The Starter (10 page)

“Barnes was selfless,” said Krakens head coach Hokor the Hookchest. “At a critical time against an exceptional defense, he had 144 all-purpose yards and the game-winning score to propel us into Tier One. No question that he deserves Rookie of the Year.”

Orbiting Death running back Ju Tweedy was named the T2 Offensive Player of the Year, followed closely by Whitok Pioneers QB Condor Adrienne and Krakens running back Mitchell Fayed (deceased).

Bigg Diggers cornerback Arkham was far and away the winner of Defensive Player of the Year honors, powered by her 11 interceptions.

QUENTIN WALKED DOWN
the
Touchback’s
corridor, heading for his quarters. Yitzhak Goldman walked on his left. Pilkie, a Quyth Worker, walked on his right. Pilkie and Yitzhak had been waiting for Quentin in the shuttle bay. Yitzhak said he had something to show Quentin, and Pilkie seemed to be part of the event. The Quyth Worker kept offering to take Quentin’s bags every thirty seconds. Quentin didn’t need a Worker to carry his bags, he could carry them just fine even though he was so tired he practically stumbled down the corridor.

While he’d somewhat gotten used to the Quyth Warriors and Leaders, the Workers still freaked him out a little. At around four feet tall, they were bigger than Leaders yet significantly smaller than Warriors. Except for the pedipalps, that is — Worker pedipalps were invariably long and knotted with muscle, the result of many years of manual labor. They reminded Quentin of the arms of his coworkers back in the mines of Micovi.

“Crazy times,” Yitzhak said. “A bomb, man. Sentients
died
.”

“Zak, I’m exhausted,” Quentin said. “What is this thing you’ve got to show me? Let’s get it over with so I can go to sleep.”

“Quentin, anyone ever tell you you’re too intense?”

Quentin shrugged.

“Well, sometimes you are. Try to relax a little. What I want to show you is
in
your quarters. I hope you don’t mind, but since you don’t have an agent, I had
my
agent put out the word that he was temporarily representing you.”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed. He’d never even met Yitzhak’s agent, didn’t even know who the guy was. Or girl. Or
species
, for that matter.

“Representing me... for
what
?”

“For endorsements,” Yitzhak said. “You’re about to become a star, Quentin. Companies want to get in on the ground floor.”

Quentin hoped the presentation wouldn’t take long. He just wanted his bed. His quarters were the same layout as those of the other Human players; a bedroom barely big enough for the bed, a bathroom, a living room with the holotank in the middle. Most of his Human teammates complained about living in such a small space, but not Quentin — he didn’t bother to tell them that before he started playing football on Micovi, his entire apartment had been the size of just the small bedroom,
and
that he’d shared it with two other miners.

When they reached Quentin’s quarters, the door opened automatically and they all walked in. At least, they walked as far as they could. Boxes were everywhere, as were display stands showing all sorts of products. Someone had been in his room,
his room
, messing with his stuff, setting traps for him, trying to take him out.

Quentin stared. He adjusted the strap of his bag. Pilkie moved in fast, reaching out to take it.

“
Leave it
,” Quentin said, sharply.

Pilkie flinched as if Quentin was about to hit him.

“Q,” Yitzhak said, “relax.”

Quentin turned on him. “Don’t tell me what to do! And who the hell was in here, huh? You? You plant something in here?
Did you
?”

Quentin’s left hand shot out and locked on Yitzhak’s right bicep, squeezed hard.

“You gonna make a move, Zak? Well then,
come on
!”

Yitzhak’s eyes widened for a second, but he stayed stock-still. He looked at Quentin’s big hand, then back at Quentin.

“Let go,” Yitzhak said quietly.

The calmness of Yitzhak’s voice contrasted against the rage roiling inside of Quentin, cut through it, made Quentin see the situation for what it was. He was threatening a teammate, using physical force.

Quentin let go.

Yitzhak, still calm as could be, reached up his left hand and massaged his right bicep. “That hurt,” he said.

Quentin stepped back. His fatigue won out over his rage, dragging him back down again. “Sorry.”

Yitzhak shook his head. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” Quentin said. “I said I was sorry.”

“Sorry is not going to cut it, man. You can’t act like that around here.”

“Act like what?”

“Like you’re some petty thug, swinging at everything that makes you mad. What did you think we’d done, anyway?”

Quentin looked away, but Yitzhak persisted.

“Don’t clam up on me now,” he said. “I’ll accept your apology if you tell me what that was all about. You got that mad, why? Because someone touched your stuff?”

“You make it sound like that’s not a big deal.”

“It’s not,” Yitzhak said. “It’s just a room. I won’t accept your apology until you tell me why you did that.”

Zak was so calm, so patient. Even after Quentin had all but punched him out, Zak still had that expression of concern on his face. Concern for Quentin.

“Back on Micovi,” Quentin said, “your place is kind of... sacred. Someone goes in there without your permission, they’re trying to steal from you, or...”

Yitzhak crossed his arms and waited.

Quentin sighed and continued. “Or maybe they’re putting a trap in your room, like a hidden roundbug, something to hurt you or kill you. It’s a Micovi thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

“You know what? You’re not on Micovi anymore.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “I know that, Zak, I’m not stu—”

“Yeah, you
are
stupid. And you
don’t
know it. Not in your heart. Everyone on this damn ship will fall all over themselves to help you, to back you up whenever you need it. So you had to go through some hard times on Micovi? Well get over it. You can’t react with violence all the time.”

“Right,” Quentin said. “They brought me here
because
I’m violent. I get
paid
to be violent, and I’m just supposed to shut it off?”

Yitzhak nodded. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. You’re in the GFL now. Start acting like a professional athlete and stop acting like some two-bit bully.”

Yitzhak was right — that behavior was unacceptable. Quentin felt his face flush red. He knew better. He had to start controlling his reactions.

“Sorry,” Quentin said again.

“You’ve already apologized to me,” Yitzhak said. “Maybe you should apologize to Pilkie.”

Quentin turned and looked down at the wide-eyed Quyth Worker. Pilkie looked scared, but his eye kept flicking to Quentin’s bag. Quentin sighed, slid the bag off his shoulder and held it out.

Pilkie grabbed it and shot off to Quentin’s small bedroom. Everything clean would be put away; everything dirty would go into the laundry.

Quentin rolled out his neck and looked around the room. Yitzhak had gone to all this trouble. Since Quentin had made an ass out of himself the least he could do was check it all out. He casually sorted through piles of stuff, picking up a black baseball bat. He looked at it closely, and saw that his face was burned into the wood.

“
Hey
, I didn’t give permission for this.”

“It’s just a mock-up,” Yitzhak said. “Companies want you to see what things will look like.”

“Yeah, but I play football, not baseball.”

“That’s the beauty of it, Q — you don’t have to
use
the products, you just let them put your name and face on them and collect a paycheck.”

Quentin set the bat down and picked up a strange plastic device that dangled with tubes and long, narrow cups. “No idea what this is but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t use it.”

“Probably not,” Yitzhak said. “Unless you are a menstruating Sklorno.”

Quentin dropped the device like it had suddenly turned into a spider. Pilkie shot out of the bedroom, grabbed the device off the floor and placed it neatly in the pile.

“Quentin, look,” Yitzhak said. “I’m not trying to get into your business here, but you are a starting Tier One quarterback. There are only twenty-two starting T1 QBs in the galaxy. You’re about to become a
major
star, and people are willing to pay you a
lot
of money just to be associated with you.”

“I get that,” Quentin said. “I get the whole concept. But all this...” he gestured to the piles of merchandise, “all this
crap
isn’t what football is about. And besides, I make plenty of money.”

Yitzhak laughed. “That’s a good one.”

“Why do you keep saying that? I’ll make a
million
credits this season. That’s a ton of money, Zak. I hate to break it to you, but I’m rich.”

Yitzhak laughed again, then the sound faded, the smile slipped from his face. “Quentin, you’re serious? You think you’re rich?”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed. He suddenly wanted to punch Zak in the mouth, and wasn’t sure why. “Yes, I am rich. Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t want to brag or anything, but I make a
million
credits a season. That would make me one of the richest people on Micovi.”

“You’re not on Micovi anymore. And yeah, a million is a good grab, but you have to understand just how much you can make from endorsements. You could make
ten times
that much, maybe twenty times.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. Yitzhak’s exaggerations weren’t appreciated, even though he knew his teammate was just trying to help.

“Look, Zak, maybe I honestly don’t care, okay? My little apartment in the Krakens building is paid for. When I’m not there, I’m here. My food is paid for, clothes, all that stuff. I have a million credits and nothing to spend it on, so why bother?”

“Sure, all that stuff is paid for, as long as you don’t get hurt. That’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Do you mind a little advice?”

Quentin looked to the ceiling and sighed. “Sure, why not?”

“You’re a starting Tier One quarterback, which means you’re going to get
hit
like a starting Tier One quarterback. Even as good as sports medicine is these days, you are one play away from being finished. There goes your
million credit
salary. What are you going to do then?”

“I won’t get hurt.”

“I bet that’s exactly what Paul Pierson thought.”

The name stopped Quentin cold, made the image of a chrome foot flash into his brain. For just a second, Quentin pictured his own leg replaced by such a contraption. He shook his head, forcing the image away — it was ridiculous to think that would happen to him. Still, even if he had a career like Pine or Frank Zimmer, Quentin might be done with football in fifteen years. Yet fifteen years seemed like an eternity... he’d only been
alive
for nineteen.

Quentin picked up a set of golf clubs.

“Quentin, do you golf?”

“No. Never been. I should pick up the game, though, so I can drive around in a stupid golf cart all the time like Coach does. Are there courses on Ionath?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind wearing a rad-suit, there are some of the best courses in the galaxy, right outside the dome. And if your suit fails in any way, it will still hold your biomass together nicely while you melt.”

Quentin let the golf bag drop to the floor. “Wow, I can’t wait to get out on the links.”

Pilkie shot in from nowhere, grabbed the clubs, then vanished. The little guy was crazy fast.

“Zak, maybe we can talk about it later,” Quentin said. “I just don’t want to deal with this now. I appreciate you trying to help, but I’m going to have Pilkie throw all this garbage out the...”

Quentin stopped when his eyes fell on a model of a luxury yacht. About a foot long, with sleek lines that screamed
wealth
and
speed
. But it wasn’t the model itself that caught his attention but rather the holo-card hovering just above it. He knew that face. Quentin picked up the model.

“
You
like yachts?” Yitzhak said. “I figured you as a pitchman for some swillish, watery beer.”

Quentin’s head snapped up. “Wait, a
beer
company wants to talk to me?”

Yitzhak nodded. “Yep. Miller Lager. Interested?”

Quentin blinked. Yitzhak was messing with him.

“You’re messing with me,” Quentin said.

Yitzhak shook his head. “Nope, they were the second company to call.”

When Quentin had watched pirated football game coverage back in the Nation, he’d loved those funny beer commercials the former GFL players did. To actually be
in
a commercial like that? Other than a championship ring and the cover image of Galaxy Sports Magazine, that was the biggest level of success a player could imagine.

“Interested?” Yitzhak said. “Not that you have a bad poker face or anything, but it sure looks like you want to know more.”

“Yeah, I do. Can your agent set up a meeting with them?”

“No problem. They’ll be thrilled to talk to you.”

“Miller was the second company to call,” Quentin said. “What was the first?”

Yitzhak pointed to the yacht model in Quentin’s hands. “You’re looking at it. Word is they’ve been calling everywhere for months, trying to find out who represents you.”

Quentin nodded. “Okay. The yacht company, and Miller Lager. Please set those meetings up.”

“Consider it done. Any others?”

“No. Not interested in the rest. Just Miller and this. I’ll have Pilkie get all this out tomorrow, Zak, but if you could take off, I wanna get some sleep.”

“Right,” Yitzhak said. “I’ll get out of your way. Rest up, the free agents arrive tomorrow.”

“Free agents?”

“Yep. Free agents tomorrow, rookies the day after. Season begins in three weeks, Q. Gotta load up on new talent.”

The helpful third-string quarterback walked out of the room. Quentin sat on his couch — one small cushion was the only uncluttered part of his apartment on which he could sit — and stared at the model of the yacht.