The Starter (26 page)

Whistles blew. Quentin stepped forward. The Krakens jumped up, rushing back to the line as the zebe placed the ball.

“No huddle!” several defensive players called out. “No huddle!”

Going without a huddle kept the defenders from swapping out players, in hopes of catching them in a formation that didn’t properly match up with the offensive set.

Quentin waited only long enough for his line to settle into their stances.

“
Hut!
”

Bud-O-Shwek snapped on first sound, slapping the ball hard into Quentin’s hands. Quentin turned to the right this time, seemingly showing a mirror image of the last play. This play, however was a
counter
— start out right to hopefully draw the defense in that direction, then after the handoff, the running back cut left. Pareless again ran past, again Quentin reached out with the ball, and again Yassoud took it. The second-year runner immediately cut to the left, following Pareless through the hole to the left of the center. The Ice Storm linebackers weren’t fooled by the misdirection; they came up and filled the gap almost instantly, stopping Yassoud for just a two-yard gain. Armor cracked, players grunted, and bodies crashed to the ground.

Third down and five.

The Krakens hopped up, again scrambling back to the line of scrimmage, all except for Yassoud who got up slowly.

“Come on, Murphy!” Quentin shouted. “Move, move!”

Yassoud stood and jogged to his tailback position. His slow pace gave the Ice Storm time to swap out players. A defensive lineman ran off and a defensive back ran on, giving Isis five defensive backs for the third-down passing situation.

Quentin bent behind Bud-O-Shwek, surveying the defense. The defenders weren’t set, maybe he could still catch them on their heels.

“
Hut!
”

The ball smacked into his hands on first sound and the line erupted. Quentin pushed back to his left, watching Pareless rush by, then extended the ball with his right hand, offering it to the oncoming Yassoud for what looked like the third running play in a row. At the last second, Quentin pulled the ball back, planted his right foot and pushed off, turning his body all the way around until he was running right, parallel to the line of scrimmage.

In front of him, the entire offensive line had driven to the left upon the snap of the ball, taking the defense with them either by force or because the defenders wanted to follow the play. Quentin sprinted to his right when most of the defenders were still moving in the other direction, now fighting not only blockers but their own momentum to chase after the quarterback.

Shun-On-Won had pushed to the left like his line mates. After a one-second delay, however, he had planted his six feet and stopped, suddenly driving to his right. Shun-On scuttled parallel to the line of scrimmage as a lead blocker for Quentin. A boot play like this could catch undisciplined defenses sleeping, let an athletic quarterback roll out toward the sidelines, give him time to throw or room to run.

Ryan Nossek was not undisciplined.

The HeavyG defensive end had “stayed home,” meaning he hadn’t over-pursued down the line. His job was to make sure plays didn’t go outside of him, where running backs and quarterbacks could turn up the sidelines and rack up big gains. When Nossek saw the boot play, he came in on all fours. He ran upfield but also to his left, staying outside of Quentin. This angle would stop Quentin from getting to the right sidelines, force him to either stand and throw or tuck the ball and run back inside where Nossek’s pursuing teammates could help.

Quentin should have done just that, cut back inside, but he kept running to the sidelines, trying to look downfield to see if Starcher was open. Shun-On scuttled toward the oncoming Nossek, then gathered his tubular body, compressing it like an accordion. Shun-On expanded, blasting forward like a long-tailed orange and black comet. Nossek bent and dipped his right shoulder, then ripped his thick right forearm up just as Shun-On reached him. The forearm hit just under Shun-On’s chest, lifting the Ki lineman enough so that he sailed over Nossek’s ducked head.

Quentin had only a split second to think
wow, that was really shucking amazing
, and then Nossek stepped forward and reached. Quentin tried to plant and turn away, but the defensive end had speed that belied his 550 pounds. Arms as big as Quentin’s waist reached out, hands the size of autocannon rounds grabbed, lifted, and slammed the quarterback into the sapphire-blue turf.

Quentin blanked out, but only for a fraction of a second. The crowd’s concussive roar brought him out of it. He opened his eyes to see a smiling Ryan Nossek staring down at him.

“Come on now, Young’un. It doesn’t hurt
that
bad. First one is just a love tap. Here on out, I’m bringing everything I got. You should think about heading to the sidelines so I can say hello to my old friend Don Pine.”

The giant stood and reached down, grabbing Quentin’s hand and pulling him to his feet.

Quentin slapped the bigger man on the side of his helmet, a friendly-yet-patronizing gesture that said
nice hit
. “Next time? Big man, there won’t
be
a next time.”

Nossek smiled, turned, and ran to his sideline, leaving Quentin to do the same. Quentin jogged to the bench. His first drive in Tier One? Three and out, a sack, a ringing in his head, and possibly the lamest comeback of all time.

Not a strong start.

• • •

THE ICE STORM RETURNED
Arioch Morningstar’s punt to their 42-yard line, giving them prime field position. They took only four plays to advance forty yards before Paul Infante hit wide receiver Angoon in the end zone on a high cross. Quentin had to admire Infante’s accuracy, nailing Angoon at the apex of a 20-foot leap, slicing the ball between Perth and Berea, the Krakens free safety and cornerback, respectively.

Extra point good: Ice Storm 7, Krakens 0.

“
Barnes!
Get over here!” Hokor’s voice coming from the speakers in Quentin’s helmet. Quentin ran down the sidelines to the 50-yard line, where Hokor waited. The fuzzy yellow-and-black Quyth Leader wore a little orange Krakens jacket and a VR headset on top of his tiny ballcap. Quentin knelt. Hokor put a pedipalp on Quentin’s shoulder pad.

“Barnes, don’t let that last drive worry you.”

“Do I look worried?”

“No. Keep running the ball and see what Yassoud’s got. This season is a marathon, not a sprint, and I need to know what my running back is capable of long-term. I also need to make sure Nossek doesn’t kill my starting quarterback, so we’re going conservative.”

Quentin wanted to say
screw that, let’s throw that sucker
. But he kept quiet.

The kickoff went out of the end zone, giving the Krakens the ball on the 20-yard line. Quentin ran onto the field as a little holographic Hokor face popped up in his helmet visor.

“X-set, off-tackle right,” Hokor said. “And Barnes,
do not audible
. Just run the plays that I call.”

“Don’t I always, Coach?”

Hokor said something that might have been a Quyth-language curse, then the holo blinked out.

Quentin called the play, Yassoud ran the ball and the offense went nowhere. Aside from one run that gave Yassoud a fifteen-yard gain, he couldn’t hit the holes cleanly, couldn’t break tackles, and couldn’t get more than two or three yards a play. Quentin threw only seven times, completing three, getting hit twice, and finding out that when he’d told Nossek there wouldn’t be a next time? Yeah, he’d been wrong about that. When the Krakens ran into the tunnel at the half, the Ice Storm was up 24-0. Quentin’s head hurt almost too bad to tell Messal he needed another helmet to replace the first one, which had been cracked in two.

• • •

THE KRAKENS GATHERED
in the communal locker room, already looking beaten and bedraggled. Blood dripped. The sound of armor welders and unrolling tape provided an audio backdrop as Hokor walked up to the holo-board.

“We have to make adjustments,” Hokor said. “We’re not giving Yassoud enough of a hole, so we will adjust to the Storm’s defensive scheme. We gave up twenty-four points, but I’m not that worried about the defense. If we can
run the damn ball
and pick up some
first downs
, well, then the defense won’t be out there every damn minute! But first, we did get some bad news. North Branch, the wall-breaker who went down on the opening kickoff, she’s dead. When you shake appendages after the game, make sure you give your condolences.”

“
Dead?
” A female voice. Rebecca Montagne. “But... how?”

John Tweedy stood up and pumped his fist. “Because you blasted her, man! How about that, Krakens? First play of her first game, and Becca the Wrecka
got a kill
.”

There were murmurs of approval from the Humans, deep grunts and clacking of chest armor from the Ki linemen. The Sklorno squealed and jumped up and down, their armored eyestalks coming only inches from the fifteen-foot ceiling. The Krakens players weren’t celebrating the death of another player, necessarily, but their job was to hit as hard as they could — if another player died from one of your hits, you deserved respect. Quentin said nothing. It was sad that North Branch had died, but it was a violent game and bad things happened to good players.

Rebecca shook her head. “But I didn’t
mean
to. I just... I just hit her. I’m
supposed
to hit her!”

“Montagne!” Hokor said. “Sit down, we have halftime adjustments to make.”

“But Coach, I didn’t mean to kill anyone, I—”

“
Montagne!
Sit down and
shut up!
”

She looked stunned, as if it was news to her that the galaxy’s most violent team sport might result in death.

Quentin quietly walked over to her as Hokor outlined blocking schemes for the second half.

“Becca,” Quentin said in a whisper. “You okay?”

She looked at him with haunted eyes. Clearly, she was not okay.

“Relax,” Quentin said. “It’s okay. This is upper tier football. These things just happen.”

“
Just happen?
That sentient is dead, Quentin.”

“Yeah, and she won’t be the last this season, not by a long shot. You need to focus on halftime adjustments. We can talk about it after the game. Right now, you put it out of your mind, understand?”

She looked away, the expression on her face showing she thought Quentin either a simpleton or a heartless ghoul. Well, he was neither. He was the quarterback, and his team was getting whipped.

Quentin walked away from her and focused on the holo-board. A 24-point deficit was damn near impossible to overcome unless they could get some offense together. They had to make adjustments, then go out and kick some ass.

• • •

THE KRAKENS DID NOT
“kick some ass.” Ice Storm did, and plenty of it. Isis added three more touchdowns and two field goals in the second half. The Krakens offense sputtered, save for one of the few plays in which Quentin had time to throw and he hit Hawick for a 78-yard touchdown pass. Most of the pass plays, however, he’d barely had time to complete his drop-back and look downfield before someone was in his face. He’d been hurried seven times, knocked down another eleven and suffered five sacks (three by Nossek, two by the Storm’s left tackle, the player Shun-On-Won was supposed to block). Basically, Quentin got the crap kicked out of him for sixty minutes.

End result: Ice Storm 51, Krakens 7.

In the Human locker room, Quentin slowly peeled off his armor. He tossed the plates, wraps, armor, and shoulder pads on top of the blue-stained orange jersey already sitting in a heap on the floor. Man, did his head hurt. Beat-up players surrounded him. They all felt humiliated by the lop-sided loss, yet an odd sense of optimism remained. The Ice Storm was a damn good team building on last season’s success. Isis had several years of Tier One experience,
and
they were fully rested from the long off-season. The Krakens, on the other hand, had finished a brutal Tier Two campaign only four weeks earlier. Nobody wanted to lose 51-7, but at the same time no one had assumed the Krakens could go undefeated. Quentin and his teammates now had their first taste of Tier One blood.

“Nice game, kid.”

Quentin turned to see Don Pine, already fully dressed in a flashy black suit and matching hat.

“Sure,” Quentin said. “If you can call losing by six touchdowns
nice
.”

Don shook his head and spoke in a quiet, subtle tone of voice. “Let it go. The instant a game ends, it’s gone. You need to move on and start thinking of next week. Forget it. And let the team
see
you’re forgetting it. They look to you now, remember that.”

Quentin considered the words and nodded. Don was right. Everyone watched Quentin, unconsciously monitoring his moods if not outright following his lead. At times, he’d have to put on a happy face.

Quentin turned to see Messal the Efficient standing only a foot away. Those little Workers sure moved quietly.

“Elder Barnes, it is time for the post-game press conference.”

“No thanks, Messal,” Quentin said. “I’ll pass.”

Hints of green washed across Messal’s single eye. “Elder Barnes, I apologize for my lack of clarity. Clearly I am to blame for any confusion. What I meant to say was, we must go to the press conference now. You are scheduled.”

“I heard what you said. You heard what I said.
I’ll pass
.”

Now green
flooded
Messal’s big eye. He turned and looked up at Pine.

“Q,” Pine said, “you’re the starting quarterback. Post-game press conference is mandatory.”

“Whatever. We got whipped by forty four points. Nobody wants to hear the losers talk.”

Don laughed. “Kid, are you serious?”

Quentin stared at him, then nodded.

“Elder Barnes,” Messal said, his words coming faster and with more urgency, “if we don’t get to the media room right now, we will be
behind schedule
.”