I squat and wait for the snap. When their center’s hand moves, I hit hard, trying to pierce the line.
Another snap, another hit.
Slam. Snap. Slam.
I glance over to the sideline. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Something draws my attention.
It’s O. He’s talking to April.
They stand together, away from the other cheerleaders. He’s probably reading her the riot act, making sure she knows there’s nothing going on between them. He’s working his magic for me, just like he said he would.
Worcester snaps, and I press the line. I don’t get through, but I try my best.
I look to the sideline again.
O. is still talking to April, only now she’s laughing. She doesn’t look like someone who’s getting let down easy. She looks like she’s having fun. O. is relaxed and smiling, his helmet balanced in the crook of his arm.
Worcester snaps. I wrestle with a linebacker. When I hit this time, I use my elbows. I make sharp angles and try to stick them into him. Two or three attempts, and my elbow connects in the space beneath his pads, and he crumbles.
Worcester’s quarterback appears in front of me, unprotected.
I can see April and O. over his shoulder. O. has his hand on April’s arm.
I charge, crashing into the quarterback with all my might. We go down in a tumble, smacking into the ground with a loud crunch.
The ball spins loose. I dive for it. People dive on top of me, scrambling for possession.
The weight of all those people presses down on my back. Suddenly I can’t breathe. Guys start punching. The ref can’t see what happens in a pile. It’s every man for himself.
I start to panic. I can’t breathe with so much weight on me. I reach for my inhaler, but I can’t move my arms. I struggle to get to my sock, but someone pins my shoulders. He thinks I’m fighting to get the ball, but I’m not.
“Get off,” I wheeze.
More guys pile on. A knee crushes my shoulder blade.
“I can’t breathe,” I say, but nobody hears me.
I feel the familiar clenching in my lungs. I’m sucking air through a straw, unable to get enough oxygen, my heart beating faster and faster.
I’m going to die. That’s what my head tells me.
It’s probably not true. I mean, people do die from asthma attacks, but it’s rare. I’m trying to remember the exact statistics, any little piece of information that might calm me down, but nothing comes. My head is screaming, telling me I’m drowning.
I’m going to die, and O. and April will come to my funeral together then comfort each other in the limo on the way home.
That thought makes my lungs clamp down even tighter.
The weight on top of me suddenly lightens. They’re yanking people off the pile above me. One by one guys get up. Finally I’m clear, but I don’t move.
I should reach for my inhaler. My arms are free now, but they’re heavy as stone.
“Andy!” someone shouts, but the voice is far away.
I hear my breath coming in short pants.
I look up from the corner of my eye. Guys stand around me in a circle looking down. Coach is there, too.
“We need an ambulance!” he says.
Coach leans over and puts two fingers on my neck. He’s checking for a pulse. Maybe he thinks I’m having a heart attack.
“Get out of the way!” It’s O.’s voice, but it sounds like he’s a million miles away.
He appears above me, pushing Coach to the side. He digs in his sock, trying to get at something. I remember April writing her number on the napkin at Papa Gino’s. I think O. is going to take it out now and wave it in front of my face.
Do you see this? he’ll say. This is what happens when you trust someone.
But that’s not what he does. When his hand finally comes out of his sock, I see what he was looking for.
My backup inhaler.
He screams something, but I can’t hear. Only wind in my ears.
O. leans next to me and cradles my head against his knee. He shakes the inhaler and holds it to my lips.
He puts his head by my ear. “Breathe, Andy,” he says.
He presses the inhaler, and I feel the moisture spray uselessly against my lips.
“Take a little breath,” he says. “You can do it. One, two, three—”
He sprays, and I try to inhale. Maybe I get a little bit into me.
I see Jessica over his shoulder. She’s talking on her cell phone, and she’s crying, her face puffy with fear.
“Again,” O. says.
I hear a siren in the distance.
“One, two, three—”
I time my breath as he presses. The fist in my chest releases the tiniest bit.
“One more time?” O. asks.
I nod, but just barely, trying to say yes with my eyes.
“One, two, three—”
I suck down the medicine. Almost a full dose this time.
“Make way,” Coach shouts. Two paramedics fight through the crowd and kneel down next to O. I see the orange of their med kits out of the corner of my eye.
“He’s got asthma,” O. tells them.
“How long has he been down?” the paramedic says.
“Four or five minutes,” Coach says.
“What’s your name?” the other paramedic says to me.
“An—” I say. I can’t get out my whole name.
“Andy,” O. says.
The paramedic is examining my inhaler. His partner says, “Andy, I’m going to give you a shot of epinephrine. Have you had that before?”
I nod. That’s what happened when Mom took me to the emergency room when I was little. I got the shot.
One paramedic puts an oxygen mask on me, while the other one injects epinephrine.
“Just relax,” the paramedic says.
He rubs my chest in slow circles, like something a dad would do for a little kid. I gasp, tears welling in my eyes. I think I’m crying, but I don’t know why. I gasp again, trying to make up for all the oxygen that’s been missing.
“Take slow breaths,” the paramedic says.
“You’re okay, buddy,” O. says.
I’m breathing again. And I can see where I am.
I’m lying in the middle of the field. There are bleachers full of people looking down at me. Football players are scattered around pointing at me. The cheerleaders are in a little huddle to the side. April is there.
Now I’m mortified.
“Oh my God. Andy!” It’s Mom’s voice.
Mom comes running onto the field, her hair flying in all directions. She’s wearing a chef’s jacket smeared with something that looks like chocolate sauce. Jessica runs towards her, crying hysterically.
“What are you doing? What’s going on here?” Mom is asking a hundred questions at a time. She’s jumping up and down, pumping her fists like a maniac. It would be funny if it wasn’t so scary.
“Will somebody tell me what’s happening!”
Coach Bryson says, “Please calm down, Mrs. Zansky. Your son had an asthma attack during the game, but he’s all right now.”
“What game?” Mom says.
“The football game.”
“My son doesn’t play football.”
She looks at me lying there in my uniform, an oxygen mask on my face, surrounded by paramedics. Her eyes are darting around like a crazy woman—taking in the field, the fans, the other players.
I close my eyes, hoping that when I open them this will all be a dream. I’ll be back on the line with O. behind me, one hand on my back, getting ready to call the snap.
I open my eyes.
Mom has collapsed to the ground. She’s sitting with her legs sticking straight out and an oxygen mask pulled over her head. Just like me.
Meet the Zanskys. On oxygen.
April tries to get my attention, but I look down at the ground. There’s a spray of white paint across the grass, each blade white as a snowflake. I imagine I’m buried in an avalanche, and they don’t find my body for a long, long time.