Leverage Read Online Free PDF Page B

through their masks, both hungry to flatten me, give me a real warm welcome. A shudder runs up to my skull, twisting my neck as an imaginary yoke comes undone. I stare back at Studblatz until the face under his helmet is the man that used to enter my room at night reeking of whiskey and cigarettes, belt buckle already rising, waiting to make its mark. The right toe of my cleat digs into the turf, creating a starting block. The world beyond me and him melts into the color of fire. The source of all pain, all hurt, crouches in front of me, begging to be snuffed out of existence.
    Quarterback calls out his cadence, then lets loose one sharp cry. I hear no more. My thighs expand as I lower, understanding all about leverage and the physics of unearthing bodies. I bull’s-eye him under his chest, aiming for that crease at his waist, feeling his legs crab-scramble too late. My shoulder catches his gut while Peters, an afterthought, tries wrapping me up at the calves. Peters catches a pumping knee under his chin strap and drops like a stone. My target ain’t as lucky. Folded over the rising plank of my shoulder pad, his feet leave the ground as I drive him backward. Legs airborne, his feet kick in tandem for the ground. Rushing toward annihilation, I welcome the hug of gravity as our combined weight accelerates. I ride big boy onto his back, body-slamming him into the grass, his chest absorbing my shoulder, deflating like a used air bag. First sound coming through my helmet’s ear hole is a satisfying “Ooofff!”
    Pushing off him to stand up, Crud Bucket vanishes, leaving behind only the smoldering remains of Studblatz. He doesn’t move. The wind’s knocked out of him, maybe more. Terrence sprints past with the ball for about ten yards and then slows. No one’s watching Terrence, though.
    I feel and smell them: the pack. They watch me from under their helmets, not saying anything until their leader speaks. Unsure how to respond, they wait for a signal to attack or accept. Just like first day at group home.
    â€œJesus!” Scott Miller cackles. “I think Studblatz might be pregnant after that one.”
    Assistant Coach Stein runs over to Studblatz, kneels down to him, and shines a penlight in his eyes.
    â€œMy, my, my,” Coach Brigs says, holding his chin in his hand.
    â€œDamn, boy!” Pullman, one of the linemen, whistles.
    â€œWalk it off, ’Blatz. Walk it off.” Rondo, our center, chuckles.
    Coach claps his hands to restart the team.
    I am numb with release.
    â€œHey, man.” Terrence jogs up to me and slaps me on the butt. “I got a feeling you and me are gonna be real tight. Real tight. Shit, man. I ain’t no homo but you do that for me in the games and I’ll be riding your ass all the way to the end zone and a scoring title.”
    Size. Power. Ferocity. Establish you have the most of all three and everyone leaves you alone. That’s how you survive those places. And if you find a brother like Lamar, a brother you trust with your life, to watch your back, then you’ve doubled your odds.

7
    DANNY
    W hat the hell are you freaks doing in here?” Mike Studblatz challenges.
    I was wondering the same thing when Coach Nelson led us into the heart of the gorilla cave. The varsity weight room is technically open to all team athletes, no matter what sport, but during fall season, the unspoken rule is no one comes in here except football players—until today. My eyes wander from Studblatz to another gorilla pacing in front of a mirror, holding thick dumbbells, pumping them up and down.
    â€œGet some, bitch,” Tom Jankowski huffs at his reflection, focused on the image of his log-arms bulging with each dumbbell curl, missing the nervous monkeys skittering past him, staying as close to our coach as possible.
    Coach Nelson walks right up to Mike Studblatz and yanks out his earbuds by their wire. Studblatz’s eyes open wide in surprise and