The Champion (40 page)

Quentin had to stop himself from glancing over his shoulder at the Criminals defenders, who were lined up and waiting. Forrest Dane Cauthorn was an excellent middle linebacker. If Quentin didn’t make him miss, it was game over.

“Just give me the ball, Coach.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Hokor said. “Audible out if you see something else. Your call. Make it happen, Barnes — the game is on your shoulders.”

And I wouldn’t want it any other way
.

Quentin tapped away the heads-up and looked at his huddled teammates. Ju, Becca and George Starcher had gone to the sidelines, replaced by Yassoud — who was a better receiving running back than Ju — Cheboygan and Tara the Freak. That gave Ionath four receivers.

The crowd created an oppressive wall of noise; it sounded like a bomb going off in an endless detonation. Quentin had to scream just to be heard in the huddle.

“One-back, four-wide. Delayed quarterback draw. X-flag, Y-streak, Z-flag, B-out and A-hook-right.”

The called routes would send Denver wide right, up and toward the end zone’s right corner, taking her defender with her. Cheboygan, who would be five yards inside of Denver, would streak straight toward the end zone, taking the safety with her and away from the middle of the field. On the left side, Milford and Tara the Freak would mirror Denver and Cheboygan’s patterns, taking their defenders with them. Yassoud would come out of the backfield and curl right, hopefully pulling Cauthorn away from his middle-of-the-field placement.

The play-call was one hell of a gamble; it meant that Hokor had full confidence in his veteran quarterback to make the on-field decision.

“Everyone, run those routes like your life depends on it,” Quentin said. “We need to sell it. And if I audible to a pass, run those same routes. Yassoud, be ready to come back and block the second I cross the line of scrimmage, got it?”

“Got it, boss,” the running back said.

Quentin gave each player a quick hard look as he finished up, screaming to be heard over the Tomb of the Virilli crowd.

“We execute this play, we get this first down, and we’ll win this game, I promise you. On
two
, on
two
 ... ready?”

“
Break!
”

The Krakens jogged to the line. It seemed impossible, but the crowd cranked its punishing roar up a few more notches. Last season, the Krakens had defeated a Criminals squad dubbed “the best team ever assembled,” knocking them out of the playoffs. The Yall fans still felt the Galaxy Bowl title should have been theirs, and they wanted payback.

In the stands, white flags with purple ball-and-chain Sklorno waved, white and purple pom-poms shook, and tens of thousands of fans decked out in purple and white tried to scream out the few thousands clad in orange and black.

Quentin glanced to the Yall sidelines and saw his opposite, Rick Renaud, watching. Renaud had been the best in the game for the past few seasons. He was still an amazing quarterback, but his time at the top had passed — Quentin was about to demonstrate that right here on the man’s home field.

He looked over his offensive line at the battered white helmets and torn dark purple jerseys of the enemy. Defensive tackles Meaders and Kin-Ah-Thak were digging their feet in, hoping to time Quentin’s snap count and come in hard. The Criminals HeavyG defensive ends were low to the ground, tree-trunk legs bent and ready to drive forward. The linebackers — Cauthorn and Riha the Hammer — both crept up to the line, showing blitz. Which one would come? Quentin saw a flare of black swirl in Riha’s eyes, there and gone as the Warrior tried to hide his emotions, but it was too late; Quentin had been watching him the whole game, knew him from last year, knew that Hokor was right — Riha was coming. Cauthorn would cover over the middle.

Hokor had called the perfect play; no audible needed.

Quentin slipped his hands under Bud-O-Shwek, feeling the sweaty, pebbly skin on the Ki’s underside.

“Green, nineteen. Green, nineteeeen. Hut...
hut
!”

The ball slapped into his hands as the linemen slammed into each other. Quentin dropped back five steps. His receivers sprinted out on their patterns. He watched in case someone unexpectedly came open, but the defenders were locked in tight in one-on-one coverage and there were no passing windows.

The offensive line fell back under the defensive assault. Bud-O gave ground to Meaders, but as he fell back, he angled the defender off to the left. Kimberlin did the same with Kin-Ah but pushed the massive Ki slightly out to the right.

Quentin held the ball at his ear, bounced in place, kept looking downfield, waiting for the perfect moment.

Yassoud came out of the backfield and angled right: Cauthorn turned to run with him.

BLINK—

All sound vanished. Time slowed.

Quentin tucked the ball and took off. He shot between Bud-O and Kimberlin. Meaders reached a big hand over Bud-O and hit Quentin’s shoulder pad, but Quentin was too strong to be stopped by a glancing blow.

He angled left, picking up five yards before the defensive backs broke off their coverage and came at him. Cauthorn was much closer: he turned away from Yassoud — the big Human linebacker sprinted at Quentin, his eyes wide, his mouth open in a silent battle cry.

Quentin answered with a silent scream of his own, threw his head and shoulders forward for a full-speed collision. The white-helmeted defender powered forward, all his weight leaning into the blow.

The split-second before impact, Quentin planted on his left foot and bounced two feet to his right, the move as nimble as that of a ballet dancer sliding across the stage.

Cauthorn reached out, unable to stop his forward momentum, but his arm slapped uselessly against Quentin’s stomach armor and then the big linebacker was past, out of the play.

Quentin saw Yassoud running in front of him, looking to make a block. The Criminals safety rushed in; Yassoud hammered her, turned her slightly to the inside — Quentin cut left, almost brushing against Yassoud’s back as he angled for the end zone’s front-left corner.

His feet flew across the white field, over the dark-green lines. The first down marker fell away behind him. He saw the Criminals cornerback trying to break free of Cheboygan’s downfield block, but the oversized receiver kept contact, kept driving her foe backward.

Quentin sensed other Criminal D-backs closing in from behind. He dove forward, extending his hands out, felt the weight of defenders grabbing at him as the ball hit the inside of the orange pylon and sent it flying.

BLINK—

The noise of the world rushed back. Quentin slid across the end zone’s purple paint. Bodies rolled off him. He stood, the front of his orange jersey so stained he looked more like a player from Yall than from Ionath.

A hovering Harrah zebe signaled
touchdown
.

The crowd screamed in fury and disappointment: Quentin Barnes had broken their heart yet again. He flipped the ball to the ref, glanced over at the Criminals sidelines — there stood Rick Renaud, helmet at his side, shaking his head and mouthing what had to be a long string of creative curses.

Krakens 23, Criminals 21, with twenty-four seconds to play and the extra point still to come.

Quentin’s teammates crashed in, pressing around him, shouting in joy and victory, thumping his shoulder pads and slapping his helmet. He laughed and ducked, pushing at his friends as he ran toward the Ionath sideline.

Renaud was an amazing quarterback, but twenty-four seconds wasn’t enough time for him to work some magic of his own. On the Criminals’ first play following Quentin’s TD run, pressure from Mum-O-Killowe forced Renaud to throw the ball away, leaving only eighteen seconds. On the next play, Renaud chucked the ball downfield, hoping to make something happen. Something did, but not what he wanted — Krakens strong safety Niami intercepted the pass, sealing the 24-21 victory.

THE KRAKENS CELEBRATED
in the common area of the visiting locker room. Quentin shared words of encouragement with his teammates —
good victory, but we have a long way to go
 ...
more tests are coming at us soon ... this season is ours for the taking .
.. and other positive talk. But despite the win, he couldn’t get that sack out of his thoughts.

In the past, Meaders would have hit the ground grabbing at empty air. Quentin had always been able to track every player on the field, to plot their movements, to know where they were even when he was looking somewhere else. That ability was what made a great quarterback. He knew how much time he had in the pocket, knew when to scramble, knew how long he had to improvise until his receivers could find open spots. His size, quickness, accuracy and arm strength were critical to his success, but not as much as his innate field awareness.

That awareness hadn’t changed; he’d known exactly
when
to scramble. No, he hadn’t gotten that part wrong — he just hadn’t moved as fast as he thought he could. There was only one explanation:

I’ve lost a step
.

It couldn’t be. But was there any other answer? He hadn’t stumbled. He hadn’t taken any serious hits earlier in the game that would have slowed him down. He wasn’t limping, hadn’t tweaked a muscle or pulled a ligament... there wasn’t anything
wrong
with him.

He was still very young for a quarterback, but he’d put in four seasons of Tier One ball, plus a pair of playoff runs. He’d been injured more times than he could count.

Maybe all those hits are catching up with you
.

Had the same thing happened to Pine? Quentin had watched all of the man’s games, multiple times. In Pine’s early years, he’d been a decent scrambler, able to avoid defenders and buy time, often even just tucking the ball and running as Quentin now did. Pine had never been as fast as Quentin, of course, but defenses still had to account for his mobility.

As Pine’s career progressed, he stopped scrambling as often. When he felt pressure, he would throw the ball away or simply go down and take a sack so as not to throw a risky pass that might be intercepted. Don shifted his game from being a fleet-footed, scrambling threat to being a ball-control quarterback who didn’t turn the ball over. Don Pine hadn’t stopped scrambling because he
wanted
to; he’d done it because he
had
to. Hundreds of hits had combined with the march of time to slow him down, to force him to change his game. It happened to every quarterback.

Even, apparently, to Quentin.

But he was only
twenty-three
. It wasn’t supposed to happen that soon ... was it?

A pair of muscular arms wrapped around him and lifted him off the ground.

“Q! Cheer up, we won!”

The arms squeezed hard, a little
too
hard.

“Uncle Johnny, okay,
okay
! Put me down, I’m all cheered up.”

John set him back on his feet.

“We’re four and oh,” John said.

UNDEFEATED IS NOT A SHOE SIZE
played across his forehead. Quentin had no idea what that meant.

John leaned closer. His eyes squinted as he examined Quentin’s face.

“Q, are you bummed out because that big fella caught you from behind?”

Quentin’s jaw dropped. “High One, John, how did you know that?”

I AM A PERCEPTIVE AND SENSITIVE SOUL
trailed from his right temple down under his chin.

“Because we’re bestest of buddies,” John said. “And also I’m dating your sister. That makes us related, and related people share the same DNA, and people who share the same DNA have brains that are interconnected, so
obviously
I know what you think.”

Quentin shook his head. “That’s not how it works, John.”

John made a
pssh
sound. “Like you know science, slowpoke. Speaking of dating, how about you and Becca come out with me and Ju and the crew tonight? There’s a Human zone near the stadium, so I’m pretty sure we won’t get eaten.”

Quentin looked around, searching for Becca. He saw her on the other side of the common area. She was standing with Milford and Denver, laughing at something the two excitable receivers were doing. Becca saw Quentin looking. Her smile faded. Then, she turned back to the receivers and the smile blossomed again.

“Yikes,” John said. “It’s been weeks of this. She’s
still
crazy-mad at you?”

“You’re as perceptive as ever, John.”

John held up a finger. “Don’t forget
sensitive
, Q. I’m very sensitive with emotions and whatnot.”

Quentin nodded and turned back to his locker. “You are, John, you are.”

“Sucks to be you, brother,” John said. “I know you’re pissed she’s moving to quarterback — and you’re not alone, most of the team is angry our All-Pro fullback isn’t going to play shucking fullback anymore — but Coach made his decision and you’ve got to get behind that.”

It wasn’t like John was saying something Quentin didn’t already know. The battle was lost. If he expected Becca to be a team player, he had to be one himself and accept the change. He would, soon — at least he hoped he would — but it was still too bitter of a pill to swallow.

“I know, John. I know. It’s just stupid is all.”

John nodded. “Which is why she’s mad at you, because you think it’s stupid. She’ll either get over it or she won’t. That’s fifty-fifty odds, Q, and that ain’t bad. So what do you say? Do your press conference bit, then come out with me and Ju. Your brothers will cheer you up.”

Quentin couldn’t think of going out in Virilliville without also thinking of billowing columns of pink smoke.

“Not sure that’s a good idea,” Quentin said. “There’s like,
millions
of my ... uh ... my
followers
here.”

“Q, you don’t listen so good sometimes. I told you we probably won’t get eaten. We’re going to the Human district. It’s walled off. Great nightclub section, with heavy security throughout.”

“What, only Humans are allowed?”