That was, of course, when he was trying.
Pine sat in front of his locker, reviewing defensive sets on a portable holotank. Holding a water bottle, Quentin walked up and sat down. Pine glared at him with a look that combined hate and shame.
“Come to yell at me some more, kid?”
Quentin shook his head. “I came to apologize.”
Pine raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Apologize? You?”
Quentin shrugged again. “Look, you’ve got some stuff to deal with, I shouldn’t have lit into you on the field. We can talk about it later.” He handed Pine the water bottle. Pine took it, his eyes never leaving Quentin’s face.
“This isn’t my choice,” Pine said quietly. “I just want you to know that.”
“I know,” Quentin said, and walked away.
Pine took a long drink from the water bottle, then turned back to the holotank.
THE ORBITING DEATH received the second-half kickoff. Choto the Bright lasted only three plays, until he tried to “arm-tackle” The Mad Ju. Trying to take down Ju with a broken pedipalp was a bad idea at best. Ju ripped through Choto’s valiant effort, leaving the Quyth Warrior writhing on the ground.
Shayat the Thick ran onto the field to take Choto’s place. Samuel Darkeye was Choto’s normal backup at outside linebacker, but Hokor needed Shayat’s size to try and stop The Mad Ju. The Krakens “D” kept hammering at the Ju, and the Ju kept hammering back, yet the fumble-fruit of his so-called slippery hands never seemed to materialize. At the end of the drive, to quite literally add insult to injury, Ju crossed the goal line with John Tweedy on his back.
Extra point: good.
Orbiting Death 24, Krakens 7.
Richfield returned the ensuing kick. The Krakens offense took the field, starting from their own 34. Quentin watched carefully. He’d given Pine enough sleepy to knock out a Ki lineman. If he gave too much, the overdose could easily cause brain hemorrhaging. Quentin hoped that wouldn’t happen, but he had a game to win.
The huddle broke and Pine walked up to the line. He seemed to walk slower than normal. He looked around a few times, then shook his head violently and lined up under center. A handoff to Fayed picked up four yards. The team returned to the huddle, but Pine stayed where he was, staring down at the grass as if it were the most interesting thing in the known universe. A blast of anticipation adrenaline shot through Quentin’s body — it was working.
Fayed walked up to Pine, who continued to stare at the ground. A Harrah ref floated up to both Humans. Pine stared at the zebe as if he’d never seen such a thing before. A steady murmur burbled through the capacity crowd: like most of the players, they wondered what was going on. Pine turned to Fayed and said something. Fayed instantly signaled for a timeout.
“Barnes!” Hokor called. “Let’s go!”
Quentin followed Hokor onto the field. They ran up to Fayed and Pine.
“What in the name of the Mother of All is going on here?” Hokor barked, his fur fluffed up with anger.
“Um…” Fayed said. “I, uh, think Pine was hit in the head, or something.”
“Heyyyyy,” Pine said with a smile, never looking away from Fayed. “I can see right into Fayed’s brain. Right inside!”
“Pine!” Hokor barked. “Pine snap out of it!”
“Fayed is thinking about a ham sandwich.”
“No I’m not,” Fayed said.
“Pine, you okay?” Hokor asked.
“Ham sandwich with Texas mustard,” Pine said. “Don’t deny it, you liar. I can see your thoughts!”
“Pine!” Hokor said. “You’re going to have to sit out a few.” Hokor signaled to Doc for the medsled.
“But I’m not lying,” Fayed said. “I don’t like mustard.”
Hokor turned to Quentin. “Okay, Barnes, it’s up to you now. We need some points on the board. Just run — ”
“The plays that are called, yeah, I know, Coach.”
“Ham and you are a beautiful thing!” Pine screamed. “Don’t fight your urges, Fayed!”
Doc flew up to Pine, the medsled right behind him. Pine pointed a finger in Fayed’s face. “You know how many pigs die every year? Their lives are on your conscience! Swine-eater!”
“I kind of hate mustard,” Fayed said.
Quentin sat Pine down on the medsled. “Doc, get him out of here, now.” Doc led the sled off the field — Pine carefully watched the grass go by.
Quentin and Fayed walked back to the huddle. The team looked at Quentin with a new expression.
Like I’m the savior, he thought. They think I can pull this one out. The thing was, he thought he could pull it out. They’d spent a half-game of futility and had only seven points to show for it. Quentin knew he needed to get these guys some momentum, and he needed to do it quick.
“Okay, they’ve been blitzing all day. Let them come. We’re going quarterback draw on two, on two. Just give them a good fit and let them come on by.” The huddle seemed revived with electricity.
“Dive right to Fayed,” Hokor called in his ear-piece. Quentin nodded, then broke the huddle. Hokor’s plays would have to wait — he knew what his team needed. They needed a burst of excitement, not a methodical ground game.
Quentin surveyed the defense as he lined up behind center. He’d guessed right — they showed blitz all the way. Orbiting Death ran a 5–2, and both Quyth linebackers leaned forward on all-fours, weight on their arms.
“Red twenty-one! Red, twenty-one!” The linebackers leaned farther forward. Quentin waited a second to give the Ki linemen a chance to pick their targets.
“Hut!” The Death linemen and linebackers surged forward with a metal-plastic crash against their backpedaling offensive enemy. Quentin dropped back three steps, planted and sprang forward. The blitzing defense didn’t even have a chance to slow down before Quentin was past them, moving like a tall, strong wind. His first five steps took him ten yards downfield, leaving seven defenders behind him. The defensive backs reacted instantly, but the three-step drop had given Hawick and Scarborough a chance to move into blocking position. The two receivers danced with the safety and free safety that tried to avoid them — they weren’t good blocks by any means, but with Quentin’s speed they were more than enough for him to shoot past.
BLINK
Everything moved in slow motion. Quentin suddenly saw every last detail the field had to offer. The left cornerback came from his right side — she dove for his legs. Quentin planted and spun outside, a whirling blur, the cornerback grasping only empty air as he straightened and moved downfield. The right cornerback closed on him and he bounced outside. He saw everything, her raspers hanging out just a bit from her chin-plate, her flat-black uniform flapping slightly with each powerful thrust of her long legs. She moved in, reached out.
Quentin felt a blast of something primitive. His lip curled up of its own accord. He felt the strength of a supernova in his limbs. He switched the ball to his right hand and reached out with his left, grabbing the cornerback by the neck just as she tried to wrap around his waist. He squeezed and lifted — she was so light. Like a tribesman carrying a spear, he ran another five yards with her neck in his hand, her feet dangling uselessly, her eyestalks showing sudden pain and fear. He casually tossed her away as one might discard an apple core. She flew threw the air, landing heavily on her head, tumbling in a rolling heap.