Split Decision by Todd Hafer Page B

leave the room if anybody else starts to bring that kinda garbage. And I will not be silent and watch you ruin your body and your mind. You think I’m being harsh, but I’m sayin’ this in love.”
    Chop frowned thoughtfully. “So how’s it gonna be then? What are you gonna say? What are you gonna do?”
    “For now, at least, I’ve said my piece. What’s next is on you. All I can say is that the Deke Porter I know would go one way. I just gotta hope and pray that the guy I know, my friend, my brother, is still in there somewhere, underneath all the big muscles—and bigger lies.”
    With that, Cody sprinted for the track. The day’s interval workout was a blur. Cody felt several times like he would lose his lunch—and his breakfast—in the infield grass. But he wasn’t sure of the cause— whether it was the intensity of track practice or the conversation beforehand.
    He said a silent prayer of thanks when he saw Pork Chop and Coach Clayton huddled in the hallway between the men’s and women’s locker room when he headed home.
    “So, here’s the deal,” Chop explained to Cody on the phone later that night. “I’m not tossin’ the shot this year, just to be safe, but I’m staying on as a manager. I told Coach that I’m not sure what I took. I think this one, uh, supplement was legal for a while but not anymore, at least not to minors. But we’re taking no chances. And I’m goin’ to the doc later this week to have some tests done. See what’s what. So, you happy now?”
    Cody cleared his throat. “It’s not about me being happy. It’s about you being safe. About you being a man of your word.”
    “I hear ya. I really do. Coach started to tell me about some of the side effects, and it started to freak me out. It scared me, Cody. For real. And besides all of the internal damage, did you know that kinda stuff can give you man-breasts? Dawg, the Chop does NOT rock the man-breasts!”
    Cody tried to muster a laugh. “Well, I’ve been scared for you all season. I guess it’s good that you finally got on board.”
    “Ha. Okay, then, dawg. I’m out. I need to call Doug up at college, talk to him for a while.”
    “Okay. See you at practice tomorrow. You can fetch me some Gatorade or something.”
    “Don’t push it little brother. But, Cody—”
    “Yeah?”
    “Thanks, dawg. You’re still my boy. You always got my back, huh?”
    Cody nodded. “Always.”

    With Pork Chop bellowing, “Step on your gas now, dawg!” and other encouragement from the infield, Cody picked up his first-ever varsity track points by placing fifth in the 800 meters at a low-key early-May meet on the Grant High track. Coach Clayton decided to rest Gerber and Phelps, meaning that Bryce Phillips would be the only upperclassman to compete. Phillips took second at the five-team competition, and Cody nipped fellow freshman Gage McClintock for the final scoring placement.
    He had placed second and third at two late-April frosh meets, motivating Coach Clayton to give him a chance to run with at least a few of “the big dogs.”
    “Good race, Co,” Pork Chop said, thrusting a water bottle at Cody. “What was your time?”
    “Only two-fifteen,” Cody panted. “Coach isn’t gonna be happy. I ran the first quarter in sixty-two, then died.”
    “Well, at least you beat Gage.”
    “That’s because he ran his first quarter in a minute flat. He went out even faster than I did. Man, Coach is always reminding me that for every second you go out too fast in the first half of the race, it costs you twice that long in the second half. But I still keep getting caught up in the flurry of the start. I’m running so stupid!”
    Chop smiled. “Well, in my book, any running of more than a few yards is stupid. Too much runnin’ hurts my booty, dawg. For real.”
    Cody started to respond, but he was interrupted by Drew Phelps. “You did it again, man. You gotta get past that newbie stuff.”
    “I know, I know,” Cody said, bobbing