Everyone stared at the man in the brown tweed sports coat and expensive-looking dress shoes. Gold cuff links and a watch that looked a lot like Coach Furster’s glinted from his wrists. This man was thin and taller than Coach Furster, though, with freckles on his somber face that crept up and over his shiny bald head. He reached around behind himself and produced a Bronxville football player, dressed and ready to go, but with eyes cast toward the ground.
It was Skip Dreyfus.
Mr. Dreyfus took his son by the neck and steered him toward the team. “Is Landon Dorch here?”
All eyes were on Landon, and he felt his face burst into flame.
“Landon, my son has something to say to you.” Mr. Dreyfus looked from Landon to the coaches. “Sorry for being late to the party, guys. I just flew in from Hong Kong and got an update from his mother on the drive home from the airport. Skip and I talked, and he’s eager to apologize to Landon and move forward with no bad feelings. Aren’t you, Skip?”
“Yes, sir.” Skip kept his eyes down. “I am.”
“You are, what?” Skip’s father asked.
“I am sorry, sir.”
“Good, now say it to Landon.”
Skip stepped forward, and Landon felt sick.