“Yeah,” he said, the word coming out stilted from his already swelling jaw. “I got it.”
One of the Ki opened the door and stood aside. Quentin walked out onto the busy street. The door shut behind him.
RED “NO TOUCH” JERSEY flapping in a light breeze, Quentin dropped back and planted. His feet slid slightly on the white Tiralik. The footing felt like grass — if you covered grass with a light coating of kitchen grease, that is. He was quickly adjusting to the slickness. He looked downfield to his primary receiver and gunned the pass to Hawick. The ball covered fifteen yards in a half-second and hit Hawick dead-on.
“Good job, Barnes,” Hokor called in his headset.
“Thanks Coach.” It was strange to hear a compliment, and this had been Hokor’s fourth of the practice. Everything seemed to be flowing now, the players — both offense and defense — part of a huge dance. More and more he knew where each receiver would move, and where their defensive “dance partner” would move in response. Things were starting to feel natural, the way they had back on Micovi. Still, this was against a defense he practiced with not only daily, but nightly as well. He’d started to subconsciously absorb the aggressive tendencies of Berea and Stockbridge, the one-step-too-late break of Perth, and the too-cautious defense of Davenport. Against the Demolition’s top-rated pass defense, however, it would be a different story.
“You’re looking good, backwater.”
Quentin turned to look at Donald Pine, who was dressed in civy clothes. The crutches were gone, replaced by just a cane. The cane made him look like the old man that he was. How long had be been throwing games? Quentin could barely look at the Pine without feeling sick and angry. One of the best QBs of all time, and he threw games like some punk.
“Bend your left knee more when you drop back,” Pine said. “You’re handling the slickness okay now, but in the second half, the field will be really beat up and way more slippery. You need that extra springiness a bent knee will give you to keep your balance.
Quentin nodded, but didn’t say anything. Once again, he couldn’t trust what Pine had to say. Had Mopuk & Co. told Pine to make sure Quentin tanked? Was Pine going to play subversive mind games to ensure a loss?
A long whistle blew as Hokor’s cart descended to the 50-yard line. The team gathered from all over the field — practice was over, and Hokor had to cover any last important notes before the players headed to the locker rooms. Tomorrow this same field would be filled with 110,000 screaming fans, as well as 44 players wearing the multi-shaded purple of the Sky Demolition.
Quentin turned away from Pine and jogged to the mid-field gathering. Tomorrow was game day. Do-or-die day. One more loss, and the season was shot.
Not under my watch.
The team probably wouldn’t make the Tier Two tournament. But if that happened, it would be because Don Pine threw a game, not Quentin Barnes.
Forget Pine.
Forget Mopuk.
Hell, for that matter, forget the To Pirates.
Quentin wasn’t taking a dive for anyone. He would not let his teammates down.
“Hello football fans, welcome back to this UBS holocast of GFL football. This is Masara the Observant, here with Chick McGee, the galaxy’s favorite color commentator. Well Chick, despite the score, we’ve seen some good football in the first half. The Demolition is up 14-3, but the Krakens’ defense has played well.”
“You’ve got that right, Masara. Let’s take a look at the Bombay Gin Halftime StatBoard. Nothing eases a Worker’s day like the tasty taste of Gin from Bombay. Hmmm, that’s tasty.”
“Chick, you shouldn’t be drinking that in the booth.”
“Hey, now can I endorse it without sampling the product? Brady Entenabe is showing why he’s one of the top-rated passers in the Quyth Irradiated. He’s 12-of-17 for 203 and a pair of touchdowns, both to San Mateo. The Krakens’ secondary has done a good job of containing the Demolition pass attack, but gave up two big plays, a 68-yard TD strike from Entenabe to San Mateo, and another 27-yard TD that came on a crucial third-and-12 right at the end of the half. If they’d held them there, the Krakens would only be back by a touchdown.”
“Chick, what does the Krakens offense have to do to put some points on the board?”
“Well, Masara, they’ve got to do three things. First, rookie QB Quentin Barnes has to work on his footing. He’s not used to playing on this kind of surface — he’s already fallen twice on his drop-backs, slipping when he plants to step up and throw. Second, the Krakens have to start blocking. The Demo has sacked Barnes three times so far, knocked him down three more, and hurried him another four. Barnes has thrown two interceptions, both caused by heavy pass-rush pressure. If it wasn’t for his running ability, the Krakens would be worse off than they already are. Barnes has twenty-six yards on the ground on five rushing attempts, all of them scrambles. I tell ya, that Human has been chewed up like a Sklorno larvae during a famine.”
“Um, Chick, I hardly think our Sklorno viewers would appreciate that…”
“Yes you’re right there, Masara. Sorry, folks — sometimes this old game of football gets me so fired up I slip back into cute colloquialisms. No offense intended.”
“So let’s move on. We’ve got better footing, then blocking, what’s the third thing?”
“Masara, the third thing is play calling. Hokor the Hookchest is being very predictable. The Krakens are running first, throwing second, and the Demolition knows it. The only time the Krakens throw is when they have to throw, and then the Demolition brings Yalla the Biter on a blitz almost every time.”
“So why isn’t Barnes changing the plays at the line?”
“You’ve got me, Masara. The kid seems like he knows the offense very well, but either he’s afraid to change the play, or Hokor isn’t letting him audible.”
“Next up we’ll take a look at the first half highlights, brought to you by Ju-Ku-Killok Shipping. Remember, if you’ve got to ship it across the galaxy, don’t you want to ship it with a Ki? Any way you look at it, Chick, it seems something’s got to change if the Krakens are going to get back into this game.”
“You got that right, Masara. Otherwise the Krakens have about as much chance as a naked nun at a Purist Nation rapist convention.”
“Chick! Now come on—”
“Sorry Masara, sorry beings at home…”
QUENTIN HISSED ONCE as Doc wrapped the cool blue patch around the right side of his neck. He’d been tackled by the neck on the last sack, a Ki arm tearing away a good six square inches of skin. He thought he’d been in the clear, but still hadn’t accounted for how far the Ki could jump out of a gather. The right side of Quentin’s jersey was deeply stained with his own blood, and he couldn’t swallow without an explosion of throbbing pain. The patch’s sting set in immediately — it only added to his anger. Pine sat on his left, cane in hand, and Yitzhak sat on his right.
“We’ve got to execute better on first down,” Hokor told the assembled players. “We’re not getting off to a good start.”
That’s because all you want to do is hand the ball off to Fayed, Quentin thought.
“And we’ve got to start blocking on the offensive line,” Hokor said. “I don’t care what cultural crap you Ki are dealing with, but block.”
Block, that’s right, Hokor, now you’re really leading aren’t you, you pint-sized idiot.