“Offense on my side!” Coach Furster was marching up and down behind the boys facing Landon’s way like they were troops he was sending into war. “Defense on that side. Offense, you drive block their butts into tomorrow. Defensive guys, you hold your ground and shed them like a disease. Get them off you! Okay, everyone together now, and I want to see some vicious, violent hitting! Down! Set!”
Landon got in a three-point stance. Brett was hunkered down in front of him, legs quivering, face twisted with a rage Landon just didn’t get.
Coach Furster gave his whistle a blast.
Landon came out of his stance in a slow rise and got a mouthful of helmet. Brett’s two hands gripped the flesh in the crease of his armpits like giant crab pincers. Landon yelped. He was being lifted and driven back at the same time. His feet tangled together, and he crashed flat on his back with Brett coming down full force, pounding out whatever air remained in his lungs.
Landon choked, gagging for air. His hands and feet waddled in space, as if they could somehow suck oxygen back into his body. This was not fun. No way. No how. “Vicious and violent hitting” took on a whole new meaning when you were on the receiving end of things, and Landon was beginning to have serious doubts about his love affair with football.
The big lineman was climbing up off him, and he wasn’t being gentle. Brett put a hand in the middle of Landon’s soft stomach to steady himself, and he barked Landon’s shin with one of his cleats as he got to his feet. Landon looked up in astonishment, expecting a sympathetic expression from the boy who’d just been so kind to him.
Instead, he saw teeth buried deep into a rubber mouthpiece and cold, cruel eyes.
Landon waited for a hand to help him up or a friendly smile, but Brett only turned and walked away.