Rise Above

by Shannon Knudsen

  Text copyright © 2014 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  Front cover © Mike Powell/CORBIS. Backgrounds: © iStockphoto.com/mack2happy, (grass).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Knudsen, Shannon, 1971–

  Rise above / by Shannon Knudsen.

  pages cm. — (The red zone ; #6)

  Summary: “One of the Trojans’ assistant coaches is giving a few players special attention. That includes a (maybe illegal) personal nutrition program. Will the players go along in order to get an edge?”— Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978–1–4677–2127–1 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–4654–0 (eBook)

  [1. Football—Fiction. 2. Steroids—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.K78355Ri 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014000751

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 7/15/14

  eISBN 978-1-46774-654-0 (pdf)

  eISBN 978-1-4677-7427-7 (ePub)

  eISBN 978-1-46777-428-4 (mobi)

  1 / FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15—PRACTICE, SEVEN DAYS BEFORE STATE PLAYOFFS

  When you run the forty-yard dash, you can’t tell how fast you’re going. You’re too busy working your legs, pounding the turf, and pumping your arms to give a thought to the stopwatch in Coach Kramer’s hand. You know if it feels good—like, yeah, I got this—and you know if it doesn’t. But you never know until you cross the line if the number Coach calls out will be your record or just another piece of data for his clipboard.

  Not usually.

  “Four-eight-six!” Coach Kramer hollered as I flashed by. Might not turn a scout’s head, but for me? Sweet.

  I eased up and circled back around in time to see the man’s face crack into his signature grin, the one he only lets out if you’ve made his day. “Another personal best for Burns!”

  The guys on the sideline—the small group Coach Kramer had assembled for today’s extra workout—gave me high fives as I jogged past them. Well, most of them did. Ian McNamara looked the other way, like something truly fascinating was going on downfield.

  “Awright, Red Hot!” Fullback Dylan Davis punched me in the arm. “You keep this up, I’ll be blocking for you in the playoffs.”

  I hadn’t been Red Hot Burns until a week ago. All season long, I was just plain old Darius. But then it happened. First came my personal best on the bench press—not just weight, reps too. Leg press, same thing. When I started smoking the forty, people started to pay attention. Throw in a couple stellar runs in our last game, and I had myself a new nickname.

  Now I’d done it again—broken my own record in the forty. The same record I’d set just a week before. Dylan was right. I was on fire, and everybody knew it.

  Ian snorted. “Red Hot? Try Roid Hot.” Coach was too far away to hear him, but everyone else did.

  Half a second later, Terry Foster was up in his face, pointing a finger. “No way,” he hissed. “No way, Ian. You do not go there. Not now, not ever.”

  Huh. Who would have thought it? Terry had never said two words to me, yet here he was standing up for second-stringer Darius Burns. But when I thought about it, I realized he was just standing up for himself. After all, we were all in this together. And we all knew how dangerous it would be to say certain words out loud.

  Ian had his reasons to be mad, though. He and I had a serious rivalry going on over the starting halfback slot. Devon Shaw had pretty much owned the position all season. But last week, Devon had surgery on his wrist for a torn ligament. That left a serious gap in the Trojan starting lineup as we prepped for the state playoffs. It was a gap I intended to fill. So did Ian.

  “You just keep trying, McNamara,” I told him. “Keep trying.”

  He glared at me, but I laughed it off. Truth was, either of us could end up starting in the playoffs. The guys hadn’t started calling me Red Hot for nothing, but Ian had speed, agility, and size, a combination I couldn’t challenge just by practicing my sprints or pumping iron.

  Don’t get me wrong, I had plenty to offer the team. I had guts, I had toughness, and I could handle the ball like nobody’s business. Plus I knew the playbook backwards, forwards, and upside down.

  But when it came to finding the hole at crunch time, on a field full of guys looking for someone to smash? There, Ian could make plays. I might be the one racking up the numbers for now. And yeah, Coach Kramer couldn’t be happier with me. But Coach Zachary—our head coach, the only guy I truly needed to impress—couldn’t care less about nicknames or even records. When it came time to line up, he would go with the guy who could get the job done.

  I wanted it to be me. I needed it to be me. And if that meant I had to do whatever it took to get an extra edge, well, that’s what I’d do.

  Of course, so would Ian McNamara.

  2 / FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15—AT HOME

  Dinner that night was late. My parents run a law firm—Burns and Caldwell-Burns, Attorneys at Law—so we eat a lot of takeout food. Tonight’s special? Chinese, complete with egg rolls. I grabbed four and piled a bunch of moo goo gai pan onto fried rice.

  As we sat down, my little sister claimed center stage. “Oh, my gosh! Mama, Daddy, you will not believe what happened today. You know that kid, Jeremy Bolger? Well, he brought firecrackers on the bus. Hid them in his backpack, and then when the bus hit a big pothole ...”

  Monique’s OK, but, man, that girl can talk. I splashed some soy sauce on my food and settled in for a detailed description of the latest seventh-grade drama.

  Three egg rolls later, she was still going on. I tilted back in my chair and stabbed at some snow peas with my fork. I couldn’t stop thinking about Ian’s stupid comment at practice. Roid Hot? Ian was juicing too. Where did he get off giving me grief about it? As far as I could tell, the only thing he had to be upset about was the fact that I was seeing way more benefits than he was.

  Crash! The chair slid out from under me. My fork clattered to the floor, snow peas still attached. I ended up on my butt.

  Very smooth, Darius.

  Monique laughed so hard she almost spit out her cashew chicken.

  “Darius!” Mama said. “How many times do I have to tell you?” And off she went about table manners and proper posture and I don’t know what else. I pushed myself off the floor and started looking for my missing dignity, which was nowhere to be found.

  “Sorry, Mama,” I said when I could get a word in edgewise. “Um, may I be excused to do my homework?” She nodded, and I put my chair back in its place—very quietly—and took my plate to the sink and rinsed it off.

  “Darius,” Mama said, “before you go, tell us how that biology quiz turned out.” She raised her eyebrows like she always does when she means business.

  “Yeah,” Dad chimed in. “Are we going to need to get you a tutor?”

  I groaned. Biology is my worst subject. I’m pulling a B minus, which you’d think would be good enough for most parents. Especially c
onsidering that football is practically a full-time job. But it’s not good enough for Princeton University, which means it’s not good enough for Marcus Burns—and definitely not for Sheila Caldwell-Burns. They’ve got my whole future mapped out, and it does not include any B minuses.

  Mama and Dad met at Princeton. Dad’s father, my Grandpa Burns, went there too. Ever since I was in first grade, all three of them have been telling me how great it’ll be when I make it three generations of Burnses attending the world’s finest university. Once it started looking like I had a chance in football, Mama added an athletic scholarship to the big dream.

  I’m not arrogant enough to think I’d ever get a scholarship to a real football school like Ohio State, but the Ivy League? That might actually happen—if I keep my grades sky-high, do some community service, and throw in a couple other extracurriculars during the off-season.

  No pressure here at all. Nope.

  “Well?” Mama asked. “We’re waiting.”

  “B plus,” I said, studying the pattern of the tile squares on the kitchen floor.

  “Hmm,” Dad said. “A step in the right direction. Good job, Son.”

  I waited for Mama’s verdict. She just nodded, which meant that she wasn’t thrilled but wouldn’t pull the trigger on tutoring just yet.

  Twenty minutes later, I had my laptop and my biology textbook out on my desk, but photosynthesis was the last thing on my mind. I had to admit it: Even though I’d brushed McNamara off at practice, his words had hit their mark. Roid Hot. Yeah, that was me.

  My eyes wandered to the photo on my desk, an autographed picture of Marion Motley that my dad had found on eBay. Motley’s kind of my hero, even though he played fullback, not halfback. He was one of the guys who broke the color barrier in the NFL back in 1946, playing for the Cleveland Browns. But he did a lot more than that. He made the Hall of Fame—and he did it on his own merits during a time when the odds were stacked against him.

  Ping! My cell phone brought me back to the present. It was a text from Curtis Benson, one of our free safeties and my best friend. Yo D. Pizza?

  Already ate, I typed back.

  So what. Live a little, man. Have dessert.

  Gotta study.

  The phone rang. Looked like Curtis wasn’t letting me off that easy.

  “Dude,” I said as I answered the phone. “If I don’t ace the next biology test, my parents are gonna make me get a tutor.”

  “Darius, listen, I gotta talk to you. Just come out for an hour.”

  Curtis never sounded that serious.

  “Pick me up in ten,” I said.

  3 / FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15—DOYLE’S PIZZA

  Curtis drove to Doyle’s, the team’s favorite hangout. Decent pizza—and all you can eat for free if you’re one of the Big Six, the offensive playmakers. Which meant I paid for every slice.

  But if I beat out McNamara for Devon’s slot at halfback? Oh, yeah. That’d put me in the Big Six for sure.

  A punch in the arm shook me out of my daydream. Curtis was acting like usual, but I knew he was rattled about something when he steered away from the other guys, picking a booth in the shadows at the back of the restaurant instead.

  “So what’s the big emergency?” I asked, slurping my soda.

  “You are,” he said. He looked like somebody had died or something.

  “Say what?”

  Curtis shook his head. “Don’t BS me, Darius. Something’s different with you, and I wanna know what it is.”

  I was in mid-slurp as he spoke, and I swallowed the wrong way, sending soda down my windpipe. I coughed and hacked for a few seconds longer than I really needed to. “Dang, I hate that feeling. Tickles.”

  Curtis crossed his arms and stared me down.

  Did he know? How? Had someone talked? And what was I supposed to say now? I’d never lied to Curtis, but there was no way I could tell him the truth.

  I tried to lighten the mood. “Dude, your pizza’s getting cold.”

  “Screw the pizza,” he said. “Come on, man. I saw you run for Coach Kramer today. At your Elite Whatevers practice.”

  “Warriors. Elite Warriors.”

  “Like I said, Elite Whatevers.”

  I scrambled for time. “You were there? Where? I didn’t see you.”

  “What’s it matter where I was? Point is, I’ve known you for ten years. I’ve played football with you since Half Backs camp. You ain’t that fast, Darius.” Curtis still hadn’t taken a bite of his food.

  “I am now.” I glared at him. “You saw it yourself.”

  “Yeah, but why now? Why all of a sudden? How come you can press forty pounds more than you could at the beginning of the season?”

  “How should I know? It’s probably a growth spurt. You know, some guys come into their own at our age. It happens.”

  He looked up at the ceiling, then back at me, eyes narrowed. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some kind of idiot.”

  “Why not? You’re acting like one.” I stood up from the table. “You have something to say, just say it.”

  Curtis sighed. “Sit down, man.” I stood my ground. “Awright, D. I know what I’m talking about here. And you know what I’m talking about. But you wanna pretend you don’t, fine.”

  “I’m not pretending.” The words came out flat, without conviction.

  Curtis shook his head. “You know, you think you know a guy through and through . . .” He trailed off.

  “You do know me, Curtis. I’m the same guy I always was.”

  “Naw, you ain’t. I never had you pegged for a cheater.”

  I stood there with my mouth open.

  “Just listen, man. You gotta—I don’t know. You gotta be careful, y’know what I’m sayin’? You gotta watch your back. And make sure you don’t get hurt.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Just take care of yourself.”

  “I’m fine, Curtis. Everything’s fine.” I started walking away.

  “Naw, it ain’t.”

  I kept walking. He didn’t come after me.

  Ditching Curtis left me with no ride home, just a two-mile walk in chilly November air. At least the walk gave me plenty of time to try to make myself feel better about lying to my best friend.

  He doesn’t need to know, I told myself. He’s meddling where he’s not needed. And he’s probably just guessing, just jealous of how far I’ve come this season. There’s no way I’m about to jeopardize everything I’ve worked for. There’s no way I’ll risk getting Coach Kramer in trouble or the other guys in the Elite. Or myself, for that matter.

  It was a pretty good speech I gave myself. But it didn’t work. I guess my BS detector is too sharp for my own good sometimes.

  How did I get myself into this?

  4 / EIGHT WEEKS EARLIER

  It had started eight weeks ago. We’d lost to the Carroll Cyclones the night before, and Coach Z just about went into cardiac arrest chewing us out in the locker room the next day. “Show me a good loser!” he yelled, going into Vince Lombardi mode for the millionth time. “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser!”

  Practice was brutal that day. We ran laps. We ran the stairs. We ran suicides. We hit the sleds and dummies for extra reps. At least four guys puked. I felt lucky I wasn’t one of them.

  After Coach Z dismissed us, we staggered around like drunken fools, trying to catch our breath. That’s when Coach Kramer, who doubles as special teams coach and assistant offensive coach, tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Other end of the field, Burns,” he said. I couldn’t believe my ears. He wanted more out of us?

  “But Coach Z said—” That earned me quite the look. I hustled downfield—if you can call a slow jog hustling.

  But most of the team didn’t follow. Turned out Coach Kramer only wanted some of the team’s “most dependable” starting offensive backs and a few backups. Including me.

  He began with a Speech, the kind that deserves a capital lett
er because it sounds so serious and important. Like when the president goes on TV to announce that we’re bombing another country.

  “Some of you are this team’s playmakers,” he said. “And some of you are the playmakers of the very near future.”

  I knew which group I was in, of course. Devon hadn’t hurt his wrist yet at that point, so I was—at best—a playmaker of the future.

  Coach kept talking. “All of you have been identified as players with stellar potential. The kind of potential that can ensure we don’t have more losses like Friday’s or more practices like today’s. You gentlemen are this team’s hope. You are its elite. And from today on, you will be challenged to carry that mantle with an intensity you’ve never exhibited before.”

  Now that’s how you get a bunch of football players’ attention. Coach Kramer laid out the plan: extra workouts, extra game film, and individualized training for all of us, starting the next day. We were his Elite Trojan Warriors, he said. He made sure we understood that Coach Z and Coach Whitson, the head offensive coach, had approved the Warriors program. And he assured us that he would be on us constantly, pushing us to exceed our potential.

  And at first, that’s exactly how it was. Lots of skills coaching, extra time in the weight room, and studying film, that kind of thing. It was pretty sweet, working out with the first string, feeling like I was on the edge of being one of them. Then, the second week, Coach Kramer changed things up.

  “New regimen,” he announced at the end of a skills session. “Everyone line up.” He passed out photocopied pages. “This is a high-protein diet, gentlemen. Nothing crazy, just some guidelines to help you bulk up. Start this program immediately. Along with the diet, you’ll receive nutritional supplements.” And with that, he started passing out water bottles and a couple of pills for each of us.

  Even back then, something about it smelled funny. Like, if it was vitamins, wouldn’t Coach just hand out a bottle to everybody and tell us to take it with dinner or whatever? And then there was his face. He was smiling too hard. That freaky grin. So, yeah, I wondered.