I’m stepping forward, with plans for reaching up for the frame, when my foot strikes something loose but bulky on the floor beside the recliner. Looking down, I see it’s Tank’s wrestling bag. I stare at it and poke my foot against the canvas a few times, feeling and hearing all kinds of things moving around inside.

I hear Tank rifling through drawers in his dad’s bedroom, and I think about just how good of a wrestler he is, light years beyond the competition. In the past three years, Tank Foster hasn’t come close to losing a match. He’s the total package on the mat, dominating his opponents both physically and mentally in ways that even the most experienced college scouts admit they’ve never seen before. I can’t remember how many weight classes he’s moved up since freshman year, but he’s put on at least sixty pounds of pure muscle since then.

I guess, deep down, I’ve always known Tank’s on the juice. I mean, dudes my age don’t turn into muscle-bound freaks without a little assistance. Of course, sometimes you don’t need to know the whole truth about your friends, but the little spy mode or whatever I’m currently in has boosted my curiosity to new levels … convincing me that maybe I do need to know for certain if Tank’s cheating or not.

Crouching for a closer look, I unzip the bag and probe around inside, finding the usual stuff: headgear, wrestling shoes, smelly singlets and socks, athletic tape, and athlete’s foot spray. Down at the bottom, however, I see two empty amber-colored pill bottles with white safety caps. Inspecting the white labels, I’m not surprised to see the following printed on each: Dianabol (D-Bol).

I know what this stuff is. Dianabol is one of the most common oral steroids available. Anybody can buy it online. So yeah, I’m a little disappointed with the fact that he’s cheating to get ahead, and part of me is wondering how much more of this junk he might have stashed away in the crawlspace, but on the other hand, he’s just keeping up with the competition, because anybody who doesn’t think certain elite high school athletes pop steroids is living in denial.

So big deal, right? It’s really none of my business, is it? No, of course not.

So I simply shove the bottles back down to the bottom of the bag and tell myself this little discovery never occurred. It’s his body, not mine.

I hear Tank close and lock Big Dale’s door, so I hustle back to the kitchen. Tank rounds the corner and raises a yellow Bic lighter and a glossy magazine above his head as if they’re wrestling trophies.