Leverage Read Free Page B

seems capable of anything.
    â€œSuh-suh-Scott,” he says, addressing Miller, somehow knowing he’s the leader. “Cuh-cuh-cuh-Coach sent me to fuh-fuh-fuh-find you. Ta-ta-ta-told me to introduce muh-muh-muh-myself after delivering his muh-muh-muh-message.”
    Kurt Brodsky, either because of, or in spite of, his stuttering, has everyone’s full attention. Miller, Jankowski, and Studblatz, faces full of confusion, blink dully and nod in unison for him to continue. Actually, we might all be doing that.
    â€œCuh-cuh-cuh-Coach suh-suh-said, ‘Tu-tu-tell them suh-suh-suh-sonsabuh-buh-bitches if they don’t have their asses out on that field in fuh-fuh-fuh-five minutes, they can ruh-ruh-run sprints until muh-muh-midnight.’ ”
    â€œWho the fuck are you?” Jankowski woofs.
    â€œKuh-kuh-kuh-Kurt Buh-buh-Brodsky. Your new fuh-fuh-fullback.”
    Miller, Jankowski, and Studblatz all cock their heads as if hearing their master’s sharp whistle. They push past us in their hurry to get back to their locker room and change into their practice uniforms, not bothering to wait for their new teammate.

4
    KURT
    T here he is,” Coach Brigs says, waving me into his office while his other hand holds a phone up to his ear. “Bibi, our future star has finally arrived,” he tells the phone, winking at me, getting his fill of my face, taking in my scars without apology. He did the same thing—wink and everything—the first time we met. I try forcing a smile, but the best I can do is get the left corner of my mouth to lift a little. Coach gestures for me to sit down on an old vinyl couch with cracks in the seat cushions while he nods to something said on the other end of the phone. My butt hits the couch, and it keeps on sinking until I’m sure it’s about to go clear through to the floor. When it finally stops, I’m almost squatting. My knees poke up toward my chin, making my high-water pants ride up even farther, almost to my calf.
    â€œBibi, that Jumbotron is going up in our stadium. I don’t care if they have to slash the budget for those other sports to cover it. Hell, half of ’em aren’t real sports anyways. Everyone knows our program generates the revenue. We subsidize the rest of them. Without football they don’t exist. That Jumbotron is coming. Bet on it! My baby is coming. Tell the alumni association it’s the best damn recruitment tool around. Hell, we’ll have half the state scrambling to move into our school district to get their boys in our program. We’ll beat the pants off any charter schools and double—maybe triple—state contribution revenue. Property values will go through the roof. And the school board’ll get their cut in increased property taxes . . .”
    I wait for him to finish his phone call and watch players pass by outside the large window made of shatterproof glass—the kind that has chicken wire sandwiched inside it—separating Coach’s office from the rest of the varsity team locker room. Inside his office, the wall behind Coach Brigs’s desk is filled with team photos going back at least two decades. Trophy shelves line two other walls, brightening the painted cinder block with cheap-looking gold figurines, all of them helmeted with arms cocked back to throw a football. The maroon and gold paint, the team colors, must’ve been applied right after they built the place, based on the gray murk dulling them now.
    â€œIt’s about time we got our hands on you, son,” Coach Brigs says after finally hanging up the phone. He stands up and comes around his desk, and it takes me a second to get unfolded from the couch. When I do he shakes my hand, gripping it hard and pumping it twice before dropping it to put his hands on my shoulders. He stands there staring at me, his eyes returning again to my scars before traveling over the rest of my body. “You been eating