Free Leverage by Joshua C. Cohen

“or take the ball if you think you can do better. But Coach didn’t cuh-call for a left guard sweep.”
    Jankowski just grunts again and releases my face mask. I hear Terrence, our running back, snicker. Terrence’s been in good spirits ever since we increased our lead by four touchdowns in the third quarter. He started smiling in warm-ups and now the game is one big party for him. It helps that Jankowski and I have been smashing open the line of scrimmage all night, allowing him to rack up huge yardage. I think everyone expected to win, but not by this much.
    â€œOn three, ladies,” Scott says. We clap once and break huddle. I line up two strides behind Scott’s right shoe and scan the field. No wonder we’re stomping Jefferson. Their entire line, except for one guy, Adams, is smaller than us. We might as well be scrimmaging against our JV team. Jefferson’s defense sets up, but we’ve already broken them. Their helmets sag while they squat, waiting for the snap, expecting to get pushed around. Scott’s been untouched all night, hitting his receivers almost every pass and throwing two sweet connections resulting in touchdowns in the first and second quarter.
    â€œReady . . . set ... thirty-five red ... two eighty-seven . . .” Scott calls out the cadence. I let my eyes wander the whole line so as not to give away where I’ll aim or even if I expect the ball. Jankowski drops to all fours, his butt big as a mule’s, each thigh larger than a freshman, and awaits Scott’s command.
    â€œHut,” Scott barks, “. . . hut . . . HUT!”
    The ball snaps up through Rondo’s legs and into Scott’s hands. He swivels around to make like he’s feeding it to Terrence crossing in front of me but then jams the ball into my gut instead. I clamp down on it and steer for Jankowski’s jersey. Jankowski’s good to his word, blowing a hole through their line big enough to drive a car through. He single-handedly shoves three guys left while Peller tangles up Adams. I burn through the line break, twist away from a last-ditch hand clutch, and twenty yards of open field greet me like a prize. Jefferson’s cornerback and safety, both downfield, are my only obstacles. I steam ahead, gaining momentum, expecting Jefferson’s safety to try and cut me off, preparing for the hit ...
    Terrence comes out of nowhere, racing up from behind me, and slams Jefferson’s safety right between the jersey numbers. Their collision slides past my face mask like rain on a windshield. Fifteen yards to the goal line and I’m still charging as the Jefferson cornerback dives for my knees. I power up into the air and hurdle his outstretched body, my foot nicking his helmet, but I go past otherwise untouched. I coast into the end zone and then jog back, tossing the ref the ball before Terrence leaps up into my chest and hugs me like we just won the championship. Then Rondo lumbers down to meet me and head-butts my helmet. A gang of teammates slap my shoulders and helmet and buzz around me all the way back to the bench. A few more soda cups come flying out of the bleachers, like an offering, and Coach Brigs is there, beaming at me.
    â€œGood boy!” He smacks my helmet with his clipboard like maybe he’s proud of me, except I got no experience with that, so I’m not sure how that looks. For a second, I try pretending he’s my dad but it disappears, like trying to glimpse a firefly after the glow dies.
    â€œHey, Brodsky,” Studblatz calls out, “looks like you might not be worthless after all.”
    â€œBrodsky.” Jankowski stalks over to me. The other players move out of his way. “We might keep you around for a few more games.” He pounds my shoulder pad with the meat of his fist.
    â€œNuh-nice hole you opened up,” I say back.
    â€œWe can’t give Terrence all the glory,” Jankowski says. We both ignore his bad smell