“I just don’t see what she could’ve seen in them. From what I saw, Jason didn’t practice football—like, ever. They couldn’t have been any good before the steroids. Freaky kid, not exactly championship material. And that coach—I mean, I’ve had some hard workouts in my life, let me tell you. And in my afterlife,” he added, slapping his abs. “But I swear, the shit that coach had them doing, they were like soldiers. No way parents signed off on that.”

Jack sloshed down two shots of Jäger in front of us, and Trey wrapped a hand around each.

“Not to mention”—he threw back one shot and then the next—“I don’t know how the steroids could’ve gotten into them. They never drank any damn water.”

—

I BARELY FINISHED MY beer before I was out of there. I tore down the street, leaping over anything that looked even remotely like a puddle, and through my front door as soon as my rusted key would let me. I needed to look at Cal’s file again. To dig deeper.

I found it way in the back:

The story of the General himself.