PINE DRESSED for the game, but had about as much a chance of seeing field time as the Purist Nation had of winning the Intergalactic Sentient Peace Award for good deeds done to other species. The team still didn’t know, save for Virak and Quentin.
But Hokor knew.
Gredok had obviously informed his workaholic coach that Donald Pine, two-time Galaxy Bowl Champion, one-time League MVP and erstwhile savior of the Ionath Krakens franchise had been taking Hokor’s detailed game plans and basically using them to wipe his butt. Pine had gone from starter to the doghouse faster than a ship moving in punch drive.
At least thus far, Hokor hadn’t told anyone else. Too many beings now knew. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the team discovered Pine’s horrible secret. And when it came out, Pine’s presence would be most unwelcome in the Krakens’ locker room.
But Quentin didn’t have time to worry about that right now. It wasn’t his problem anymore. He had a whole new set of problems. Forty-four of them, to be precise, each one wearing the metallic silver uniforms of the Quyth Survivors.
A losing team my rear end, Quentin thought. The only thing that matters is how they match up against us, and they match up very well indeed. The Survivors weren’t a losing team, they were an enemy, an obstacle standing between him and his dream. No, far more importantly, they were standing between his team and his team’s dream. There wouldn’t be any interceptions today, just completions, just a calm, methodical march down the field and a strangulating game of ball control and field position. He wasn’t going to give the Survivors any chances to get into this game and get a very erroneous thought in their brains that they had any right to be on the same field with the Ionath Krakens.
Ball control, Quentin thought. Ball control, patience, field-position.
THE PLANTS LOOKED just like Carsengi Grass, but the blades blazed a fluorescent orange. Black lines and numbers popped off the field in stark contrast.
First offensive play of the game. Krakens’ ball, first-and-10 from their own 33.
Is that what I think it is? Are those idiots in woman-to-woman when I’ve got three burners on the field?
Ba-da-bap went his hands on the center’s carapace.
Forget ball control, let’s go downtown.
“Flash, flash!” Quentin shouted.
Heads and eyestalks turned to look at him, waiting for the audible. He was changing the play at the line.
“Blue twenty-two!” he shouted down the left side of the line. Hawick had been lined up three feet to the left of Rick Warburg. Hawick jogged another ten yards to the left, almost to the sideline, her defender following. She stopped, stood, and waited for the snap.
“Bluuuee, twenty two!” he shouted down the right side of the line. Scarborough and Mezquitic stood at five and seven yards, respectively, away from the right tackle Vu-Ko-Will, Mezquitic on the line of scrimmage, Scarborough one step back from it. With the audible, Mezquitic took one step forward, while Scarborough took a step back, then went in motion to the sidelines, a slow jog that took her fifteen yards out.
“Blue, twenty-two!” Quentin shouted behind him. Tom Pareless and Mitchell Fayed had been in an I-formation, Tom in a three-point stance, Fayed two yards behind him, hands on his knees, head up high. They quickly adjusted so that they stood side-by-side in a pro-set.
Quentin turned back to the line. “Hut-hut!”
The line erupted with crashes and clacks and grunts for the game’s first trench battle. Pareless and Fayed each took a step up and a step outside, where they crouched, waiting for the first opportunity to block. Quentin dropped straight back, slipping between the two running backs like they were centurions guarding some ancient gate. Hawick and Mezquitic shot downfield on streak patterns, while Scarborough ran forward for fifteen yards, then angled to the middle of the field on a post pattern.
Those patterns drew single coverage from the two cornerbacks and the safety. Quentin watched the free safety, the key to the play. Hawick and Scarborough were both running even with their defenders, but Quentin could tell they still had an extra step in their gas tanks. The safety ran to the outside to pick up the Krakens’ most deadly threat — Hawick.
That was all Quentin needed to see.
He cocked his arm and threw just as Tom Pareless undercut the first Ki defender that broke through the line. The ball arced downfield, not a perfect spiral this time, but marred by a tiny bit of wobble. It didn’t look pretty, but it was on target. Scarborough remained step-for-step with her defender for another two seconds, then put on a sudden burst of speed that took her just a few feet past. She timed the ball perfectly, leaping high into the air to catch the ball without a single mid-air twist or turn or alteration. The defender reached for her, but Scarborough kicked out with her right leg, hitting the defender in the chest. The blow knocked the defender back, just a bit, and when the two hit the ground she had a good three steps of clearance, more than any Sklorno needed just fifteen yards from the goal line.
Scarborough ran into the end zone.
First play from scrimmage, a 67-yard touchdown strike.
THE REST OF THE GAME brought more of the same. Quentin had never felt so in sync before, not even in his Purist Nation days. He knew exactly where his receivers were at all times. The receivers seemed to read his thoughts, breaking off patterns to find the ball already in the air, moving to open spots in perfect time with any of Quentin’s scrambling efforts. He saw every defender, every disguised coverage, every blitz. He saw the sideways-rolling Quyth Warrior linebackers and knew when they would pop up into a pass-coverage stance. When he ran, he knew when they would lean in for the tackle, when their balance was all forward, and that told him just when to spin: juke moves didn’t work on them, but half the time spin moves left them falling flat on their face. He saw Ki defensive lineman raging past his offensive line, he saw them gather and knew when to step forward just as they released, springing violently forward to grasp only empty air. He saw the speed and timing of the Sklorno defensive backs, and knew just where to throw to avoid them. He even saw a safety blitz and two corner blitzes — but each time he threw in a fraction of a second, hitting the open receiver before the streaking d-back could close on him.
Nothing could touch him.
The Krakens’ defense played its best game of the season. Aside from one long run by Chooch Motumbo, the Survivors tailback, the defense shut down everything. By the end of the third quarter, the Krakens were up 28-7 and in clear control of the game.
That was when disaster struck.
THIRD-AND-3 on the Survivors’ 35.
Quentin surveyed the defense. He could have audibled to a slant pass, because the linebacker was cheating inside, but opted to go with the called play, a sweep to the right. He didn’t want to put the ball in the air now, nothing that might give the Survivors a chance to get back in the game. Dressed in metallic silver jerseys, leg armor and helmets, the Survivors’ defense looked like a bunch of old-time science-fiction robots, ones that had been through a losing battle and were now covered in orange grass stains, dirt and blood. Lots of blood. Still, they weren’t giving up, and even though they were having their asses handed to them, the Survivors’ defense fought as hard as they could on every play.