With each possession, Quentin’s anger grew.
Possession #1: A run, one incomplete pass, a sack — three-and-out.
Possession #2: Sacked on third-and-long.
Possession #3: Two completions, three incompletions, punt.
Possession #4: Three straight completions, then an interception.
Possession #5: Two strong runs, then a sack and a fumble — Death’s ball.
“Jesus,” Yitzhak said quietly. “Three sacks already. Pine never gets sacked. And he never fumbles. We’re in some deep doo-doo, my friend.”
Quentin kept watching. If it was a tank, as soon as the Death got up by two or three scores, Pine would strike to make it close.
As the second quarter dragged on, The Mad Ju ripped off a 28-yard TD run, putting the Death up 17-0. Richfield returned the following kick to the Krakens’ 12, but Quentin had eyes only for Pine.
If he’s tanking, he’ll come back strong to make it look good.
Pine dropped back on the first snap. He planted — no busy feet this time, he stood tall in the pocket like some heroic statue.
“She’s open!” Yitzhak’s excited voice called to Quentin’s right, but Quentin just watched Pine. A defensive lineman, the same one who already had two sacks, closed in, gathering up for a perfect blind-side blast on Pine’s back.
“Take them deep!” Yitzhak screamed.
Pine cocked back and let the ball fly — he didn’t have Quentin’s strength, but there was nothing weak about the throw. The ball shot downfield…
But Quentin watched Pine. The lineman closed in, only a half-second behind the throw, expanding violently for a blindside shot.
Pine took one small step forward. The lineman shot past to fall in a clumsy, sliding heap on the ground.
Pine, you tanking jerk.
That same lineman, making that same blindside approach, had earlier racked up two sacks. Yet this time, Pine had slipped by as if he had eyes in the back of his head.
Not eyes in the back of his head, Quentin thought. He just knows where every player is at all times. After watching Pine up close and personal for six weeks, Quentin knew the veteran was letting those sacks happen. Pine was so good, so unbelievably in control of this game that he could choreograph a tanking without anyone suspecting. After all, what quarterback can dodge a blindside sack, right?
Donald Pine. That’s who.
The crowd booed deeply as Hawick crossed the goal line for an 88-yard touchdown. Yitzhak ran onto the field for the extra point as Pine ran off. Quentin’s anger rose another ten degrees, then popped, almost audibly.
Quentin met Pine on the sidelines.
“Nice pass you piece of garbage,” Quentin said.
Pine just nodded and kept walking towards the bench.
“Hey, loser, I’m talking to you!” Quentin grabbed Pine’s shoulder pad and whipped him around. Pine’s eyes went wide with surprise, then narrowed with anger.
“Leave me alone,” Pine said.
“You throw two more TDs and I’ll leave you alone, you coward.” Quentin pointed his finger straight at Pine’s nose. Other players turned to watch the confrontation.
“Shut up, kid,” Pine said. “I’ve got a game to play.”
“A game? Is that what you call it?”
Pine stepped forward, going chest-to-chest and nose-to-nose with Quentin.
“You wanna make a move, rookie? Then make it now!”
Quentin cocked his left fist and started to swing, but was jerked away by strong Human hands. Quentin’s anger soared to a new level. He twisted and threw a hard left cross at this new foe. His fist smashed into Mitchell Fayed’s jaw. Fayed’s head snapped back and to his left. He slowly turned his head back to look into Quentin’s eyes, working his jaw from side to side.
“Are you finished?” Fayed asked. “Or do I have to hit you back?”
Quentin felt his anger seep away. His face felt scaldingly hot.
“Aw, Mitch, I’m sorry.”
“I said, are you finished?”
Quentin nodded.
“Good. This is not the place for this behavior, Quentin. Now calm down. You’re disturbing the team.”
Quentin nodded again. He’d never felt so embarrassed. Once again, his temper had got the best of him. Maybe he could make it up to Fayed later. Then again, maybe not — he’d just hit the man in front of 133,000 fans, and probably another three billion watching at home. He walked down the sidelines, away from Pine. Anger returned, but this time it was a cold, calculating anger.
Not now. Not now, Pine old kid, not when we can climb back into the hunt.
Quentin had to think. He looked around the sidelines, searching for an answer. He couldn’t tell Hokor, not now, the coach wouldn’t believe him. Even if he did, Pine’s career was over (not to mention, when Gredok found out, probably his life).
Quentin didn’t know what he was looking for until he saw it.
Shayat the Thick.
The drug dealer.
“Holy crap,” Quentin said to himself. “We might win this game after all.”
“YOU WANT DRUGS now,” Shayat said in a whispered hiss. “It’s the middle of a game. What do you want sleepy for?”
“Just give it to me,” Quentin said. “I know you’ve got it in your locker. I know you wouldn’t let your shipment out of your sight. Now you either give me enough to knock a Human out cold or you and I are going to hook right now.”
Shayat’s eye went from clear to light translucent green.
“I would kill you, Human.”
“Maybe so,” Quentin said. “But if you and I go, I’ll make sure I hurt you enough to keep you out of the game. And you don’t want that today, do you?” Quentin gestured to Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright — both Quyth Warriors were on training tables, Doc and Quyth Leader trainers tending to their wounds. Choto’s right pedipalp quivered sickeningly, even as he lay perfectly still on the table. The pedipalp looked broken, a very painful injury, from what Quentin had heard. John Tweedy might have been hurt, but no one knew, because he stood in front of his locker, bashing his forehead into the metal grate. His tattoo scrolled nothing but gibberish, his lips were frozen in a permanent snarl, and tears of rage trickled down his cheeks.
“But I get to start the second half,” Shayat said. “You wouldn’t do that to me, I haven’t had a chance to play first-string all year.”
“Sure,” Quentin said. “You’ll start, if you give me what I want.”
Shayat looked back at Quentin, and the eye slipped back to clear.
“I will give you the drug.”
Quentin smiled a malicious smile. He was halfway home.
HOKOR WORKED the holoboard, outlining a new defensive strategy designed to shut down Ju. The defensive players, except for Virak and Choto, crowded around the board, pointing excitedly and offering suggestions. The Krakens were down 17-7, yet the defense showed no sign of letting up. They couldn’t wait to get back on the field and take another crack at Ju. Especially John Tweedy. The Human linebacker’s eyes were as wide as wide could be, his nostrils flared in and out, and every word was a guttural scream. HATEYOUHATEYOUHATEYOU scrolled across his sweaty forehead tattoo — he couldn’t concentrate on it long enough to make a message. John looked like a man infused with the living, hunting energy of an entire special forces platoon.
Hokor had already finished with the offense. There wasn’t much to talk about, really — everyone knew that to get back in the game, Donald Pine had to stop getting sacked, start completing passes, and hold onto the ball. Everyone knew this, yet there wasn’t one evil eye cast his way. The team knew that if it could be done, Pine would do it. If Pine couldn’t do it, well, than neither could anyone else. Pine was the kind of quarterback who could throw five interceptions in a game, yet never be pulled, because his next three passes might hit for touchdowns.