The Starter (14 page)

The rig consisted of a padded bench and a horizontal bar above it. The bar was steel, with soft, black handles on either end. Right at the middle of that bar, another bar connected, making a “T,” the T-post leading into a vertical slot in the wall. The wall had other attachments sticking out of it, individual handles that could be pulled or pushed, giving Quentin any number of weightlifting options. He would use all of the attachments for a full-body workout. His favorite — by far — was the tried and true bench-press.

He lay back on the bench, then reached up to grab the padded handles, his hands shoulder-width apart. In the space between his hands, the bar showed a readout in red letters:
400 lbs.
He looked up at the ceiling, where the smart-paper showed the silver and blue Lions rushing out of the tunnel, preparing for the biggest game of their lives. Every player he saw up there was long-since dead, the game having taken place more than six centuries earlier.
Dead
, but not
forgotten
— every player was forever notched in the glory of history, every player was eternal.

“Give me music,” Quentin said. The room computer faded out the game noise. The first song on his playlist faded in. His favorite band, Trench Warfare, the long, melodic guitar intro to their hit
Combat Bats
. He would watch the game and listen to the music. He couldn’t work out and watch Trench Warfare — the band’s lead singer, Somalia Midori, was far too distracting for that.

Quentin lowered the bar to his chest, then pressed. The four hundred pounds went up smooth and easy. He lowered the bar and repeated, watching the ceiling as the players took to the field. He hit ten reps before his muscles started to burn.

Another half hour of weights, then it was time to hit the virtual practice field for twenty minutes before the 7:00 a.m. position meeting.

• • •

QUENTIN’S PRACTICE CLEATS
pressed into the corridor’s carpet. He approached the Kriegs-Ballok VR practice room, and through the door saw Hawick — his top receiver — streaking across a sapphire-blue surface marked with blazing white yard lines. Sapphire blue and white: the home field colors of the Isis Ice Storm.

She was running an inside-slant route, one that would take her at a shallow angle from near the sidelines to the middle of the field. Running with her was Stockbridge, the Krakens left cornerback.

The wide door framed the scene — Quentin saw a ball rip through the air. His eyes had only a fraction of a second to comprehend that the ball looked a little
too
real to be a holographic projection, then Stockbridge stepped in front of Hawick and caught it.

An interception.

Quentin stepped through the door and looked left, in the direction of the pass, expecting to see Don Pine or possibly Yitzhak.

But he saw neither.

Instead, he saw Rebecca Montagne. She froze as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Rookie,” Quentin said, “what do you think you’re doing?”

She stared at him with wide eyes. “Uh... I’m, just, you know, uh... throwing the ball.”

“Montagne, you are a
fullback
. Fullbacks do not throw the ball.”

Her shocked stare vanished as her eyes narrowed. Quentin saw aggression there, attitude.

“I’m a
quarterback
,” she said. “I’m playing fullback because the offer was on the table and I wanted to get into Tier One.”

“And you are in Tier One
as a fullback
. If you were a Tier One
quarterback
, someone would have picked you up for that. But they didn’t. So stop wasting my receivers’ time.”

Hawick and Stockbridge walked up, their walk faster than most Humans’
run
.

“But Quentin Barnes,” Hawick said. “Rebecca Montagne was not wasting our time, she was here early so we—”

“Shut
up
,” Quentin said. Hawick and Stockbridge visibly winced, as if he’d raised a whip to beat them down, a whip they’d felt land hundreds of times before.

“Hey,” Rebecca said. “Be mad at me if you want, but you don’t have to be a jerk to them.”

Quentin turned on her. “What was that,
rookie
? Are you telling me what to do?”

Her eyes grew wide again. Quentin was a good six inches taller. He towered over her.

“Well,
rookie
? Are you? Are you telling me what to do?”

She shook her head. That brief bit of attitude seemed long gone.

“Good,” Quentin said. “This room is reserved for
quarterbacks
in the morning, you got that? You want to use it, come late at night, although I bet you’ll have your hands full just learning to block like you’re supposed to. Now get out of here.”

Rebecca looked to the ground, then ran out of the practice room. Quentin watched her go, making sure she didn’t stick around. The
audacity
of that rookie. Taking snaps?
Throwing?

“Quentin Barnes,” Hawick said, her meek voice barely audible over the holographic crowd’s steady drone. “We stand miserable in our shame for disappointing one as godlike as you. Would you like us to kill ourselves to atone?”

Quentin sighed and stared at the ceiling. Hawick wasn’t kidding. It was hard being looked at as a religious figure — you had to be careful about what you said to your
subjects
.

“Room, off,” Quentin said. The sapphire blue field and the crowd vanished. With them went the sound. Quentin turned to face Hawick and Stockbridge, who were shaking violently in fear.

“Hawick, I’m sorry I yelled. You did nothing wrong, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Please, tell me what’s on your mind.”

The Sklornos’ shaking vanished, as instantly as if they’d never been afraid in the first place. Sklorno switched emotional gears at the drop of a hat.

“Rebecca Montagne meant no harm,” Hawick said. “She was helping us to catch glorious passes to further your glory. She was here before you, so we thought we would practice.”

Quentin gritted his teeth. “Room, on. Hawick, line up, let’s work out-routes to the sidelines. Bump-and-run coverage.”

Hawick scrambled to the line of scrimmage, while Stockbridge practically fell over herself moving into close-cover, defensive back position. Quentin couldn’t be angry with them for working with Montagne. Just as he did, the Sklorno lived for football. In their minds, any missed chance to play was a chance that would never come again, a chance that was lost forever to the sands of time.

“Hut-
hut!
” He dropped back five steps and planted, throwing the ball even before Hawick cut to the outside. Her big feet dragged inbounds as she extended her tentacle arms. She caught the ball firmly just before those feet scraped onto the white sideline. Perfect throw, perfect catch, but it didn’t chase away the words that rang in the back of Quentin’s head.

She was here before you.

• • •

QUENTIN THREW THE OUT PATTERN
for the thirtieth time in a row, again hitting Hawick’s outstretched tentacles. If she could get off the line without being stuffed by a defensive back, and he delivered on-target, the throw could not be stopped. This season, he planned on using more short, controlled passes. Tier Two defensive backs had caused him no end of trouble — and now he was in Tier One, where they would be even better, where they would be some of the greatest to ever play the game. He couldn’t go head-hunting against talent like that, couldn’t constantly be throwing the deep ball unless he softened up the secondary by throwing multiple short passes underneath, drawing the defenders in close. When that happened, when they came up to stop the short pass, that would give him the opportunity to throw long. Hawick and Scarborough were as good as any Tier One receiver — if they could get a step on the defense, Quentin could hit them for six every time.

“
Barnes!
”

Quentin smiled when he heard the high-pitched, gravelly voice. He turned to face Coach Hokor. Not so long ago, hearing Hokor’s piercing shout would have made Quentin wince, made him dread the inevitable laps of punishment. But those days were gone for good.

“Hey, Coach,” Quentin said. “Ready for the position meeting?”

“Of course,” Hokor said. “I respect the fact that you are working out early — again — but we have receiver practice in fifteen minutes. Why are you running my receivers to exhaustion?”

Quentin turned and looked at Hawick. Her raspers dangled all the way to the floor, drool running off in rivulets to pool at her feet. Beneath her clear chitin skin, he saw her heart fluttering madly, her three lungs expanding and shrinking, expanding and shrinking.

He turned back to face Hokor, and shrugged. “She better get used to it, Coach. The whole team better get used to it. Some things we can’t control, but one thing we can
always
control is how hard we work.
No one
will work harder than the Krakens.”

Hokor’s pedipalps twitched up and down a little. The Quentin of thirteen weeks ago might have mistaken that for laughter, but he was getting to know Quyth Leaders — his coach, in particular. That kind of twitch meant Hokor was trying to hide excitement. Trying, and failing. Gredok the Splithead could disguise emotions at will, but Hokor? Despite the little coach’s gruff exterior, Quentin was rapidly reaching the point where he could read Hokor like a message board.

“Hawick, Stockbridge,” Hokor said. “Go to the practice field and sit down until we start drills.”

Hawick shivered, the motion making little bits of spittle fly off her tongue. “Yes, Coach Hokor the Hookchest! Yesyesyes!”

She sprinted out of the virtual practice room at top speed, completely missing the fact that Hokor wanted her to rest. Stockbridge ran as well, only a step behind the faster receiver.

As they ran out of the VR practice room, Donald Pine and Yitzhak Goldman walked in. Both were dressed for the day’s practice — full football armor and red
do not touch
jerseys.

“Let’s begin the quarterback meeting,” Hokor said. “First of all, we have Media Day coming up next week. That will cost us a half-day of practice, so we need to make this week count.”

“A half-day?” Quentin said. “Can’t we just do some holo-phone interviews or something?”

“It is mandatory,” Hokor said. “A league requirement. And as the starting quarterback, you
will
do it, Barnes.”

“Why would they want to talk to me? I haven’t even won a Tier One game yet.”

Don laughed. “Win or lose, there’s still news coverage. You’re the starting quarterback, that makes you a media darling whether you like it or not. If you want, I’ll walk you through the process, tell you what to expect.”

That made Quentin instantly feel better. Don’s experience as the best player in football, his confidence, his calmness, all of these things helped Quentin get a perspective on his new duties as team leader.

“Yeah,” Quentin said. “That would be great.”

Don nodded once, then looked at Hokor, letting the coach continue.

“The Ice Storm finished with seven wins last year,” Hokor said. “Their five losses were all close games. They were just a few tipped passes away from
nine
wins, and a trip to the Tier One playoffs.”

Quentin nodded. Since the schedule had been released, he had studied the Ice Storm in depth. Hokor was right — Isis
was
a playoff-caliber team.

“Offensively, we have a primary problem,” Hokor said. “Isis puts significant pressure on the opposing quarterback. Their linebackers are among the best in the league at pass coverage and at blitzing. We will not have a strong running game this week.”

“This
week?
” Pine said. “How about this
season
.”

“Back off, Don,” Quentin said. “Murphy will come through.”

Pine shook his head. “He’s not the solution.”

“If he’s not, then who is? Campbell? Martinez?”

“Maybe,” Don said. “Maybe we land someone else. For this week, however, I’m guessing the solution is the fleet feet of our starting quarterback.”

Hokor grunted in agreement. “Today we will be working short patterns to keep the pressure off of you, Barnes, and rolling you out of the pocket to give you more time to throw. With Aka-Na-Tak out, I don’t think our replacement right guards can protect you for drop-back passing. Combine that with our weak running game, and play-action won’t buy you time, either. If we roll you out to the sides, your speed will give you time to throw and keep you from getting killed in the pocket. So let’s get out there and practice those patterns with the receivers.”

Quentin nodded and started to run off the practice field, but Hokor stopped him.

“Barnes, this is just the first game of a long season. Our game plan revolves around you not taking big hits, so you don’t get damaged. But that
also
means that you have to work on
sliding
. No head-to-head collisions with defensive players. I don’t want you taking the kind of punishment you took against the Earthlings.”

Quentin laughed and shook his head. “Hell, Coach, you can count on that. I don’t feel like getting beat up like that again. And besides, you know you don’t have to tell me something more than once.”

Yitzhak snorted. He was trying to choke back laughter. Pine looked away, his lip quivering.

“What?” Quentin said, annoyed at once again not being part of the in-crowd. “What is so damn funny?”

“You...” Pine said, then he bent over at the waist, shaking his head and trying to hold it in. Yitzhak couldn’t stop his snorts anymore, and laughed as he ran for the practice field door.

Pine stood, pursed his lips, shook his head, blinked away tears, then walked off the field.

“Coach,” Quentin said. “What are those guys laughing about?”

Hokor said nothing. Quentin looked down at his coach, whose pedipalps quivered. And this time? They quivered side to side, they quivered with
laughter
.