Fergus stopped halfway down the stairs when he realised he hadn’t actually decided how to start the conversation.
He had spent the last ten minutes sitting on the edge of his bed thinking about what he wanted to ask, yet somehow every version had sounded better while nobody was there to hear it.
Asking his parents for something wasn’t unusual, but this felt different from requesting permission to go somewhere with Arthur and William or asking whether they could buy something from the supermarket.
Fergus wasn’t entirely sure what he needed, only that he wanted to change something about himself and had no idea how to do it properly.
The television was playing quietly in the sitting room when he reached the bottom.
Angus was stretched across the sofa watching something while Hamish sat at the kitchen table with a mug of tea.
Diane was standing near the counter sorting through several things she had bought earlier that afternoon, and neither parent looked particularly busy.
Fergus hovered in the doorway long enough for Hamish to notice.
“You planning on coming in?” “Yeah.” “Good.
I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how doors work.” Fergus ignored that and pulled out a chair.
Diane glanced over her shoulder, apparently recognising from his expression that he wanted something, although she didn’t immediately ask.
That somehow made Fergus more conscious of what he was about to say.
“Dad, can I ask you something?” Hamish lowered his mug.
“Depends how expensive it is.” “It’s not about buying something.” “That’s promising.” Fergus hesitated before finally deciding there wasn’t a clever way to phrase it.
“Could you teach me how to get stronger?” Hamish’s eyebrows rose.
For several seconds he looked more surprised than anything else, and Fergus immediately regretted not finding a better way to explain himself.
His father was hardly enormous, but years of factory work had left him considerably stronger than Fergus could imagine himself being.
Fergus had seen him move furniture alone that required Diane to tell him he was being an idiot, carry several heavy shopping bags without thinking about it, and open jars Angus had spent five minutes attacking with both hands.
“You mean exercise?” Hamish asked.
“Yeah.
Like strength training.” Diane stopped putting away the shopping.
Hamish noticed too.
“Careful.
You’ve summoned the nurse.” “I’m listening,” Diane said.
“I haven’t suggested anything yet.” “Exactly.
I’m getting in early.” Fergus smiled despite himself, which made the question feel slightly less uncomfortable.
“I just want to get stronger for basketball.” Hamish leaned back in his chair.
“Has Coach McKenzie told you that you need to?” “No.
Not exactly.” “Then what’s brought this on?” Fergus looked towards the table.
He had known one of them would ask that, but answering required saying aloud something he’d been thinking about for much longer than the St Cuthbert’s game.
“Everyone’s stronger than me.” Hamish’s expression changed slightly.
“Not everyone,” Diane said.
“Most of them are.” Fergus knew how it sounded, and the urge to soften it came almost immediately.
He could have talked entirely about basketball and avoided admitting the part that bothered him outside games, but he’d already started.
“I’m just really skinny.” Neither parent interrupted.
Fergus rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table.
“I know I’m not supposed to be massive or anything.
I’m thirteen.
But even compared with other boys my age, I’m small.
William’s stronger than me, Merrick’s way stronger than me, Jaime’s stronger than me.
Even Arthur’s harder to knock around, and he’s shorter.” That last comparison had annoyed Fergus for months.
Arthur was barely five feet tall, yet his compact build and aggressive way of playing meant opponents rarely moved him as easily as they moved Fergus.
Fergus had three inches on him and somehow still felt less substantial whenever contact occurred.
Hamish rested his forearms on the table.
“Is somebody giving you grief about it?” “No.” “You’re sure?” “Yeah.” Fergus paused.
“Well, Jaime used to call me Flimsy Fergus, but that was before.” Hamish’s face tightened immediately.
“Before what?” “It’s fine, Dad.
Seriously.
He doesn’t really do it anymore.” Diane joined them at the table.
“That’s not quite the question.” “He was being a dick when we first started playing together.
We’re fine now.” “Language,” Diane said automatically.
Hamish looked less concerned about the language.
“And you’re not asking because he’s been saying things again?” “No.
I’m asking because it’s true.” That quieted them.
Fergus didn’t particularly enjoy saying it, but there wasn’t much point pretending otherwise.
The nickname had hurt because Jaime had chosen something Fergus already knew about himself.
He could stand in front of the mirror and see narrow shoulders, thin arms and a body that looked nothing like the players he spent hours watching.
He knew comparing himself with grown professional athletes was ridiculous, but even among the Wallace team he was noticeably slight.
Basketball had made it harder to ignore because every weakness eventually became physical.
“When Merrick screens me at training, if I don’t see him early enough I’m basically gone,” Fergus explained.
“Coach has been teaching me how to get around screens, and I’m getting better at that, but if someone catches me properly, I can’t do much.
Edric hit me with one on Friday, and he’s six foot, so obviously that’s different, but it happens with normal players too.
If someone drives into me, I can stay in front and still get pushed backwards.” Hamish listened without offering the immediate reassurance Fergus had half expected.
“I don’t want to be huge,” Fergus continued.
“I just don’t want being weak to be the reason I can’t do something.” Diane nodded slowly.
“That’s a much better reason than wanting bigger arms.” Fergus glanced down at his arms.
She noticed.
“Oh, you want those too.” “A little.” Hamish laughed, and Fergus couldn’t help joining him.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Hamish said.
“I wanted bigger arms at thirteen.” “You still want bigger arms,” Diane replied.
“Completely different matter.” The embarrassment around the conversation eased, although Fergus’s question remained unanswered.
“So can I?” Hamish scratched his beard.
“I can teach you some things, but I’m probably not the person who should decide what training you ought to be doing.
Most of what I know comes from work and messing around with weights when I was younger.” “You lifted weights?” “A bit.” Diane gave Fergus a meaningful look.
“Your father’s definition of knowing what he’s doing as a teenager was copying whatever his friends were doing.” “It worked.” “You hurt your shoulder.” “That was unrelated.” “It happened while lifting.” Hamish considered that.
“Mostly unrelated.” Fergus laughed again.
Diane turned towards him.
“I’m not against you getting stronger, Fergus.
Resistance training isn’t automatically dangerous just because you’re thirteen, but doing stupid things with weights can be dangerous at any age.
You’re still growing, and I don’t want you deciding that the quickest way to improve is seeing how much weight you can move.” “I wasn’t going to.” “You’ve spent the last few months getting up early to do basketball drills before school.
Forgive me for assuming you might overdo something.” Fergus couldn’t really argue with that.
“So what am I supposed to do?” “First, understand that getting stronger isn’t only about lifting weights.” Diane folded her hands on the table.
“You need enough food, enough sleep and time to recover.
If you’re training basketball several times a week and then adding strength work on top, your body needs something to build with.” “I eat loads.” From the sitting room, Angus shouted, “He ate my crisps!” “They were in the cupboard!” “They were mine!” Diane raised her voice.
“Angus, we’re talking.” There was a grumbled response Fergus couldn’t make out before the television became louder.
Hamish looked towards the sitting room.
“Strong case for the defence.” Fergus rolled his eyes.
Diane continued.
“Eating a lot and eating properly aren’t necessarily the same thing.
I’m not putting you on some ridiculous diet, and you’re certainly not counting every calorie you eat.
You’re thirteen.
But we can make sure you’re getting enough protein, carbohydrates, fruit and vegetables, and that you’re actually eating enough around training.” Fergus immediately thought about the foods he’d seen professional players discuss online.
“Do I need protein powder?” “No.” The speed of Diane’s answer made Hamish grin.
“But…” “No.” “I was just asking.” “And I’ve answered.” Hamish leaned towards Fergus conspiratorially.
“Your first lesson in strength training is not arguing with a nurse about protein powder.” Diane nudged him with her elbow.
“He doesn’t need supplements because he’s decided he wants to get stronger.
We can do plenty with normal food.
Eggs, milk, yoghurt, chicken, fish, beans, lentils, peanut butter, whatever he’ll actually eat.
He needs energy for basketball as well, so we’re not suddenly replacing everything with chicken breasts.” Fergus nodded, trying to remember the list.
“Could I eat more at breakfast?” “You could start by consistently eating breakfast instead of claiming you’re not hungry because you’re running late.” “I normally eat.” “You normally take two pieces of toast and inhale them while putting your shoes on.” “That’s still breakfast.” “It’s an argument for a very generous definition of breakfast.” Hamish smiled into his tea while Fergus accepted the point.
There had been mornings when basketball practice before school had left him starving by first period, and he’d usually treated that as something unavoidable rather than evidence that he needed to change what he was doing.
Diane seemed to read his expression.
“If you’re serious about training more, we’ll work something out.
It doesn’t need to be fancy.
Porridge, eggs, yoghurt, toast, fruit.
Things we already buy.” The last part mattered.
Fergus knew enough about the family’s finances not to ask for an entirely different collection of expensive foods simply because he’d decided he wanted to gain strength.
Basketball already cost money through shoes, travel and everything else surrounding the team.
The idea of creating another expense had been one reason he’d hesitated before coming downstairs.
“I don’t want you buying loads of special stuff.” “We’re not going to,” Diane said.
“Most of what you’d need is ordinary food.” Hamish nodded.
“And before we buy equipment, let me ask around at work.
Couple of the lads there train properly.
One of them does some coaching at a gym, I think.
I’ll find out what they recommend for someone your age.” Fergus brightened.
“Really?” “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m bringing home a barbell tomorrow.” “I wasn’t asking for one.” “Good, because your mother would probably use it to kill me.” “I’d make it look accidental,” Diane said.
Fergus grinned.
The conversation drifted into what strength training might actually look like.
Hamish suggested push-ups and squats as obvious places to begin, while Diane repeatedly added the words controlled and sensible whenever Hamish became too enthusiastic.
Fergus had expected them to tell him exactly what to do, but he gradually realised neither wanted to pretend expertise they didn’t possess.
Strangely, that made him trust the conversation more.
“What about gaining weight?” Fergus eventually asked.
Diane’s answer was more measured this time.
“You’ll gain weight naturally as you grow.
If you’re eating enough and training sensibly, some of that will eventually be muscle.
But I don’t want you chasing a number on the scales.” “I’m ninety-eight pounds.” “I know.” Fergus looked at her.
“Is that too light?” “For what?” “Me.” Diane considered him for a moment before answering.
“One number doesn’t tell me very much by itself, especially when you’re thirteen and still growing.
I’m more interested in whether you’re healthy, eating properly, developing normally and able to do what you need to do.
If I were worried about your weight medically, you’d know.” That wasn’t quite the answer Fergus had expected.
“So I shouldn’t try to get to, like, one-ten?” “Not as some target you’ve invented.” “What if basketball would be easier at one-ten?” “It probably would be easier if you were stronger,” Hamish said, “but that doesn’t mean forcing yourself to weigh a particular amount gets you there.” Diane nodded.
“Exactly.
You could gain twelve pounds badly just as easily as you could gain it well.
Concentrate on habits and let your body develop.” Fergus leaned back in his chair and thought about that.
The System encouraged numbers everywhere.
Fifty successful screen navigations.
Thirty-day missions.
Hooper Coins.
Skill tiers.
Progress could usually be measured somehow, and Fergus liked that because numbers made improvement feel concrete.
His body apparently wasn’t going to be so cooperative.
“How long would it take?” he asked.
Hamish laughed quietly.
“There it is.” “What?” “The question you actually wanted answered.” Fergus smiled reluctantly.
Diane was less amused, although not stern.
“Months before you’d expect meaningful changes.
Longer for bigger ones.
And because you’re growing anyway, it’ll be difficult to separate training from normal development.” “Months?” “Yes.” Fergus frowned.
“You’ve been playing basketball seriously for how long?” Hamish asked.
“Months.” “And you’re already annoyed that getting stronger might take a few more?” “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.” “That’s because it is a little stupid.” Diane gave Hamish a look.
“What?
I’m encouraging patience.” “Beautifully.” Fergus smiled, but the point stayed with him.
He had accepted without much complaint that shooting required thousands of repetitions and that his left hand needed constant work before it became reliable.
Somehow he’d imagined strength might be different, as though there were a routine he could begin on Monday and physically feel working by Friday.
Maybe that was because strength bothered him differently.
Missing a shot was something he did.
Being skinny felt like something he was.
Fergus looked down at his forearms resting against the table and realised that distinction had probably been sitting underneath the entire conversation.
Hamish seemed to notice where his attention had gone.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Fergus.” “I know.” “And I mean that.
Wanting to get stronger is fine.
Probably useful if you’re serious about basketball.
Just don’t turn it into thinking you need to look like somebody else.” Fergus nodded.
He appreciated that Hamish didn’t labour the point.
“I still want to do it.” “Then we’ll help.” Diane reached across and squeezed his shoulder.
“Sensibly.” “Sensibly,” Fergus agreed.
Hamish looked thoughtful.
“There’s somebody else you should probably ask before we decide anything.” Fergus already knew.
“Coach.” “Exactly.
He’s played professionally.
He’ll know what basketball players actually need better than anyone I can ask at the factory.” Fergus thought about McKenzie: six-foot-five, broad even now, and someone who had spent years playing professionally before the broken leg ended his career.
Fergus had somehow spent weeks asking him about defence, shooting, screens and positioning without considering that physical development was also part of basketball.
“He’ll probably tell me I’m weak.” Hamish shrugged.
“You just spent half an hour telling us you’re weak.” “That’s different.” “How?” “It just is.” Diane smiled.
“I’m sure you’ll survive.” Fergus stayed downstairs for another twenty minutes while the conversation gradually moved elsewhere.
Angus eventually wandered into the kitchen looking for the crisps Fergus had supposedly stolen, discovered there were still some left, and immediately abandoned his grievance.
Hamish began making dinner while Diane checked something for work, and the seriousness that had made Fergus hesitate on the stairs disappeared into an ordinary Sunday evening.
Yet the conversation remained with him after he returned upstairs.
He didn’t feel stronger.
Nothing had actually changed yet.
There wasn’t even a proper routine.
But for the first time, Fergus had stopped treating his body as an inconvenience he simply had to tolerate until he grew older.
He could work on it just as he worked on his handle, his shooting and his defence, provided he was patient enough to do it properly.
That last part might be difficult.
Fergus smiled as he sat at his desk.
Tomorrow was Monday.
And Andrew McKenzie was going to receive another question.