“Defensively, we’ve got to get our coverages in sync.”
Block, crap crap crap crap this hurts.
“Entenabe is taking advantage of every blown rotation.”
Tired of getting sacked, you scumbags…
“So let’s get back to our game plan. We don’t — ”
“Game plan?” Quentin stood so suddenly his chair shot out from behind him. “The game plan is not for me to spend four quarters getting pummeled like a half-frozen round bug!”
“Barnes!” Hokor said. “Sit down and — ”
“I’m sick of it!” Quentin strode towards the Ki linemen. They sat on one side of the locker room, a huge mass of dangerous strength dressed in orange jerseys and multi-legged, orange leg armor stained white from the oily field.
“You call that blocking? You garbage-eating cowardly scumbags! Scumbags!”
“Barnes!”
“Shut up, half-pint!” Quentin flashed a wide-eyed stare at Hokor before turning back to the Ki linemen.
Pine leaned over to Yitzhak. “He’s lost it.”
Yitzhak leaned back. “Yeah. Should we help him?”
Pine shrugged. “Naw, this is kind of fun. They’ll either block for him, or eat him, I’m not sure which.”
“You worthless losers! You’re not fit to clean the toilets in this place, you weak-willed pansys! After this game we’re gonna settle up, salamanders. Settle up with the lot of you!”
The Ki didn’t move a muscle.
Quentin turned and stormed out of the locker room, stopping along the way to kick over a water bucket and smash a chair into the wall. There was a brief silence, broken by an angry bark from Sho-Do-Thikit.
“Don’t talk threats,” Pine said. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried to every ear. When he talked, the entire team turned to look at him. “Yes he insulted you. And you deserved it. All five of you. And you all know it.”
THE THIRD QUARTER was pure torture. Quentin saw play after play where he could have audibled to a pass that would have burned the defense, but he stuck to the plays that Hokor called. Entenabe, however, didn’t seem to have such restrictions. He struck for a 24-yard TD pass at the end of the third, putting the Demolition up 21-3 going into the fourth.
The blocking, however, seemed somewhat improved. Quentin had time to set up and survey the field. He went 6-of-10 for 34 yards in the third quarter, but couldn’t string together enough passes to constitute a drive. With the extra time to set up, however, he started marking defensive nuances. Slowly but steadily, his mind began to place the Demolition defenders like a chess master marking out his opponent’s likely moves.
With 10:02 to play in the fourth, the Krakens’ “D” forced a punt, which Richfield returned to the Demolition 45. Quentin couldn’t stand it any longer. They had to score and they had to score now. He ran to Hokor.
“Coach,” Quentin said as he kneeled down. “Coach, how about letting me audible out there?”
“Just run the plays I call, Barnes.”
“But Coach, we’re losing!”
“I know that, Barnes. Now shut up, I’m going to turn you loose this time. Just do what I say, and run the plays that I call, got it?”
Quentin felt frustration welling up inside of him, but he nodded.
“We’ve run on seven of the last eight first downs,” Hokor said. “Go deep this time. Z-set, play-action, 42-fly.”
Quentin felt his pulse quicken. He ran onto the field. Z-set put two tight ends in the game, along with Fayed and Pareless, the fullback. The only receiver would be Hawick on the left flank. Bud-O-Shwek snapped it and Quentin turned to the left, stabbing the ball towards the onrushing Fayed. He pulled it away at the last second, putting the ball on his left hip and letting his right hand brush Fayed’s belly. Fayed put both arms together, just as he would if he’d been handed the ball, and smashed into the line. The Krakens hadn’t used play action all day — and the fake drew in the run-oriented defense. Quentin tucked down to hide the ball even as he dropped back. After five steps, he turned and stood…
… and saw Yalla the Biter, already through the line and coming right for him.
BLINK
Quentin juked left, which Yalla instantly matched. Quentin started to juke right, his patented double-move that always got him out of trouble in the PNFL, but in a millisecond’s time he knew Yalla could effortlessly mirror that move with the amazing lateral movement and reaction time of a Quyth Warrior.
Quentin’s instincts took over. He suddenly saw Yalla’s direction as if there were an arrow pointing forward, like a video game, and sensed the linebacker’s force and momentum like a growing pressure in his thoughts. Timing, it’s all in the timing…
Yalla leaned far forward to deliver the hit, suddenly coming off all-fours, pedipalps and arms reaching out. At just that instant Quentin spun violently to the right. The quarterback pushed off with his right hand as he spun, the ball in his left hand, his body between Yalla and the ball. He spun so fast he almost fell over from the momentum, but the move worked. Juke moves took too much time against Quyth Warriors, but a spin move, just as Yalla came off all-fours to deliver the hit, that didn’t give the linebacker enough time to react: one millisecond Quentin was there, the next he was two feet right of where he had been.
Yalla’s momentum carried him past the spinning quarterback, but his powerful pedipalps grabbed a double-handful of jersey on the way past. Quentin felt himself sliding backwards on the slick white surface. He instinctively tucked the ball and started pumping his legs with short, quick, jabbing steps. The Quyth linebacker fell to the ground… Quentin planted his legs and pushed against the weight dragging him down… a ripping sound, and suddenly Quentin lurched forward, free to move once again.
He instantly stood tall and looked downfield — Hawick streaked down the sidelines, a full two steps ahead of her defender.
Quentin fired the ball downfield high and long — as usual, he had no problem hitting an open receiver. Hawick sailed fifteen feet into the air, caught the ball and landed in full stride. The left cornerback was behind her and didn’t stand a chance… the safety came over to help, but she’d also lost a step with the play-action fake. Hawick strode into the end zone untouched.
BLINK
The crowd booed, but without much intensity. Quentin flipped them off en masse as he ran off the field, his torn jersey flapping around him. Morningstar knocked in the extra point, cutting the lead to 21–10.
Quentin sat on the bench, his heart racing, a feeling of pure ecstasy coursing through his brain. Teammates came up to shake his hand, slap his shoulder pads, or just grunt some unintelligible alien words of encouragement.
Pine slid onto the bench next to him. “You’ve got to watch Yalla’s feet,” he said. “He’s showing blitz when he’s on his toes. When he’s flat-footed, he’s in run coverage.”
Quentin nodded. He didn’t know if he could trust Pine, but that bit of advice sounded reliable.
Pine smiled and thumped Quentin on the shoulder pad. “Nice pass, kid, you just need a couple more.”
Pine hobbled away. Messal approached with a box held in his arms. He set it down and removed a gleaming metal device that looked like a combination of a small pistol and a pair of pliers.
“What the hell is that?” Quentin asked.
“For your uniform,” Messal said. His strong pedipalps lined up the torn edges of Quentin’s jersey. Messal pinched the bottom edges together and slid them into the opening of the gun-pliers. The machine made a small whirring noise, and Messal expertly slid it up the length of the ripped Kevlar fabric, knitting the shreds into a ugly but neat line.