Read Online Leverage by Joshua C. Cohen - Free Book Online Page B

while his lips curl and his nose crinkles.
    â€œYou can’t throw it out right away because someone might find it,” Bruce warns, deadly serious. “This mission isn’t over yet. You’ve got to hold on to it, rinse it out, and it should be good as new. I want to see you drinking out of it tomorrow in practice, you got it?”
    â€œWh-what?” Pete asks, his voice rising. I look at Bruce, thinking he lost his mind downstairs. “Bu-but you can’t be ... You’re kidding.”
    â€œYes, I am, freshman.” Bruce clasps Pete’s shoulder. “Throw that thing away off school grounds first chance you get.”
    Bruce looks at the rest of us, his eyes twinkling with victory. “Okay, not a word, guys. See you tomorrow. Good practice today.”

10
    KURT
    W e play the Jefferson Patriots that Friday, our first game, an away game. We clobber them. Ain’t even close and I still only know about half the plays we’re running, since I missed all of preseason training camp. Coach pulls me out of the offense every other snap, then gives me strict instructions on the sidelines for the following play and then sends me back into the huddle.
    The Jefferson fans are hopping mad almost from the start after Studblatz levels their quarterback on a linebacker blitz, forcing a Jefferson substitution. When they bring out the stretcher and call an injury time-out, Studblatz hippity-hops on the field like he’s riding someone, slapping an imaginary ass, and pointing at the Jefferson bench. That’s when the first volley of soda cups flies toward our bench. Studblatz just pumps his arms at the Jefferson fans, taunting them with a double-biceps bodybuilder pose. He’s been supercharged all night. Miller and Jankowski, too. Has something to do with their uniforms not being washed or still being wet or smelling or something. Miller smells the worst, and no one wants to get close enough to ask him for details. The other two stink like piss. They stink up the bus on the way to the game, and they stink up the huddle during the game. The three of them boil all through warm-ups, grinding on their mouth guards and daring any of us to say a word out of place.
    Once it’s clear to the Jefferson fans that Coach is running up the score, garbage really starts sailing out from the bleachers, forcing us to wear our helmets on the sidelines.
    â€œBrodsky!” Coach barks. He always wants me within ten feet of him so he can grab me, shout the next play, and snap-count into my face mask, then send me hustling out to the team with a slap on the butt like I’m a horse needing a giddyup. I scramble out to our midfield huddle. Scott Miller stands there, hands on his hips, impatient to get the play, impatient even if I’m traveling at the speed of light.
    I meet him and we clank face masks while I repeat Coach’s play just above the crowd noise. “Fullback draw, sweep right on three,” I tell him. He nods and turns away from me to gather us into a circle and repeat Coach’s instructions.
    â€œYou take this ball all the way to the goalposts, Brodsky, or I’m telling Coach you called his wife a troll.” Miller snarls but then winks, leaving me wondering if he’s joking. Because we’re killing Jefferson so badly by the fourth quarter, some of his anger over the polluted uniform has evaporated. Not so with Jankowski. He reaches across the huddle and grabs my face mask in his hand, jerking my head into alignment with his gaze.
    â€œI’m not clearing a trench so you can run five yards and fall on your ass.” Jankowski grunts. “You want a little respect, rookie, now’s the time to earn it.” His eyes narrow at me, angry for no reason at all. When I wear my helmet and pads, all my scars feel hidden and my stutter mostly dries up. I feel powerful at these times and not willing to take much shit.
    â€œYou just make a luh-lane,” I say,