THE ALL-PRO (43 page)

Quentin would show them all.

His orange-jerseyed teammates formed up, Kimberlin and the Ki at the line of scrimmage, Starcher at right tight end, Hawick wide left and Milford wide right. Behind him, the I-formation of Becca at fullback and Ju Tweedy at tail back. Opposite his wall of orange, the metalflake-red helmeted, flat-black assembly of head-hunters: Kan-E-Shiro and HeavyG James Morr at defensive tackle, then the solid linebacker core of Yalla the Biter at middle linebacker flanked by the “Mad Macs” — Matt McRoberts and James McPike — at right and left outside linebacker, respectively. All three of the backers were big, fast, mobile and mean. Yalla had killed ten professional football players.
Ten
. That wasn’t something you could just brush off. Quentin needed to know where Yalla was at all times.

Black field, black uniforms, the stands filled with a sea of black.

This was payback for Quentin. But even more, it was payback for his friend Ju Tweedy.

Quentin bent under center, hands pressed against Bud-O-Shwek’s pebbly skin. “Blue, sixteen!” Quentin called out over the crowd’s roar. “Blue, sixt
eeeeen!
Hut-
hut!
”

No surprises on the first play. The Krakens were a running team, Ju Tweedy was the best back in the game and that was that. Quentin turned to the left. Becca shot by, Quentin extended, a wild-eyed Ju Tweedy took the ball. Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit drove forward, pushing Kan-E-Shiro back. Becca landed a head-to-head shot on McRoberts, knocking the big Human linebacker on his ass. Then Ju raged into the narrow hole. Instead of cutting to the left, to open space, he cut right and lowered his shoulders, smashing head-to-head with Yalla the Biter. The
crack
echoed through the stadium, audible even up at the fourth deck. Both sentients fell to the black field, both instantly scrambled to their feet. They stood chest-to-chest, facemask-to-facemask, Human and Quyth Warrior leaning into each other in a wordless challenge so primitive and universal it pre-dated history and culture.

Yalla said something Quentin couldn’t hear.

Ju pushed the Quyth Warrior in the chest. “No,
you’re
an idiot!”

Yalla pushed back. The scene instantly disintegrated as Death and Krakens players grabbed, pushed, shoved, a swirling pile of aggression just a hair shy of a full-out brawl. Whistles blew. Black-and white-striped zebes flew in to break up the scuffle.

The Krakens’ first play of the game? A 5-yard gain and a fight. So this was how the rivalry would go?

That was fine. Just fine.

• • •

QUENTIN DROPPED BACK
to pass, checking through the receivers, his brain aware of each lineman, of the pressure closing in, of how long he had to throw the ball. The Death had great linebackers, but the defensive line wasn’t that strong and neither was the secondary.

He fired the ball to the left sideline. His favorite pattern: throw the ball just a few feet out of bounds, where Halawa could stretch out and grab it, her feet dragging in-bounds before she slid into the sideline. Complete for 13 yards.

On the next snap, Quentin pitched wide right to Ju. All three OS1 linebackers read the play and came in hard. Becca delivered a knock-out blow on McPike, stayed on her feet, then managed to trip up McRoberts in a two-for-one blocking clinic. She took out two defenders, but Yalla came free. Ju again tried to go head-to-head. This time, he came out on the losing end. Yalla hit the big running back with perfect tackling form: shoulder pad in the gut, middle arms locking hard around the back, lifting and
driving
. Yalla put him hard into the black turf. That battle would rage all day, the league’s best running back against the league’s best linebacker.

On second-and-long, Quentin dropped back again. He saw Hawick angling deep to the middle of the field, saw that the safety was slow to react. Quentin launched the ball — a perfect spiral of brown and white against the stadium’s backdrop of highwalled black and crystal blue. It hit Hawick in stride at the 5. She carried the ball into the end zone untouched for a 65-yard touchdown.

Quentin knelt and plucked a few pieces of the tough black plant that made up the field’s surface. He held them to his nose and sniffed — the scent of sappy pine, just like he remembered from his rookie season.

Arioch Morningstar kicked the extra point. Tie game, 7-7.

Quentin’s first drive: 2-for-2, 78 yards and a touchdown.

Top that, Condor.

• • •

CONDOR DID
. The Death took over at their own 25-yard line. The OS1 quarterback completed five straight passes, driving his team down to the Ionath 17. Coach Hokor stepped up the pressure by sending John Tweedy and Virak the Mean on an all-out blitz, but Condor seemed to be waiting for just that. He flipped the ball horizontally, out to the flat — a screen pass to running back Chooch Motumbo. Chooch followed his blockers into the end zone for a touchdown.

Quentin stood on the sidelines, staring, his chest roiling with jealousy.

Nine passes, nine completions, 157 yards, two touchdowns. Condor was setting the bar at an impossible level.

A hand on his shoulder pad. Quentin turned to see the blue face of Don Pine.

“Don’t worry about him,” Don said. “He’s hot. He’ll cool off. Hokor will figure out how to slow him down. You play
your
game, got it?”

Quentin paused, torn between pushing the man away or listening to the advice. Before he could decide, Don turned and walked off. Quentin pulled on his helmet and prepared for the next drive.

• • •

THE FIRE OF COMPETITION BURNED
so intensely that his face felt hot, his stomach twirled, his toes tingled. Quentin was the future of the league,
not
Condor. No way.

Quentin completed his first two passes, a cross to Cheboygan for 8 yards, followed by a swing pass to Becca. She made one move to leave a Death player grabbing air, then lowered her shoulder and smashed the cornerback into the ground. She stepped over the fallen defender and sprinted forward, turning a simple 3-yard pass into a 20-yard gain. Quentin and Condor weren’t the only ones having big games — everything Becca did, from blocking to catching to running, it all seemed to be disciplined, perfect.

The next round of Ju vs. Yalla went Ju’s way. The younger Tweedy brother took a handoff and went straight up the middle, reaching full speed as he slid between the blocks of Bud-OShwek and Michael Kimberlin. Yalla read the play too late, was caught flat-footed. Ju’s helmet buried in Yalla’s thorax, knocking the Quyth Warrior linebacker to the ground. Yalla’s pedipalps reached up, ripping skin from Ju’s hands, but the big running back barely slowed. Trailing blood, he pounded straight downfield to the OS1 12-yard line before the safety tripped him up from behind.

Ju stood, pointed his right hand at the stands and banged on his chest with his bloody left fist. He was challenging the crowd directly, body language screaming to a hundred-thousand fans that they should have
never
doubted him,
never
turned on him. They booed, they scraped pedipalps, they hissed, filling Beefeater Gin Stadium with the sound of hate.

The face of Hokor the Hookchest appeared in Quentin’s headsup display.

“Barnes, Ju needs a breather. Power set, wing right, boot-pass right. Use your head before you use your feet.”

“Okay, Coach.”

The Krakens huddled up for the next play. Ju, Hawick and Milford ran off, replaced by Yassoud Murphy, Yotaro Kobayasho and Tara the Freak.

Quentin clapped three times to get their attention. “Okay, boys and girls, let’s tie this game up. Power set, wing right, boot-pass right, X-out, Y-curl, A-wheel. ‘Soud, need a big fake from you, we have to sell the run — you do it right and Yalla is going to knock you on your ass.”

“Oh, yep,” Yassoud said. “I’m ready for his ugly face.”

“Right,” Quentin said. “If Yalla
doesn’t
buy the fake, we need a block on him from the tight ends before you run your route. We can’t let him come clean, got it?”

Yotaro nodded, but George seemed to be staring off to the right, at the crowd, not paying attention. His black face-paint seemed a strange choice for this game.

Quentin reached out and slapped his helmet. “Starcher! You hear me?”

George’s eyes snapped up, blinked. He nodded.

“Good,” Quentin said. “Okay, let’s get those points. On three, on three, ready?”

“
BREAK!
”

The Krakens lined up. The power set put seven big bodies on the line of scrimmage: the offensive linemen, plus Yotaro at left tight end, Starcher at right. Cheboygan lined up a yard behind and a yard to the left of Yotaro. Becca at fullback, Yassoud at tailback.

Quentin scanned the defense. The Death’s 4-3 put four linemen down on the line, three linebackers behind them. Yalla was the middle linebacker, but he was cheating to his left, Quentin’s right, toward George’s side of the line. Quentin smiled — Yalla would have to choose between covering George or coming in to tackle Quentin. If Yalla did the former, Quentin would cut up field for a big gain. If Yalla chose the latter, George would slow Yalla with a chip-block, then roll out to the open area of the field for an easy pass.

“Red, twenty-two!
Red
, twenty two! Hut-
hut
 ...
hut!
”

The lines collided. Quentin turned to his left, letting Becca rush by. He extended to Yassoud, who brought his arms together just as Quentin pulled the ball away and turned to the right. The Mad Macs filled the holes, leaving no openings, so ‘Soud just slammed into the line.

Ball on his right hip, Quentin ran to the right. Most of the defense had bought the fake. He ran past his right tackle Vu-Ko-Will, knowing George was blocking Yalla.

He was wrong.

George ran right by Yalla. No chip-block to slow down the All-Pro linebacker, who rolled in at top speed. Quentin’s mental timer began. He planted his feet, stopping his right-side momentum, turning back to the left -he didn’t even have a full second to react.

He saw Becca on the goal line, side-stepping to an open area. Quentin threw faster than he’d ever thrown before, whipping the ball at her as he felt pincer-hands lock down on the backs of his shoulder pads. Then he was flying, spinning. The black ground slammed into him. He bounced, spots flashing before his eyes.

He felt a burning sting rip across his chin.

That pain made the spots vanish. Quentin’s hand shot to his chin, came away covered in blood. He looked up. Yalla stood there, red blood dropping from his right pedipalp fingers — not
his
blood,
Quentin’s
blood.

Yalla put the bloody fingers in his mouth and licked them. “I ended your friend Paul Pierson’s career, but you I am going to
kill
. I’d have killed your weak friend Mitchell Fayed, but he wasn’t strong enough to make it to Tier One.”

Yalla turned and walked away.

How dare you even speak his name.

Quentin stood and pulled off his helmet. He swung it like a weapon, bringing it down hard on the back of Yalla’s head.

Yalla dropped to the ground, instantly limp.

“You don’t speak his name!” Quentin screamed, then raised the helmet again. A Harrah ref flew in. Quentin tried to abort the swing, but the momentum carried the helmet into the blackand-white striped official. It wasn’t that big of a hit, but the level of impact didn’t matter — as soon as it connected, Quentin knew he’d screwed up.

Flags flew, whistles sounded, the crowd booed, scraped and hissed. Three zebes flew around Quentin, circling him.

“Ejected!” one of them said. “Number ten, get off the field. You’re ejected from the game.”

Quentin’s rage had vanished the second he’d hit the ref. No point in arguing. As he walked off, he looked back to where Yalla still lie on the ground.

Yalla lifted his head and looked at Quentin. For just a second, his single, baseball-sized eye flooded the yellow of excitement. In that moment, Quentin knew he’d been baited. It had been a setup, Yalla trying to draw Quentin into a cheap shot that would get Quentin kicked out of the game. And it had worked.

Quentin walked off the field. Hokor and Pine were talking. The extra-point team ran on. Quentin glanced at the scoreboard: 14-13. His pass to Becca had gone for a touchdown.

A ref escorted him to the tunnel. He’d been ejected and couldn’t stay on the sidelines. Quentin would watch the rest of the game from the locker room.

• • •

AT HALFTIME, THE KRAKENS
filtered into the locker room. They were down 28-21. Condor Adrienne seemed unstoppable. Don Pine, on the other hand, seemed
very
stoppable. The veteran limped in, helped by Michael Kimberlin. Kimberlin set Don on a med table, then cleared the way for a fluttering Doc Patah. Don’s right eye was swollen shut. Blood trickled from a broken nose. All from another missed block by Crazy George Starcher.

Don wasn’t the only one that looked beat-up. Ju lie flat on a bench, jersey and shoulder armor off, a bag of ice taped to his shoulder. Yassoud bounced in place. His jersey was torn and splattered with black blood, but other than that, he looked excited and ready to fight. Becca stood like a statue, bloody arms crossed in front of her. She had played a flawless game so far, executing perfect blocks and dishing out heavy damage when the opportunities presented themselves. She’d knocked Matt McRoberts out of the game for good and her second-quarter hit on Yalla had sent the All-Pro linebacker to the sidelines for repairs to his middle-right arm.

The game between the Orbiting Death and the Ionath Krakens had turned into a street-fight. The Krakens were getting their asses kicked.

“We’re being out-hustled,” Hokor said. “Out-hit, out-blocked, out-played and out-
meaned
. Krakens, we have to hit back and hit back hard! Doc Patah?”