“Hey, kiddo, how ya doin’?” Coach asks. I’m not sure this is a trick question since I’ve skipped practice again, claiming to be sick.

“All right,” I say, then rub my stomach and frown, hoping that conveys the proper amount of sickness to him.

“Your parents home?”

“No. My dad’s still at work.”

“You got a minute?”

I nod yes but keep my hand on my belly in case I need to fall back on a quick escape excuse. Coach Nelson doesn’t make a move to come into the house. Instead he turns around and walks back to his pickup truck with a gun rack in the back window and bumper stickers that read KILL YOUR TV and THOSE WHO CAN MAKE YOU BELIEVE ABSURDITIES CAN MAKE YOU COMMIT ATROCITIES. I follow him outside. He leans against the back part of his truck, not shadowed by our house and still catching rays from the falling sun.

“Heard you had yourselves a good time up at the quarry,” he says while squinting out at the orange sky. He doesn’t see me nod yes and I don’t say anything. “A little bee told me you jumped off the cliff. First one over. Real gung ho. Figured Fisher or Bruce would be the first. Normally I wouldn’t recommend that, but since you’re still alive, consider me impressed.” He turns his gaze from the sun to me. “Didn’t know you had it in you. Fact is, it doesn’t seem like something you’d do at all. Thought you were a little more careful than that.”

“You mean chicken,” I say, surprised by how angry I sound.

“Not chicken.”

“And weak. Same reason you knew they’d pick me to go against Jankowski on the bet in the weight room. You knew everyone thought me and Ronnie were little weaklings.”

“And you showed them all, didn’t you?” Coach chuckles. “Never underestimate the power of underestimation,” he says, and slaps the panel of his truck. He’s the only one laughing. “We sure showed them.” He stops smiling when he realizes I’m fuming at him.

“You set me up. Everyone was laughing at me that day. They couldn’t wait to see Tom cream me.”

“But you kicked his butt, didn’t you?”

I don’t answer back.

“You know the crazy thing about life?” Coach asks, and now he’s looking off at the sun again. “On any given day, you have the chance to be a hero or a victim, predator or prey. Most times, circumstances are beyond your control. Other times, you got a choice but you think about it too much and you freeze up. Sometimes, though, you’re forced to react and it’s all instinct. May not make a damn bit of difference in a bad situation. But sometimes instinct squeezes the good out of you, forces you to be a hero before you even realize it. Danny, that day in the weight room, you were our hero. It was David versus Goliath in there and you nailed it. Now, what if I let you in on the plan and you listened to your fears, backed out before you even set foot in that weight room and had a chance to become a hero? I knew you were strong. I knew you’d win. I just had to make sure your brain didn’t cheat your heart out of the chance to become a hero.”

“I don’t remember feeling much like a hero that day. Just tricked.”

“Is that what’s really bothering you?” he asks. “I mean, besides Ronnie’s death? I understand you boys taking it hard but you can’t just fall apart.”

“I’m not feeling very good. I don’t much feel like practicing.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to quit on the team?” He takes a second to glance at me before going back to squinting at the sun.

“I don’t know,” I say. Truth is, I never thought about skipping practice as quitting on the team until Coach calls it that.

“Danny, I can’t force you to come back. I can tell you that you’re throwing away promise and talent every day you miss practice. Maybe no one’s told you this lately but you’re good. Real good.”

This kind of talk embarrasses me, especially since Coach doesn’t know the whole truth, doesn’t know how I abandoned my teammate, let him kill himself because I am a chicken and I am weak.

“Danny, I’ve coached enough seasons, now, to recognize a kid that’s got some talent. I mean, hell, you’re only a sophomore and you got a shot at placing in the top three on high bar at state. I don’t know why you suddenly want to throw it all away. You think Ronnie would want his death to make you do that?”

What Ronnie would want is for me to have spoken up for him when he was still alive. My stomach cramps for real at the thought. No faking necessary.

“You’re on track to be a co-captain next year. The boys in that gym look up to you. What you do on that high bar scares and thrills all of us. You’re one of the best advertisements our team’s got, and not just for new guys, but to keep the guys we have now from drifting off next year. The way you’ve improved in the off-season, you could place top three all-around next year, too. Senior year, you could mop up. Maybe get a scholarship. I’ll be happy to write some letters to schools. I’ve got a few contacts and it’s not just from coaching.”

Mention of a scholarship makes me feel real hopeful and doubly guilty at the same time. As much as I want it, why should my dream be rewarded when I denied Ronnie’s cry for help?

“But none of that is going to happen if you don’t get your skinny butt back in the gym and start working out.” Coach drapes an arm over the side panel of his flatbed, then turns to face me. “I was hoping your mom or dad was home so I could tell them what I just told you. Maybe they’d help kick your butt for me,” he says, grinning.

“My mom’s dead,” I blurt. Coach’s grin fades. In the orange glow of the sun, his stubbled face softens. I hate telling people because of this exact response, but I can’t stand hearing him mention her like she’s alive; sounds like he’s teasing me even though I know he’s not.

“Aw, hell ... Danny . . . I’m sorry ... I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not okay at all. But it’s not Coach’s fault, either. Not long after I break that news, he gets back in his truck, and when it starts up, the tailpipe pops like the muffler is about to snap off.

“We need you back soon as you feel better,” Coach tells me, sticking his head out the truck window, and then he backs out of the driveway and leaves me alone.