Free Pinned by Alfred C. Martino

closet, and turned on the light.
    He stood naked, his skin puckering into goose bumps from the chilly floor. He set the counterbalance at 129¾ pounds, then stepped gingerly onto the scale platform. The scale arm fell.
    He tapped the counterbalance to 129½. The scale arm didn't move from the bottom.
    At 129 even, the scale arm floated. And Bobby figured he could probably piss another quarter pound. He'd be able to drink something—not much—but at least something.
    In the bathroom, Bobby squinted under the bright ceiling light. From the medicine cabinet, he pushed aside bottles of laxatives and diuretics and pulled out an old glass baby bottle, into which he peed. Urine careened off the inside, filling the bottom. He relaxed, hoping every bit would drain from his body. The yellow liquid moved higher and higher until finally the stream sputtered to a few squirts. Then just a drop or two.
    It measured four and a half ounces. Short of what Bobby had hoped, but enough to allow him to keep his mouth wet for a while. He poured the urine out, washed the glass bottle, and set it back in the medicine cabinet. Then he turned on the cold water faucet and filled his pewter baby cup to the top. Four ounces, no more. His thirst was impossibly strong, his hand unsteady. The cup tilted against his chapped lips and the cool water washed over his tongue. He savored every drop.
    After a final check on Christopher, curled up restlessly under rumpled blankets, Bobby returned to his bedroom and slid under the covers.
    A sprained ankle had kept him out of last year's Hunterdon Central tournament. This year, the 129-pound weight class was his for the taking. With Korske going 135, Bobby was certain no one could keep him from the title. People would take notice. That made him nervous as hell.
    He stared at the ceiling. Slight imperfections in the paint began to fade in and out. He felt his chest rise and fall with each breath, and he followed the rush of each pulse down his shoulders, arms, wrists, and fingertips; and his torso, legs, feet, and toes. Then he ran through the catalog of moves in his head.
    Again and again.
    Eventually, yawns came more often and sleep quieted his tired mind.

14
    Sweat beaded on Ivan's skin. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The midnight run had been a good one, one that would put his weight at 130 pounds. By morning, he'd be closer to 129¼. By weigh-ins he'd be right on weight.
    He'd stay at 129 pounds for the rest of the season. He hadn't told McClellan or his father, and wouldn't until morning, relishing the idea that the 135-pounders at the tournament would be thanking God when they found out, while the 129-pounders would be scared as hell.
    Switching on the bedroom light, Ivan listened for his father downstairs, then closed his door. He walked to his bed and reached under the mattress. In his hand, he held the application for Western Arizona University.
    Attached was a note from Coach Riker, wishing him good luck for the season. Ivan fixed on the signature, George Riker. The "Gainesville Grappler," a nickname he earned as the winningest high school coach in the state of Florida.
    But it was at Western Arizona where Riker had secured his legend. It was Riker who turned the university's nearly defunct Wrestling program into an NCAA contender, who guided three wrestlers to national tides, who made the upper echelon of collegiate programs—the Iowas, Nebraskas, and Oklahoma States of the world—sit up and take notice. In a fitting tribute,
Wrestling USA
called Riker "the Dan Gable of the West." Ivan received recruiting letters from dozens of college coaches across the country. None was as important as this one.
    A drop of sweat fell on the envelope, smudging Ivan's name. Then another.
    This is gonna get me out of Lennings. That's what it's gonna do. Get me away from McClellan, from Holt, from all this crap.
    He reached inside the application's envelope and pulled out the essay sheets and