THE ALL-PRO (13 page)

Yitzhak knew it, too. “Sure,” he said. “Once the season gets rolling.”

Zak walked to his locker, leaving Quentin facing Don Pine. Pine, two-time Galaxy Bowl champion, former MVP, former starting quarterback for the Ionath Krakens, now entering his second year as Quentin’s backup. Quentin hadn’t talked to Pine since September, when they’d met with Gredok and Hokor to talk about signing Cheboygan and the others.

“Good to see you,” Quentin said.

“Same here, Q.”

“You also gonna invite me over for dinner?”

Don smiled, his too-white teeth a contrast against his blue face and dark-blue lips. He didn’t say anything, just shrugged, then walked to his locker.

What did
that
mean? Why did everyone else want to hang with Quentin, but Don Pine did not? Quentin didn’t have long to dwell on it, as number-two running back Yassoud Murphy walked in the door, fists raised high.

“You may all now relax! The Yassoud is here to lead you to the promised land. You are safely in my protection.”

The players waved at ‘Soud. Those close to him patted him on the shoulder. The previous season had been hard on him. He’d lost his starting position to Ju Tweedy, then spent much of the season either drunk, feeling sorry for himself, or both. To see him arrive in such good spirits made Quentin hopeful that Yassoud would contribute this season.

Yassoud’s tight, dark curls hadn’t changed, but he’d modified his signature beard. Instead of one thick, narrow, bound strand that hung down to his sternum, he’d turned it into two thinner ones of the same length — one he’d braided with orange ribbon, one with black.

Yassoud saw Quentin. “Q! How was your off-season?”

“Real good, thanks.” Quentin noticed that ‘Soud seemed bigger than the last time they’d met. “Looks like you did more than drink beer during yours.”

Yassoud laughed, then puffed up his chest in an exaggerated show of arrogance. The muscles in his neck and shoulders twitched. “Oh, yep. You know, been working out, but it’s no big deal.”

He raised his right fist, flexing his arm to show a rippling bicep. Yassoud had always been a specimen, but there was no question that he’d put in a lot of time in the weight room. For someone who was already in prime shape to add that kind of definition, he must have worked extremely hard.

‘Soud looked at his biceps. “Oh, hello. Why, I didn’t see you there. You look
mar
velous.”

Quentin laughed and pushed Yassoud away. “You’re anthropomorphizing your biceps?”

Yassoud narrowed his eyes, laughed a jock’s laugh of disdain. “Anthro-po-pope-a-what?”

“Anthropomorphize,” Quentin said. “It means, uh, giving Human attributes to something that isn’t a person.”

Yassoud shook his head, his long beard-braids swinging in time. “Now you’re using big words, hayseed? Did you take up Kimberlin on his offer to tutor you?”

Quentin shrugged and looked away, a little embarrassed. He didn’t know why he should feel embarrassed about increasing his knowledge, but he still did. Kind of felt ...
off
 ... to talk about such things in the locker room.

Yassoud seemed to sense Quentin’s discomfort, so he changed the subject. “Well, if you think
my
beautiful, beautiful arms show the benefits of hard work, just wait until you see Warburg.”

Quentin’s smile faded. Tight end Rick Warburg was not someone Quentin really cared to see. Just like Quentin, Warburg hailed from the Purist Nation. Unlike Quentin, however, Warburg still embraced his racist upbringing, still practiced the religion. Well, that non-team attitude had dropped Warburg to third-string behind George Starcher and Kobayasho. Third-string was where Warburg belonged.

John and Ju Tweedy entered the locker room, already arguing, focusing only on each other but drawing everyone’s attention.

“You’re an idiot,” John said.

“No,
you’re
an idiot,” Ju said.

“Your
face
is an idiot,” John said.

Yassoud put both his hands over his heart. “Awwww! Brotherly love, ain’t it beautiful?”

Both the Tweedy boys stopped and glared at Yassoud, who laughed and held up both hands, palms out. “My bad! I don’t want to start any trouble this early in the season.”

“Good,” Ju said. “Just know your place.”

Yassoud’s smile faded. A hush fell over the locker room. “You just better run hard, Ju. This won’t be like last season. I’m out to take as many carries away from you as I can.”

Ju sneered and laughed. “Whatever, scrub. I’m going All-Pro this year, so you bring your best.”

Yassoud’s jaw muscles twitched as he ground his teeth. Even on his best day, Yassoud was nowhere near as talented as Ju Tweedy. Everyone knew it. ‘Soud walked to his locker. The Tweedy brothers did the same. The conversational buzz returned to normal.

Quentin had just started to head out to the field when Rick Warburg and Tom Pareless walked in. Everything went silent — ten Humans stared at someone they barely recognized. Quentin wasn’t even sure if it
was
Warburg. It had to be someone bigger ... stronger, maybe ... wearing a Warburg mask.

Rick Warburg had played the 2683 Tier One season at about 365 pounds. Six years of football had made Quentin pretty good at knowing a player’s weight from just a quick glance — Warburg now weighed
at least
380. And all of those added fifteen pounds were muscle.
More
than the fifteen pounds, actually, as it appeared he’d lost some fat as well. Warburg looked like a seven-foot-tall, 380-pound bodybuilder.

Pine let out a long whistle. “Anyone seen Coach Hokor? Because I think Warburg ate him.”

“Shuck you, blue-boy,” Warburg said.

“That’s a relief,” Pine said. “For a second there, I thought you were an impostor. But no, you’re the same old Warburg we all know and love.”

A few uncomfortable laughs filtered through the locker room. The men turned back to their preparations. Warburg and Tom Pareless walked over to Quentin.

Tom extended his hand. Quentin shook it.

“Q,” Tom said, “have a good off-season?”

“Solid,” Quentin said. “How about you, old man? How’s the ankle?”

Pareless smiled. At thirty-six, he was the oldest Human on the team. His face showed fine scars. The left side of his jaw seemed a little lower than the right. Fifteen seasons in the league had taken their toll.

“Ankle is all re-habbed,” Tom said. “Looking forward to the season with you, whipper-snapper.”

Tom slapped Quentin’s shoulder, then walked to his locker — leaving Quentin alone with Rick Warburg. Rick offered his hand. Quentin didn’t want to shake it, but if he expected people to overcome their prejudices and play as a team, then he had to do the same. Lead by example. He shook Rick’s hand, feeling the power in the man’s grip.

“Warburg,” Quentin said. “Welcome back.”

“High One praise your travels,” Rick said. It was a friendly phrase from the Purist Nation culture, but there was nothing friendly about the tone. The way Rick said it made it clear he did not like the fact that most of Quentin’s travels were with the sub-races.

“Same to you,” Quentin said.

“I have worked very hard during the off-season.”

Quentin nodded. “I can see that.”

“This is the last year of my contract with the Krakens. It’s my eighth season in football and I’m a free agent at the end of it. I want off this team. I want a new start. I want a big contract.”

“Good luck with that,” Quentin said.

“You’re going to help me.”

“Afraid a big contract and a new team are beyond my control.”

Warburg smiled. “Don’t give me that. I’m in the best shape of my career and not just physically. I’ve been working on my route-running, my catching, my blocking. I’m better than I’ve ever been, better than
him
,” he said, jerking his thumb at George Starcher, who appeared to be having an in-depth conversation with an orange and black plaid towel.

“Quentin, you are my countryman,” Warburg said. “Maybe you don’t like me, but I will
show
you I am the best tight end on this team. And when I do, you
will
throw me the ball.”

Quentin felt his temper rising. “And if I don’t?”

Warburg shrugged. “If I’m the best and you don’t throw me the rock, then it just reveals that all your preaching about
team
and
unity
is pure crap. It’ll show that you’re just as much of a bigot as me. Only difference is, I take pride in who I really am. See you on the field.”

Rick turned and walked to his locker. Quentin watched him go, wondering about the tight end’s words. Was Rick right? Did Quentin avoid throwing Rick the ball because of Rick’s racism? And if so, was that wrong?

Quentin shook the thought away. It didn’t really matter — Rick might be bigger, but he was still third on the depth chart and wouldn’t see that much playing time. Despite the fact that George Starcher painted his face and talked to towels, he was poised to be the best tight end in the GFL that season. Ju wasn’t the only Kraken looking at an All-Pro year.

Warburg wouldn’t get the chance to test his claims.

Quentin headed for the field.

• • •

THE FIRST DAY
of practice focused on route-running, re-familiarizing the quarterbacks with their receivers. Quentin’s whole body tingled as he looked around the quiet temple that was Ionath Stadium. Empty stands reached to the sky, stands full of blazing-orange seats. Orange, except for the seats that spelled out a hundred-yard-long IONATH on the home side, a hundred-yard-long KRAKENS on the visitor’s.

A light breeze crossed the stadium — either artificially pumped through the city dome or perhaps a natural occurrence from an enclosed space two miles in diameter. The breeze made Quentin look to the twenty-two towering pillars that lined Ionath Stadium, each pillar holding a long, lightly undulating banner from one of the Tier One teams. He saw the blood-red of the To Pirates, the deep purple and white of the Yall Criminals and the red and white of Ionath’s archrival, the Wabash Wolfpack. Other familiar banners lined the stadium — the blue polka-dots on yellow of the Coranadillana Cloud Killers and the gold, silver and copper of the Jupiter Jacks among them.

He also saw two banners that had not been there the year before — the red, white and blue star of the Texas Earthlings and the metalflake-red circle on the flat black banner that belonged to the OS1 Orbiting Death. Those teams had earned promotion during the Tier Two Tournament, fighting their way to Tier One and replacing the relegated franchises of Mars and Chillich.

That was the nature of Tier One; nothing was promised and every game mattered. Even if you had a losing record, you needed to play your asses off to stay in the big-time. At the end of the season, if your team was the worst in your division? Bye-bye. So sad, too bad, you’re dropped down to Tier Two. The system ensured high-quality play throughout the campaign. Even teams with losing records fought like mad to stay off the bottom.

On the blue playing field, players worked in position-specific groups. Near the orange end zone, the offensive line ran through drills.

In the black end zone, John Tweedy led the defense through drills. Human and Quyth Warrior linebackers, Sklorno defensive backs, HeavyG defensive ends and Ki defensive tackles ran through blitz schemes and defensive rotations.

The Ki. Quentin had once thought of the Ki as nightmares. Well, they
were
nightmarish, to be sure — thick, twelve-foot-long, tubular bodies bent at the middle, half that length staying parallel to the ground, half rising up to support four muscular, multi-jointed arms and a horrific head. Five equidistant eyes let the Ki see in all directions at once. Below that ring of eyes, the mouth of six, triangular lips that peeled back from six black, triangular teeth. Above the eyes, the species’ unique, dreadlock-like cluster of vocal tubes. Three pairs of legs supported bodies that ranged from just over 500 pounds to just under 700. Skin tones ranged from deep reddish-black to brownish-orange, all of it embedded with enamel dots that made the creatures gleam in the sunlight.

Chirps and squeals drew Quentin’s attention back to the middle of the field. His receivers waited at the 50-yard line. He laughed and shook his head at the exuberant Sklorno. They jumped, shook and even fainted as he approached. While it might be uncomfortable to be thought of as a deity, it was also damn funny to watch the reaction from his “followers.”

Hawick, his number-one receiver; Milford, his number-two who had been a rookie alongside him back in the seemingly distant Tier Two season of 2682; Halawa, third receiver and last year’s rookie standout. Halawa was just a hair bigger than her twin sister — defensive back Wahiawa — which made Halawa the biggest Sklorno on the team. The veterans Mezquitic and Richfield rounded out his receiving corps.

If Gredok signed both Cheboygan and Tara the Freak, where would they fall on the depth chart? Would Cheboygan be able to challenge Mezquitic for the number-four spot? Would Tara? Richfield’s spot was safe because of her kick-return ability, but the addition of two rookies meant the Krakens had
seven
receivers. Someone would be bumped down to the practice squad or cut from the team altogether. For his receivers, that meant every pass in practice counted. He, Hokor and Don Pine would be watching.

“Ladies,” Quentin said when he reached midfield. “Did you all have a good off-season?”

Hawick shook, but maintained her composure. Halawa started running in circles. Milford hopped in place, each light leap taking her ten feet into the air. “Quentinbarnes the holy one welcome home welcome!”

“Milford,” he said. “Do anything interesting in your time off?”

“Oh yes
yes
! Stockbridge and I went on a missionary mission to spread the word of the Church of Quentinbarnes!”

Quentin’s smile faded. “You what?”

“Spreading the gospel!” Milford jumped a little bit higher. “Converting the unconverted to the gospel of Quentin Barnes!”