He’d notched his first GFL win as a starter, but he’d paid a price. The concussion had him puking his guts out the rest of the night, and well into the next day, even though there was nothing left to puke. And with each stomach-clenching burst, his breath locked up and his muscles tightened — when he finally breathed and the muscles relaxed, the sudden rush of blood to his brain elevated his omnipresent headache to new levels.
While his teammates celebrated the win, Quentin spent the rest of that night in bed, which was where he spent the next day, and most of the day after that. He tried to get up and run through VR practice, but Hokor himself came to his room and told him to stay put, on Doc’s orders.
Now, two days later, he didn’t feel one ounce better. But pain or no pain, he wasn’t going to miss one single rep of actual practice. He wasn’t going to let his teammates down, not when this week’s game put them up against the 3–1 Sheb Stalkers.
Quentin walked through the door to Hokor’s office.
“You wanted to see — ” he ended his sentence when he saw Pine in the room, fully dressed for practice.
“Come in, Barnes,” Hokor said. “Shut the door.”
Quentin did as he was told, a double-sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. Double-sick: once because he couldn’t stand to look at Pine the Tanker, and once because he instantly knew the reason for this closed-door meeting.
“Barnes, you did an amazing job last week,” Hokor said. “You put us back on the board. If we can beat the Sheb Stalkers this week, we’re 3–2 and back in the running.”
Quentin nodded slightly.
“You’ve generated a lot of respect,” Hokor continued. “The team is now confident in your abilities. There’s a new feeling in the locker room, that we have a guy who can come off the bench and play big-time ball.
“Come off the bench,” Quentin said quietly.
“The bench,” Hokor echoed. “Pine is our starter, and he’s healthy.”
Quentin breathed deeply through his nose. That tanker was starting again.
“I just wanted to let you know in person,” Hokor said. “I know your goal is to start, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. You’re the future of this franchise, but right now it’s Pine’s team. You understand?”
Just run the plays that are called. The throbbing in his head suddenly kicked up a few notches.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I understand. Can I go now?”
Hokor nodded. Quentin turned. He meant to just tap the door-open button, but his fist hit it so hard the red plastic plate cracked. The door hissed open, and Quentin walked out into the meeting room.
Forget this team. They can all go straight to hell.
Quentin stormed out of the locker room and through the tunnel. He had just about reached the field when a hand grabbed his shoulder and gently stopped him. Quentin turned violently, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, and looked into the surprised eyes of Donald Pine.
“Hey, kid, take it easy,” Pine said with a smile. “Try to relax a little.”
“Screw you,” Quentin said, pushing Pine’s chest to emphasize the last word.
Pine stumbled back a step. His tone changed and his smile faded away. “Why don’t you just simmer down. I know you’re pissed, I would be too, but you’ve got to play your role on this team.”
“And what’s my role? Just what, exactly, is my role? Sit on the bench?”
“If you have to, yes!” Pine’s expression had faded from smile to blankness, now it twisted into a mask of frustrated anger. “Sit on the damn bench, Quentin, and pay your dues. I know you think you’re hot stuff, but I’ve about had it with your attitude that you’re better than me. I’ve tried to help you, you stubborn moron, but you better pull your head out.”
“Oh is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right!” Pine’s voice dropped to a whispered shout. “You’re going to be great, but right now you’re not as good as me! Just relax and learn the system ‘til your time comes.”
“And when will that come? The next time you throw a game for Mopuk?”
Pine blinked rapidly and his breath stopped short, as if a knife had slid noiselessly into his heart. He took a small step back, then looked to his right and left, seeing if anyone had heard. The two quarterbacks were alone on the field.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pine said.
“Your party friends paid me a visit the day before the Demolition game,” Quentin said. “Mopuk said you were his property, Pine. That you throw games whenever he wants.”
Pine looked down, and in that instant Quentin knew it was true. He felt a part of his childhood die, right there on the spot — a man he’d idolized was a tanker.
“Why?” Quentin asked. “Why the hell do you do it?”
“Because he’ll kill me if I don’t,” Pine said quietly. “I… I gamble, a bit. I’ve gotten in over my head.”
Quentin spat on the ground, then looked into Pine’s shame-filled eyes. “How much do you owe?”
Pine looked away and shrugged. Quentin grabbed him by the shoulder pads, shook once, and pulled Pine close until their eyes were only inches apart.
“How much?”
Pine paused, then answered. “Four million.”
“Four million?” The number seemed staggering, but then he remembered that a Tier Two QB of Pine’s caliber made three or four million a year. On top of that, he had the endorsement deals that put his picture on almost as many ads as Yitzhak.
“So why don’t you pay it?” Quentin asked. “You’ve got that much, don’t you?”
Pine slowly shook his head. “Already went through everything I got. Savings, my salary… I’m still four mil in the hole.”
“How long has this been going on?”
Pine looked away again. Quentin gave him a quick, single shake. Pine looked at his feet. “Since ‘79.”
Quentin’s eyes widened as he did the math. “Since ‘79? You’ve been tanking for four years?”
“I bet a lot of money on the ‘77 semi-final game with the To Pirates,” Pine said. “That put me in the hole. I’ve been working my way out ever since, and I’m almost out.”
“Four mil in the hole and you think you’re almost out?”
“I just need to win a couple of bets, that’s all, and I’ll be out!”
Quentin pushed him away. The two men stood in silence.
“You going to tell Hokor?” Pine asked.
Quentin thought for a moment, then shook his head.
“Why not?” Pine asked. “That would give you the starting position.”
He met this comment with a shrug. Pine was right, but Quentin didn’t want to win it that way. He wanted to earn it. The first players started to filter out of the tunnel for practice.
“Don’t do it again,” Quentin said quietly. “You do and I’ll take you down.”
Pine looked at him with the eyes of a haunted man, a man hunted from all directions for far too long. “You’ll take me down if I don’t do what you want? Hey, welcome to the club.”
Pine walked to the sidelines. Quentin stormed to a ball rack on the 30-yard line, anger and frustration whipping through his head. Without saying a word to them, Denver, Milford and Richfield lined up, waiting for Quentin to call out patterns.
“Deep,” he said, the word coming out as a bark. Denver shot down the field. Quentin dropped back to the 20, then threw the ball with a grunt. He’d put all of his strength into the throw. It sailed so far past Denver she didn’t even bother jumping — the ball arced through the air, sailing past the end zone, past the grass at the back of the end zone and bounced off the empty seats twenty rows up.