David Jacobs was not an athlete. David Jacobs had never had a desire to be an athlete. David Jacobs was a reporter-editor of the school newspaper. He wasn't the kind of intellectual who had a vendetta against athletes because of supposed special treatments they received or the stereotypical 'dumb jock' factor. The want to join a sports team had simply never crossed him.

But then his sports reporter had gotten sick. One of their biggest stories for that week's issue of the paper was the report about the wrestling team. Practices had just started. The wrestling team was the best sports team their high school had, and they were in high demand for coverage. Everyone else already had his or her assignments, so David, as editor, took it upon himself to cover the wrestling team.

He walked up the long staircase to the wrestling room with his pen and notebook resolutely in hand. How was he going to cover a sport he'd never watched before? His other writer was the sister of two state champions. She knew what she was watching. He didn't even know what to expect. Would they grab chairs and beat each other, like on TV? Kaylyn had assured him that the TV wrestling was not real wrestling, and if he mentioned WWF in the wrestling room, he would most likely find himself with his head in a toilet.

The door was a normal wooden door. Above it, on the wall, was a painting of a ridiculously muscular man flexing. CENTURY WRESTLING, it read, WHERE CHAMPIONS ARE BUILT.

Hesitantly, he pushed the door open. On the far wall opposite him, two more painted muscular men were wrestling. TRAIN LIKE A MADMAN! The caption commanded. The wall to his left listed district champions and state placers. There were sure a lot of them.

As soon as the door was open, David gagged. The air was thick enough to touch. David could feel the sweat of the wrestlers settle on his arms and in his lungs and had to fight the impulse to rush out the door again. And the stench! If he tried breathing through hismouth in an attempt not to smell the indescribable amount of sweat that was hanging in the air, he could taste it instead. Eyes watering and arms suddenly moist, David searched the room. There was one lone person in the room. He was in sweats and a hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled over his damp hair. He was riding one of the exercise bikes that lined the mirrored right wall. His sweatshirt was soaked through with sweat, and he looked exhausted.

"Excuse me?" David ventured. He got no answer. "Hello? Uh…hello?" The boy still gave no sign of hearing David. Tentatively, David reached out and tapped the boy's shoulder, touching the least amount of finger to sweatshirt as possible. The boy jerked a little and pulled headphones out of his ears.

"Yeah?"

"Um…I'm David Jacobs. I—I'm supposed to interview one of the team captains. For the newspaper."

"Oh. I'm one of the captains. I'm Jack Kelly." He stopped cycling and pulled his hood off. His hair was dripping with sweat in the back, and David repressed a disgusted shudder. Wearily, Jack stood up.

"Sorry," he said. "Just cutting some last-minute weight. We've got a tournament tomorrow and I'm only point four under. Guess I'm not eating dinner tonight." He barked out a laugh. David understood very little of what he said, and what he did understand alarmed him a little. He wasn't eating dinner? Jack laughed again at David's startled look.

"It's not a big deal," he insisted. "I'll sleep off a pound, and before weigh-ins I'll run a little to make sure I'm okay."

"Um…okay."

They made their way out of the wrestling room. Jack stopped at the door and grabbed a towel.

"The janitor's been getting pissed at us lately because we drip sweat in the hall," he explained, dabbing at his forehead. David thought it was a losing battle. "Um…do you mind if I shower before we do this interview thing?" Jack asked. "I need to shower soon so I don't get ringworm."

"Not at all," David said. He had hoped Jack would suggest that—the smell wafting off him was a smaller amount of the smell that permeated the wrestling room.

When Jack re-emerged from the locker room twenty minutes later, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his hair now clean, David caught his breath a little. This cleaner version of Jack was much better looking, and David could see a ripple of muscles through the thin fabric of the flattering blue shirt. Jack shook a lock of hair out of his and smiled.

"Sorry. I had to weigh myself and there was a line."

"N-no problem," David stuttered, a blush creeping up his neck to fire across his cheeks. He dropped his gaze to his notebook, trying desperately to find the page with his questions on it.

"So, fire away," Jack said, dropping to the floor beside David and stretching out. David was having trouble breathing, but when he did, he caught Jack's scent—Old Spice mixed with some kind of shampoo.

"Okay…the first question is…question is…um…" David flushed darker and Jack raised an eyebrow. Get a grip! David berated himself. What an idiot he was making out of himself in front of Jack! A group of freshman came out of the locker room.

"Hi, Cowboy!" A few chorused.

"Heya, fellahs. How'd you like practice? Boots, you wrestling tomorrow at the tournament?"

"Yeah, JV. I'm going 35."

"You gonna make weight?"

"Psh. Course I am."

David had no idea what was happening. 35 what? The boys eventually moved off, still laughing at something Jack had said.

"Uh…what'd he mean, he's going 35?" David asked curiously.

"He's wrestling 135."

"135 what?"

"Pounds. That's his weight class." Jack sounded patient, but David still felt a little stupid.

"Oh…"

"So, you got questions?"

"Uh, yeah." David rifled through his notebook some more and finally found the page he'd been searching for. "Here we go. So, how do you think the season is going to go?"

"That's your question?" Jack asked, making a face. "Don't you think it's kind of typical and boring?" David bristled. Who was Jack to tell him what to ask?

"Sorry," Jack said, seeing David's face. "I just meant…well, sorry."

"It's okay," David responded stiffly. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute.

"Anyway," David said finally, scanning down his list. Suddenly, all his questions seemed so…mundane. "Who do you guys play first?"

Jack raised an eyebrow. "We don't play anyone. We wrestle South first. That's the first thing ya gotta learn if you're gonna be covering wrestling. It's not a game. We don't play."

David shot Jack a dubious look. "Not a game? What do you call your…competitions?"

"Matches. Duals, usually, when we're wrestling one other school."

"Oh. So, when do you dual South?"

Jack laughed and clapped a hand on David's shoulder. David was very aware of the heavy weight of Jack's hand, the skin on his shoulder underneath, the ridges between Jack's fingers.

"You don't say we dual them. You just saywe wrestle them. You don't know anything about wrestling, do you?"

"Well…no," David admitted. "My wrestling reporter got sick. It was going to be Kaylyn Thomson."

"Oh, yeah, both her older brothers were state champions." Jack nodded appreciatively. David mimicked him, the back of his head bumping against the wall. Before he knew what he was doing, before he could stop himself, before he could even think, he'd blurted,

"Is it too late to join the team?" He bit his lip, horrified that those words had just come out of his mouth.

"Nah, it's not too late! You wanna come wrestle?" David was about to say no, that question was just for the article, but Jack was smiling at him, looking maybe a little hopeful, and David nodded against his better judgment.

"Well, you could come watch tomorrow, and then come to practice Monday after school." He led David to the locker room to pick up some medical forms and told him to get a physical. David was starting to feel dizzy. Why had he done this? As he was leaving, Jack put his hand on David's shoulder again, shot him a dazzling smile, and told him he was glad he had decided to join.

Oh, right. That's why.