When Skip held out his hand, Landon shook it.
“I’m sorry, Landon.” Skip didn’t raise his eyes.
“Okay,” Landon said.
“And nothing like it will happen again,” Mr. Dreyfus said. “Isn’t that right, Skip?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There you go.” Skip’s dad gave Coach Bell a salute and disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.
Jonathan Wagner’s grin lit up the world and he slapped Skip heartily on the back. “Nice.”
Skip only nodded, looking wildly embarrassed.
“Okay, bring it in.” Coach Bell held a fist in the middle of them all, and everyone put his hand in. “Now we can really do this, guys! Here we go! HIT, HUSTLE, WIN, on three . . .”
“HIT! HUSTLE! WIN!”
It was a roar even Landon could clearly hear.
They jogged to the sideline, where Coach Bell pulled Landon and Brett aside. “Guys, it’s bulldozer time. We are gonna line up and cram this ball right down their throats behind the two of you. Once we establish that they can’t stop us, it’ll open up the counter and the naked bootleg with Skip. Wow, wait till Tuckahoe gets a mouthful of this.”
Brett’s dad brandished his fist, and his uncle grinned and hovered beside Brett, nodding like a fool.
Bronxville had the ball. Landon studied Skip’s face in the huddle. Skip wouldn’t meet his eye, but he didn’t offer Landon a sneer either. He was just neutral, and it made Landon wonder at the power of the quarterback’s father.
“Okay,” Skip said. “Heavy right, twenty-six dive on one.”
“And say the count loud.” Landon glared at Skip, who looked up at him in total surprise.
They stared at each other for a moment before Skip smiled and blushed and said, “Okay, Landon. I’ll make sure it’s loud.”
Everyone looked at Landon with disbelief.
“Thank you,” Landon said, and they broke the huddle.
Brett bounced up to the line, jittery and muttering to himself. Suddenly, he turned and grabbed Landon’s face mask, pulling him close. “We’re gonna do this, Landon. We are gonna do this, my man!”
Landon caught the thrill. “Let’s go.”
At the line, a Tuckahoe defender sneered at them, laughed, and mocked Landon in a garbled voice, crooking his arms and waving his hands like there was something wrong with him. “Let’s go. Let’s go. What are you gonna do, you big, fat dummy?”
Brett nearly jumped out of his cleats. “You’re gonna see what he’s gonna do, ’cause you just lost your free ride into our backfield. Time to pay up, wimp.”
“Pay this.” The defender slapped his own butt.
Brett just growled.
They lined up. The cadence rang out loud and clear. On “one,” Landon and Brett fired out together like the double blade of a monster snowplow, lifting and ripping and grinding, driving the two players in front of them back until they crumbled and went down, and then they plowed right over them looking for more defenders.
It was a scrum, but Guerrero picked up eight yards. They lined up and did it again for six, then again for four, before Guerrero hit a crease on the next play and picked up seventeen. They ran the same play over and over, twenty-six dive. It was almost unthinkable, but Bronxville marched down the field. Tuckahoe’s head coach was pulling at his hair, throwing his hat, and screaming at his defense from the sideline like a madman. They stacked up linebackers and blitzed the gaps, but with Landon and Brett foot to foot, there was just no stopping them from pushing defenders back or down to the dirt.
When they punched it in from the three-yard line, Landon turned and hugged Brett and Guerrero at the same time, howling to the sky.
Brett yelled, “We are gonna win this thing, Landon. We’re gonna win it!”
When things settled down, there was Skip, blocking Landon’s path back to the bench.
“Hey.” Skip showed no emotion, but he wasn’t letting Landon by.
“Hey, what?” Landon asked.
Skip stared hard at him with his lips pursed tight and his eyes swirling with emotion. “I want to tell you something.”
“O-kay.” Landon let the word drag out of his mouth and still he waited for Skip to speak.
Skip took a deep breath. His eyes skittered around the field before settling on Landon’s face and locking in. “Landon, I really am sorry. I’m not just saying it.”
Landon studied Skip’s face, and a lifetime of reading expressions told him it was true. Skip was sorry.
Landon smiled widely and put a heavy paw on the quarterback’s shoulder. “That’s okay, Skip. Forgive and forget. That’s what my dad says . . . and it’s true.”
“That’s . . . nice. Thank you.”
“I like right tackle,” Landon said.
“Right tackle likes you too.” Skip laughed.
“No more left out.” Landon felt like he was writing his own ending, and he knew it when Skip shook his head, put a hand on his arm, and answered him loud and clear.
“No way. Right tackle only. . . . No more left out.”