Wingman – Rise of Chet: A Comedic Coming of Age Misadventure: The Misadventures of Grayson, #0

By Chad Whybrew

Witness the rise of the Brah—before he gets his wings.

Chet Burrah is a rising football star, even if nobody else knows it yet. With hopes of playing for the Beacon Montgomery University football team, he's prepared to outwork his competition. That means hitting the gym, perfecting his homemade pre-workout recipe, and of course, sabotaging whoever gets in his way—be it professors, teammates, or frat brothers. Chet is dead set on proving himself to be the greatest college athlete of all time, come hell or high water.

…Most likely the former.

Buy Now to see how the Brah gets his wings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MW Press, LLC
• Release date: Jun 1, 2025
• ISBN: 9781959587132

Chad Whybrew

Chad Whybrew is exactly who you'd expect him to be. Shredded, popular, and fun. Voted "Most Likely to Help Others," Chad took the college frat scene by storm, and since graduating with a degree in Women's and Gender Studies, he's made it his mission to help the bros reach their full potential. WINGMAN: COLLEGE CRAZE is his first novel, and WINGMAN: RISE OF CHET is his first novella.

Book preview

One

Chet the Brah stepped out of the taxicab and stiffed the driver as he collected his luggage. Sorry, bro, fresh out of cash. Next time, though? I’ve got you covered. For sure.

Chet knew full well there wouldn’t be a next time. So did the driver. The man cursed at Chet in some language he didn’t understand, too busy staring at the vast campus to pay the driver any heed. Tall brick buildings rose on the three other sides of Hartford Quad, and on the long, tree-lined hill, a few guys tossed frisbees while several girls tanned on blankets.

At long last… Beacon Montgomery University. Chet adjusted his sunglasses and glanced at himself in the taxi’s window. He’d picked the perfect ensemble for a first impression: an American flag tank top, blue khaki shorts, and sandals—plus a full-body shave. Satisfied, he picked up both of his bags and ditched the cab. Four years of great football, epic parties, and hot chicks… Let it begin.

A small smirk formed on Chet’s lips as he walked toward the sunbathing girls—only for his path to be blocked by an overeager upperclassman wearing a blue Move Crew shirt and a green lanyard which revealed his name: Miles Cappola. Junior. Business major.

Does he really not have anything better to do? Chet wondered. He turned his head, looking at the other move-crew students standing along the street. They greeted freshmen who’d just arrived and carried luggage to the various dorms.

Welcome to Hartford Quad! Miles said with too much enthusiasm. I’ll be your helper today. Which dorm are you—

No help needed. Thanks, though. Chet smiled, knowing better than to create enemies without cause. A smile and a kind word—even if insincere—tended to go a long way. Still holding his suitcase and duffel bag filled with football equipment—his only personal possessions worth bringing to college—Chet tried to walk past Miles. He didn’t know where his dorm was, but asking the sunbathing girls seemed like the perfect conversation starter.

And an easy way to invite them up to his room.

However, the upperclassman just couldn’t take the hint. Rather than disappear, he walked alongside Chet across the street and onto the lawn’s green grass. So, are you excited for Freshman Orientation?

Freshman Orientation… It’s worse than a Bring Your Own Beer party. Both were to be avoided at all costs. That Chet was a freshman didn’t matter—anything he needed to learn would be taught on the football field or in the frat houses. Not in an orientation and definitely not in some classroom. Chet turned his head, dismissing Miles. Nope.

You’re… not? Miles asked, a frown tugging at his lips. He still didn’t leave.

Taking notice of Miles’s pencil-thin mustache, noodle arms, and frazzled red hair, Chet asked, Mind if I give you some advice? Before Miles could answer, he added, Cut your hair a little shorter and hit the gym. It’ll make moving stuff easier. Plus, girls will like you more. Win-win.

Reaching into his back pocket, Chet pulled out a clear baggie of white powder: Mach-7, his perfected pre-workout recipe. It’d taken him three years and seven iterations to get it just right. Being a third of the price as store-bought pre-workout and twice as potent, it was his secret weapon to becoming king of the gym rats. Take this about fifteen minutes before you start your workout. And if your skin starts to itch, you know it’s working.

Miles refused to take the baggie. "Are those… drugs?" he asked, leaning away as if Chet held a virus—not a workout supplement.

And put my football career in jeopardy? God no. When that didn’t seem to convince Miles, Chet raised an eyebrow and asked, "You really think I’d offer you drugs?"

I… Don’t you… I don’t…

Chet sighed as Miles just stood there, unable to form a complete sentence. Just forget it, he eventually said, stuffing the baggie back into his pocket. Nerds. They can write essays but can’t read them aloud. No communication skills… Some people learn all the wrong lessons.

What’d you say your name was? Miles asked, his expression tightening.

Jacob Harris, Chet replied without a second’s hesitation. Miles looked like the type of guy who’d snitch on him. No point in offering his real name, and not answering would only pique his curiosity. Better to lie.

Patting Miles’s shoulder and ruffling his hair, Chet abandoned him and joined the girls sunbathing on the hill. He dropped his bags loudly on the grass beside them, and when they looked up, he asked, Either of you know where Neiman Hall is? Got lost and could use some help.

The blonde—in a pink bikini top and jean shorts—smiled at him and pointed toward the dorm at the top of the lawn. Right up there.

Chet frowned, looking up the hill and pretending not to see it. "Where? I don’t see anything. You mind helping me? I just seem to be so lost."

I’m too sober for that line, the girl said, rolling her eyes. But she did smile with that red lipstick, which encouraged Chet.

Me too, Chet said, opening his suitcase and pulling out the handle of vodka inside. Cheap liquor that he’d bought with his new fake ID. Care for a drink?

Here? she asked, scoffing.

Chet shrugged. It’s as good a place as any.

She shook her head. No—

I’ll take some, said her friend, a brunette in a red bikini top and identical jean shorts.

Jenny! the blonde said, aghast.

You said no, Amy, the brunette—Jenny, apparently—replied while batting her eyelashes at Chet. Doesn’t mean I have to.

Definitely my type of girl, Chet thought, grabbing her outstretched hand to pull her to her feet. He handed her the handle of liquor, positioning himself to hide its contents. After she took a pull from it, Chet asked, Still thirsty?

Not at the moment, Jenny replied. But I might be thirsty later tonight.

Tonight it is then. Chet smirked, taking her meaning. I’m in Neiman Hall, Room 309. Swing by whenever you want.

Stowing the alcohol back into his bag and kissing Jenny goodbye, he walked across the lawn toward the brick building at the far side, ignoring the other move crew students outside and climbing up to the third floor of Neiman Hall. Halfway down the corridor, Chet discovered his room—and a sock on the doorknob.

Bullshit, he said, slack-jawed. Ace couldn’t have found a girl faster than me.

Chet shoved the door open and immediately looked around, not seeing a girl inside. Only two beds, desks, and drawers. A window hung on the far side, overlooking the parking lot. The door to the semi-private bathroom eventually swung ajar, and Ace Hamilton came into view.

In some ways, looking at Ace was like looking in a mirror. A much taller reflection with straight black hair spiked upward, brown eyes, and a short beard. He wore a torn white tank top with the phrase Right to Bare Arms and green shorts. No shoes.

Bro, you didn’t get a girl in here already, did you? Chet asked before anything else.

Nah, just wanted to see how long you’d sit out there, Ace said, grinning. He greeted Chet with an overly complicated set of hand movements: two palm slaps, one finger snap, three first bumps, and a shoulder lock. So, the Brah is finally in the building.

Damn straight—and the name’s official now. Check it. Chet pulled out his fake ID and showed it to Ace. While the picture was of him, the ID was for Rhode Island—a place he never had any intention of visiting. Instead of twenty-year-old Chet Tucker, twenty-three-year-old Chet Burrah owned the card.

"Chet… Burrah? Ace asked, bending it slightly as if expecting it to shatter into a million pieces. B-U-R-R-A-H, huh?"

Well, yeah. Chet the Brah would’ve just been foolish.

Yeah, totally. Ace seemed to swallow a laugh. "You know brah is spelled B-R-A-H, right?"

I think I know how to spell my own last name, Chet said with a snort, taking back his fake ID.

"I suppose it could’ve been worse. You could’ve chosen McLovin, Ace said. If you hate the name Tucker so much, why not just get an official name change?"

Tucker—Chet’s parents’ surname. Not that they’d ever been his parents, not really. In and out of jail, in and out of his life. More so out. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real conversation with either of them. Three years ago, maybe? Before John Phillips, his high school coach, had really taken Chet under his wing and put a real roof over his head.

So why don’t I change it? Chet wondered, not that he had to think hard to find two reasons. The first? Chet Phillips didn’t have a great ring to it, and if he did officially change his name, that was really the only option. And two? If his parents ever got their shit together, he might forgive them. Maybe.

To answer Ace’s original question, Chet shrugged, throwing his bags onto the empty bed on the far side of the room. Officially changing a name is just too much work. Interviews, paperwork, and all that. The fake ID is easier and better.

Makes sense. Ace watched him unpack, asking, Where’s your backpack?

Don’t have one, Chet said, pulling his clothes from the oversized suitcase, which contained his limited wardrobe. Polo shirts, khakis, and sandals for parties. Tank tops, shorts, and flat shoes for working out. Jockstraps and crop tops for football practice. One suit for rushing frats. Nothing else.

What do you mean you don’t have a backpack? Ace asked. What are you going to do for classes?

Chet shrugged. I’ve got a couple of weeks to figure it out.

Dude, classes start in two days, Ace said.

"Yeah, but I’m not going for two weeks. Chet spoke over Ace’s immediate protests, adding, We’ve got football tryouts coming up! Until then, I’m going to be grinding in the gym and on the track. I’ve got to be fast and strong—I’ll need your help with that, you know. Not all of us get to be 6’4 and on scholarship.

Chet said so with a light tone, but the words carried a heavy weight. Ace, his best friend in high school, had been a five-star recruit and gotten a scholarship to play safety here at Beacon Montgomery, one of the best football colleges in the country. But at 5’9" and 210 lbs, Chet was a dime-a-dozen football player. A three-star recruit who could only get a scholarship at small schools. At least until he proved his worth.

And I will. I’ll be 6’0" and 225 lbs in no time. Of course, the 6’0" part would only be on paper. And with heel cups. Nobody else needed to know that, though.

For the last three months, he’d been training with Coach Phillips, the man who’d practically raised him. Instead of focusing entirely on strength like most of the other players had been doing, Chet spent his time working on speed. Cardio too, as much as he hated it. Lots of backpedaling, catching, and tackling drills. Anything that could give him an edge—including his pre-workout.

Seeing Ace frown, Chet continued, You know I’m happy you got a scholarship, bro. I really am. But that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna let you do this thing alone. I gotta get a scholarship too. Even if I’ve gotta grind for it.

I’ll help you out when I’m not in classes, Ace replied with a smile. He scratched the back of his head. Speaking of which, do you even know what classes you’re taking?

Sure, Chet said, pulling his schedule out of his back pocket. On it were notes about his four fall-semester classes: Dream Interpretation, Music Appreciation, Introduction to Psychology, and Introduction to Gender Studies.

Dude… What is your major going to be? Ace asked.

Whatever’s easiest, Chet replied. I’m guessing that’ll be psychology, but we’ll see. If gender studies isn’t unbearable, it might be that one. You?

Ace rattled off his classes from memory: Introduction to Psychology—which they shared—Introduction to Economics, English Composition, and Calculus. The latter three were classes that made Chet want to throw up. Especially calculus.

Why would you ever do that to yourself? Life’s too short to learn… whatever you learn in calculus.

"Yes, because I’d much rather take Intro to Gender Studies," Ace mocked.

Feel free to go in my place for the next couple of weeks. Chet pulled his supplements and pre-workout supplies from his football bag. Various bottles of individual ingredients, mostly in capsule form.

Ace picked up the bottle of pure beta-alanine. Don’t tell me… This is for Mach-6?

Nah. Mach-7. Upgraded it two weeks ago to add some extra pump, Chet replied with a mischievous grin. He grabbed the bottle from Ace and shook it. This is the stuff that’ll give you the itch.

Mach-6 almost gave me a heart attack last time I took it, Ace replied, eyeing the supplements dubiously. What could you have possibly added to it now?

My secret sauce, Chet replied mysteriously, taking out one of the baggies of Mach-7 from his back pocket and dumping it into a workout bottle. While shaking it, he handed another packet to Ace, who dumped it into his own water. Cheers, bro. To the first day of the rest of our lives.

Knowing you? Ace asked, tapping Chet’s bottle. They’ll be pretty short.

Two

The pump kicked in fifteen minutes after Chet and Ace ingested Mach-7. By that time, they’d walked halfway across campus to get to the athletics facility. Being an elite football team, Beacon Montgomery expected nothing less than the best—and that expectation showed in the architecture alone. The Cobbs Football Facility connected to the colossal Carrey Field and sat adjacent to the practice facilities for the other, less-important sports. Like baseball.

God, I hate baseball, Chet thought, eyeing the baseball field in the distance. Nine guys on the field and only one doing the work. You just sit around for four hours, and you don’t even get to hit anybody.

You know the deal, Ace said, pulling Chet from his thoughts. He looked nervous as they approached the football facility. If anyone asks—

You didn’t let me in, Chet replied, glancing at the front entrance. I won’t rat on you, bro. Trust me.

A giant bull—the mascot of BMU—stood proudly outside the entrance at the base of a set of stairs, spouting dark-blue water from its gray horns. In a half circle, four bronze statues of the prior head coaches stood around it, along with plaques commemorating their accolades. Between them, nine conference championships and three national titles.

But the current head coach had four by himself.

Chet swallowed the nervousness in his throat. Coach Phillips is friends with the director of operations, and that guy already told the head coach about you. You’ve turned in all your applications and signed all the paperwork for the walk-on tryouts. Now all you gotta do is show up and prove your worth. Easy.

Exhaling, Chet released his worries as Ace placed his student-athlete ID card against the door at the top of the steps. When it unlocked, Chet opened the door and walked inside like he owned the place. Not too slow to be a tourist. Not too quick to be suspicious. Confident and calm. Almost bored. Without a word or a glance at the people at the entrance, Chet walked down an adjacent hallway toward the football locker rooms—if only because Ace already told him which way to go.

But after he passed the front desk and walked down the hallway, Chet slowed down. On the walls were pictures of famous players who’d gone on to play in the NFL. From the ceiling hung tenets: honor, strength, and courage.

Crazy, right? Ace asked, catching up to Chet. First time I was in here, I thought I was dreaming. Check this out.

Instead of going right toward the workout facility, Ace went left, and Chet followed. Together, they entered a trophy room filled with Heisman Trophies, Lombardi Awards, and championship-ring replicas. Plaques hung on the walls beside the trophies of bowl games, conference championships, and national titles. Even NFL helmets for all the pro-football alumni decorated a floor-to-ceiling shelf alongside a running tally of their total salary earnings. Currently, the number was well in the billions.

Chet stared in awe as Ace talked to him, barely hearing the words. He could only imagine making his mark in the trophy room and adding to the team. Though Ace dragged him to other areas—a multi-purpose room filled with studying tables and arcade games, locker rooms containing personalized stalls for each player, and an indoor stadium lined with astroturf instead of grass—Chet only pulled out of his haze when they entered the strength and conditioning center.