Split Decision by Todd Hafer Page A

ranks, but not the Midnight Cowboy. Dawg, what am I gonna do?”
    Cody paused a moment, then pointed at his shirt. “Go against the flow,” he said quietly.

    Heading to the track the following day, Cody saw an obstacle in his path. A 225-pound obstacle.
    “I just need to know something,” Pork Chop said flatly, drumming his fingers on the hand-to-elbow cast he still sported on his right arm. “You gonna tell Coach? You gonna put my business in the street?”
    Cody studied his friend. Chop’s cast is decorated with more hearts than a Valentine’s card , he thought. I bet every girl in the freshman class signed it— except Jessica. He’s proud of that cast, but right now it looks like he wants to club me with it!
    Cody took a step backward. It had been a long time since he had been afraid of Pork Chop hitting him. But there was something different about the big man now. The old Chop would never have tossed a skinny, non-threat like Kris Knight across a school hallway either. At most, he might have playfully chided Knight for his inattentiveness.
    But this was the new Pork Chop. New, but definitely not improved. Unpredictable as a homemade time bomb.
    Cody prayed for wisdom, and for protection, before he spoke. “Nah, Chop. I’m not going to tell the coaches what you’re doing to yourself. I won’t have to.”
    Chop crossed his thick forearms across his chest. “Oh, yeah? And why is that, little brother?”
    “Because you’re going to tell them.”
    A bark of laughter escaped from deep inside Chop’s chest. “Okay, you’re really tripping on me now, Code.”
    Cody smiled sadly. “Maybe I’m not the one who’s tripping. Maybe that junk you’re doing has affected your memory. We all signed the Grant Athletic Code of Conduct back before football season, remember?”
    “Yeah. So?”
    “Did you actually read what you signed—what you gave your word about? You remember the section about illegal—and questionable—drugs and supplements? Remember that part about ‘only with parental approval and under a doctor’s supervision?’”
    “Of course. I don’t sign anything without reading it first.”
    Cody widened his eyes. “And?”
    Chop wagged his head dismissively. “I got that covered. See, when I signed my name, I wrote Deke Parter , not Porter. So ya see little brother, I’m not breaking my word.”
    Cody heard himself groan in frustration. “I can’t believe you’re saying this. This isn’t you, Chop! Think about it. Coach said nobody does sports without signing the form. So, if you really didn’t sign it, you’ve been, like, ineligible all stinkin’ year!”
    Cody stared at his friend accusingly. Slowly, the smug Pork Chop grin wilted. “I didn’t consider that till just now,” he muttered. “Why’d you have to go poking around in this, Code? I was doing just fine.”
    “No, Chop, you weren’t. You have been building big industrial-strength muscles but not the ligaments and tendons around them. That kind of imbalance can lead to major tears. The kind that require surgery. The kind that end careers. What’s worse—you coulda damaged your liver too. And, to top it all off, you’ve been living a lie! You, the guy who’s always ‘keeping it real,’ competing with a fake name, using fake chemicals, to make fake muscles. That’s what you call keeping it real ?”
    Cody stopped speaking and took a step back. He couldn’t read his friend’s face. This could go either way , he thought. Either he’s gonna pop me or break down and cry. And I’ve never seen Pork Chop Porter break down .
    Seconds crawled by. Finally, Chop cleared his throat. His voice sounded tired and ragged. “Why are you comin’ at me like this? Why are you bringing all this harshness?”
    “Because I’m your best friend—you big idiot. That’s why. I do it for the same reason I pray for your soul every night, why I invite you to church. Why I never talk behind your back, and never tell a racist joke—and