THE ALL-PRO (23 page)

Quentin shrugged. “I’m guessing it’s the same as last year. No locker-room fodder for the other teams, don’t say anything bad about my teammates or the organization, stuff like that.”

“Well, it will be different this year,” Don said. “Now we have The Mad Ju on the roster. Your teammate is the prime suspect in a murder investigation.”

“What should I say?”

“Say
no comment
,” Don said. “Or something to the effect of,
the league is handling that, I only know Ju as a football player and he’s excellent
. That sort of thing.”

“Okay.”

“They do not need to know that you snagged him out from under the OS1 police in the middle of a gangland shootout. Got it?”

Quentin nodded.

“Good. Oh and don’t say that we’ll win eight games and go to the playoffs.”

“But we will win eight games,” Quentin said. “And we are going to the playoffs.”

Don stopped at the tunnel entrance. He looked out at the middle of the field, where hundreds of reporters of all species flocked around the various Krakens players. He sighed. “Q, you exhaust me.”

“I’m kidding, Don. I know the media game now.”

“Oh, you do?
Really
?”

“Well, I know it better than I did last year.”

“That ain’t saying much.”

“Come on, you know I’m better. I’ve learned a lot. I’m still learning.”

Don absently tugged at the white-lined, orange number “8” on his black jersey. “Yeah, you’re learning. And fast. I’ve never seen the like of it, really.” His voice sounded distant, maybe a combination of wistfulness and annoyance. “If you’re ready, let’s do this.”

Quentin looked at the older man. “What, we’re going out there together? Last year, you went out first. You said going out together would fuel a quarterback controversy.”

“Controversy is over,” Don said. “You’re the starter. Everyone knows it. That makes me yesterday’s news. That makes me ... old.”

Quentin didn’t know what to say. Don Pine,
old
? And yet, Quentin had repeatedly called him
old man
. But that was a general term, an off-hand comment meant to be either an insult or a friendly jibe. Don wasn’t really
old
, was he? For the first time, Quentin noticed the lines at the corners of Don’s eyes. Noticed the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. Noticed how the skin on the left side of his jaw sagged a little from when he’d had reconstructive surgery. Noticed the scar on his temple, the one he’d never had surgically repaired.

Quentin felt like he should say something to end the awkward pause, but he didn’t have any words. Don stepped onto the field and started walking toward the media. Quentin remembered John’s words when the rookies had arrived —
you’re not the youngest anymore
.

Would Quentin someday end up like Don, watching a younger quarterback take the field? That felt like an impossibility, something he’d never considered and yet there was no way around it. The only way it wouldn’t happen was if he retired as a starter or suffered a career-ending injury. Or, if he died on the field. If those things didn’t happen? Someday, just like his hero Don Pine, Quentin would lose the starting job he’d fought so hard to obtain.

And when that happened, Quentin would be the same as every player who’d ever set foot on the field before him. He stared blankly as the weight of inevitability hit home — this would not last forever.

He shook his head, then jogged to catch up to Don. It was a lot to think about, to know that his time was limited, but before it ran out he had much to do.

There were at least eight games to win.

There was a trip to the playoffs.

And, of course, at the end of it all, there was a championship trophy waiting to be lifted high.

The only variable was time.

• • •

QUENTIN STOOD TALL
in the pocket, ready to take the hits and deliver. Only this time the pocket wasn’t his wall of vicious Ki linemen, it was a semi-circle of microphones and cameras pointed at his face, held by a semi-circle of reporters from all over the galaxy.

“
Quentin! Quentin!
”

The shouts of the many-headed monster known as
The Media
.

Messal the Efficient pointed to a Leekee, signifying that that reporter could ask the next question.

“Quentin!” shouted a waist-high, streamlined Leekee. “Kelp Bringer from the Leekee Galaxy Times.”

“Ah, Kelp Bringer,” Quentin said. “My favorite name of all time.”

Kelp Bringer let out a sound that resembled a stick breaking, a stick wrapped in a pound of raw meat. The noise would have made Quentin step back, but his exobiology studies with Kimberlin had prepared him — that was the sound of Leekee laughter.

Kelp Bringer’s thin face twisted in what had to be the Leekee equivalent of a smile. “You remembered!”

Quentin nodded. Last year’s press conference had ended awkwardly, with Quentin unknowingly insulting Kelp Bringer’s spindly symbiotes.

“Sure,” Quentin said. “Your question?”

“Last year, in your first game as the starting quarterback, the Isis Ice Storm humiliated the Krakens by a score of 51-7. The only saving grace was that you played at Isis, away from your home fans. This year, Ionath hosts the Ice Storm. How do you think you’ll handle the embarrassment in front of a hundred and eighty-five thousand Krakens faithful?”

Quentin ground his teeth. Right off the bat and the reporters were trying to bait him into a sound bite.

“The Ice Storm is a quality team,” Quentin said. “We expect a good game. We’re better than we were last year. We will play hard and execute.”

“So you’re predicting a win?” Kelp Bringer asked. “You’re going on record that the Krakens will beat the Ice Storm by three touchdowns? Or is it four?”

Quentin laughed and shook his head. He wasn’t going to fall for the same tricks anymore. “Next question.”

“
Quentin! Quentin!
”

Messal pointed to a Creterakian fluttering around the heads of the other reporters. The bat wore a bright red bodysuit lit up with flashing yellow lights. Creterakian “fashion” — who could understand it?

“Quentin,” the bat said, “Kinizzle, Creterakian Information Service. Are you going to hold some players in reserve against strong teams like the Ice Storm, so that you can keep them rested and uninjured for games against weaker teams?”

“What? Why in the Void would we do that?”

“So you can win two or three games and hopefully avoid relegation, of course.”

Stay calm. Stay focused.
Quentin rolled his head from the left to the right, feeling his neck bones pop.

“We play to win,” he said. “We don’t play to
not lose
. We are out to win every game.”

Kinizzle fluttered in a circle as he talked, nasty wings flapping madly. “But you were almost relegated last year. Your best chance is to finish higher than the newly promoted team, which is the Orbiting Death, but the experts are saying the Death is already a better team than the Krakens.”

“Our goal is the
playoffs
,” Quentin snapped. “Let the Orbiting Death worry about relegation. We’re going out there to win every game.”

He finished his sentence and waited for the chorus of
Quentin! Quentin!
but there was a brief pause as every reporter bent to their messageboards or made some kind of verbal note on their recorders. While short, the silence made him recount his words. What had he said? Was that locker-room material? No, no he’d just reacted normally to a question.

Hadn’t he?

He didn’t have time to think about it as the multi-headed monster once again started screaming his name. Messal pointed to reporters. Quentin focused his attention on answering the questions.

Then, Quentin noticed a few of the reporters looking at their messageboards. Not writing, but
reading
. Suddenly, it was like a fast-moving virus spreading through every cell of the multi-headed monster. The questions simply stopped. Quentin looked at the reporters. He waited. Was he finished?

The reporters’ strange behavior seemed to make Messal nervous. The Quyth Worker held his pedipalp hand palm-up, tapped the floating icons that appeared.

A Human reporter with bone-white skin looked up, waved his messageboard. “Quentin! Quentin! Harold Moloronik from Grinkas NewsNet. Do you have any reaction to Yolanda Davenport’s cover story?”

Quentin’s stomach twirled. His heart hammered. The
cover
story? The cover of Galaxy Sports Magazine? He had truly arrived — Quentin Barnes was a
star
.

“I haven’t read it yet.”

“Quentin!” His name screamed again, but this time by Messal. “Elder Barnes, we need to go.”

“But Messal, I—”

“
Now
, Elder Barnes.”

The reporters screamed his name. They closed in, the phalanx of cameras and microphones pressing closer to his face.

“Messal,” Quentin said. “What’s going on?”

“Thank you all for your time,” Messal shouted at the mob. “Elder Barnes is now finished with questions.”

That comment brought a roar of anger from the multi-headed monster. The reporters rushed in, forcing Quentin to calmly start pushing them away.

“Illegal communication!” Kelp Bringer said. “Quentin, is it true that you threw games so you could play for the To Pirates?”

Harold Moloronik jumped onto the back of another reporter, shoved his microphone forward until it smashed Quentin’s lower lip. “Quentin, what about aiding and abetting a murderer? Is it true you snagged Ju Tweedy away from the OS1 police?”

Quentin’s mind fired blanks. What was going on? Where was all this coming from?

Questions flew, but a surprisingly strong little pedipalp hand yanked at his right wrist. With the reporters screaming after him, Quentin let Messal the Efficient lead him back to the tunnel. Orange-and black-clad stadium security guards stopped the reporters from entering. Messal kept pulling until Quentin was in the central locker room.

“Messal, what’s going on? Why were they asking all those questions?”

Messal’s eye flooded black. Quentin had never seen the Worker angry before. Messal offered his messageboard. Quentin took it.

Galaxy Sports Magazine. He was on the cover after all, an action shot of him scrambling against the Jupiter Jacks. But the excellent photo wasn’t what drew his eye. Instead, he stared at the words below the photo:

SOMETHING IS ROTTEN IN THE GFL

And below that:

IS QUENTIN BARNES THE FACE OF WHAT’S WRONG WITH FOOTBALL?

Quentin slowly sat on the bench in front of his locker, then started to read.

From
Galaxy Sports Magazine

by
YOLANDA DAVENPORT

In ancient times
, the time even before spaceflight, there was a Human author named William Shakespeare. A thousand years after his death, his works are still known and revered.

One of his most famous lines was “something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

It isn’t important to know what a “state of Denmark” is — the term “rotten” is what matters. You know what that means. It means unsavory, disturbing ...
wrong
. Why is that word important?

Because something is rotten in the GFL.

Something that appears to revolve around the Ionath Krakens franchise. More specifically, it revolves around quarterback Quentin Barnes.

Yes, Quentin Barnes, the feel-good story of the past two years. The 20-year-old quarterback prodigy that electrified football fans everywhere with his tough-as-nails approach. The young Human from the Purist Nation who seems to have overcome his culture’s racist and speciest beliefs, who assumed the mantle of leadership for one of the league’s most storied franchises.

The player who carried the Krakens to Tier One with his talent, Then kept them there by force of will alone.

That
Quentin Barnes.

So what could be wrong with this feel-good story?

How about aiding and abetting a fugitive in a murder investigation?

How about abusing the GFL’s diplomatic immunity power to shelter a murder suspect from the law?

How about illegal contract negotiations with a franchise other than the Ionath Krakens?

How about extensive drug smuggling?

And — what might even be the most disturbing of them all for true sports fans — how about points-shaving and even possibly throwing games outright?

LAWLESS

Ju Tweedy was undoubtedly last season’s story of the year. The dominant running back’s abilities made him a highly paid legend on Orbital Station One, where he was a fixture in the Orbiting Death’s flat-black and metalflake-red. Ju was never known for kind deeds; he is big, strong and vicious. Sentients love to watch him play.

All of that faded when Ju allegedly murdered Grace McDermot, a Human. Ju had a relationship with the victim, a relationship that reportedly went sour. Witnesses put him at the scene of the crime. Police reports show that McDermot was beaten to death by a Human or a HeavyG — someone big, strong and vicious.

Did the OS1 police question Ju Tweedy?

No, they did not. Why? Because Quentin Barnes helped Ju Tweedy flee Orbital Station One within hours of McDermot’s death. Barnes then orchestrated a contract for Ju with the Krakens. That contract gave Ju diplomatic immunity and — as long as that contract is in effect — guaranteed he could not be prosecuted for the crime.

Yes,
that
Quentin Barnes. A source informed this reporter that shortly after McDermot’s murder, Barnes took his private yacht to OS1. Witnesses say Barnes was seen at Chucky Chong’s League-Style House of Chow, a restaurant in the city of Madderch that possibly sheltered Ju Tweedy shortly after McDermot was murdered. Witnesses recognized not only Barnes, but also several other Krakens players as well as members of the Coranadillana Cloud Killers. The two teams reportedly fought over Ju, a fight that destroyed much of the restaurant and ended in gunfire.