest easy. Humiliation simmering into anger, I plan on stuffing all their faces with a crushing loss. But that still won’t make right what Coach has done to me.

“What’s a leg lift?” Jankowski asks. Coach explains it’s an exercise for your abdominals. You hang from a bar and—keeping your arms and legs straight—lift your toes straight up until they meet your hands. You can do all the sit-ups and crunches in the world but unless you work this specific exercise, you won’t be able to do it. You also need good flexibility in your hamstrings or you end up fighting your own muscles. With Tom’s gut and, I’m guessing, zero flexibility he’ll be lucky to even do one. Tom jumps up to hang from the bar. He tries and tries and rests and tries again. Once his legs hit ninety degrees, he has to bend his knees to bring them any higher. The closest he comes is doing a single rep with totally bent legs. His teammates try. Coach gives all of them a chance, anyone who wants to can step right up to the bar. Only Terrence, their running back, and Sweeney, their wide receiver, can muscle out two reps and three reps each.

“Okay, Danny,” Coach calls me over. “Get up here and put these wimps out of their misery.” He winks at me but I’m still not happy with him. For a second, I think about faking that I can’t do it, either. That would make the football players happy ... or at least less angry, and it would teach Coach never to take me for granted and think it’s okay to get everyone laughing at me. I step on the perch and grab the bar and hang from it. Bruce and Vance are nodding at me, smiling. So is Ronnie. I look away from him. All my teammates are counting on me. Then I look up and see Tom, Mike, and Scott watching me, their eyebrows pinching together in confusion, waiting. I slowly, smoothly lift my legs with perfect form until my toes tap the bar.

“Come on!” Scott moans as I lower my legs.

I lift my legs up and tap the bar again, and again and again ... and again, and again. I do eighteen toe touches with perfect form before dropping off the bar. The most I’ve ever done in one set. Bruce and Vance knock knuckles in celebration. Gradley and Steve are slapping my shoulders. Ronnie punches my arm lightly and I accept it.

“Damn! These little dudes don’t play around,” Terrence, a star player for the Knights, says. Some of his teammates are nodding their heads in agreement. “I gotta start working my core like that.”

“You TRICKED US!!!” The yell is so loud it pushes my hair up on my head. Everyone stops. We turn and find Mike Studblatz, face the color of a plum, steam practically rising out of his ears. His eyes are wild and ferocious and I’m sure he’s about to lunge into our group and kill me, Coach, Bruce, and Vance, though maybe not in that order. Studblatz heaves a hundred-pound dumbbell off the rack and lifts it above his head and then hurls it toward us. We see it coming and step out of the way and it crashes like a meteor into a metal calf-raise machine. The noise is deafening.

“Mike!” Coach Stein shouts, trying to regain control.

“You tricked all of us!” Mike fumes. He’s pacing back and forth and thumping his chest. He gets under a shoulder press machine and presses up two hundred and fifty pounds. His thick arms tremble and spit froths at the corners of his mouth. His eyes bounce around like he can’t focus. “You. TRICKED. US!!!” he repeats, and heaves the weight up again and again. “This is real strength. Not that!”

“Frank,” Coach Nelson snaps at Coach Stein, “you better get hold of your players.”

Coach Stein starts to move in between the pulsing Studblatz and everyone else. Mike Studblatz picks up two more dumbbells and begins military-pressing them over his head and staring at us, like he’s proving something other than that he’s an animal. I’m pretty sure whatever he’s imagining involves dismemberment. Coach Stein only gets so close and then stops, seeming wary himself. The other football players watch but don’t move. Finally Scott Miller walks up to Studblatz and puts a hand to his chest.

“It’s okay, big man, the pukes cheated us, they won’t be coming in here.”

“It’s not a secret why he’s acting that way,” Coach Nelson speaks clearly for everyone to hear. “Frank, I know what you and Coach Brigs are giving these boys. Someone’s gonna get hurt if you keep it up.”

“Worry about your own team, Ted.”

“All of us, Frank, are supposed to be on the same team,” Coach Nelson says, and then he faces the circled group of football players. “That crap some of you are taking to get big and strong is the same thing they feed hogs and cattle before they slaughter ’em.”

“That’s enough,” Coach Stein says. Coach Nelson raises an eyebrow at him.

“Let’s go,” Coach Nelson tells us. “We’ll come back when they’ve settled down.”

As we follow him out, Tom Jankowski grabs my arm and yanks me away from my teammates. Coach Nelson, up ahead, is leaving without me, doesn’t see me. I glance over and see Todd Pullman holding Ronnie Gunderson, his arm twisted up behind his back. Tom’s big hand swallows my whole neck and starts squeezing the life out of me.

“Bet you think it’s real funny what you just pulled,” he says. “I’m gonna remember this. You and your little pussy friends are dead. You hear me? Dead. We are gonna bury you.” The threat comes at me in a cloud of sour breath, and I feel my body freeze up, glance over, and only see Ronnie Gunderson in more pain as Todd Pullman jams his arm higher up his back. Just then, I see Coach Nelson turn back into the room, glance quickly around, and our eyes lock.

“JANKOWSKI!” Coach Nelson barks so loud the whole weight room vibrates. The grip around my neck magically releases, and I bolt for my coach, grateful and hating him at the same time. I’m trailed out of the weight room not only by Ronnie but also by the laughter of the other football players.