THE ALL-PRO (17 page)

Quentin nodded. Gredok was right.

“It could be worse,” Gredok said. “The rest of the league could know about it. As long as we keep this information between us, the Commissioner and the To Pirates, I can live with this loss of face. But if it were to become public ...”

Gredok’s voice trailed off, inviting Quentin to fill the silence.

“I sure as hell won’t tell anyone,” Quentin said. “I’ve learned my lesson, boss.”

“You won’t tell that Human reporter, Yolanda Davenport?”

“Why would I tell her?”

“The rumor is that she’s working on a cover story featuring you. I suggest you be very careful when you speak with her. Davenport has proven to be resourceful in her ways of gathering information.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning don’t let your adolescent hormones drive your decisions, Barnes. I have seen what an attractive female face can do to you hatchling Humans.”

Quentin waited. He didn’t want to say anything at all.

“Commissioner Froese sent me another memo,” Gredok said. “He wants to talk to Ju as well. It seems the murder of Grace McDermot has caught up with us.”

How easy it was to forget that deadly day, when Quentin, John, Rebecca, Choto, Mum-O-Killowe and Sho-Do-Thikit had risked their lives during a trip to Orbital Station One to save Ju. Having Ju around now seemed so normal, like he’d always been part of the Krakens.

“But Ju didn’t kill her. Gredok, you heard Anna Villani.”

“I know that.
Truth
does not matter here, Barnes.
Proof
does and we have none of it. I am not ready to let Froese talk to Ju. I will arrange something so that Ju can not attend. Ju is facing criminal charges as opposed to breaking a GFL regulation. Froese doesn’t have the same leeway he has with you, for breaking the rules pertaining to contract talks with another team. If he schedules a meeting and you miss it, he can suspend you for that. I can shelter Ju a while longer, but you and I must talk to Froese.”

Gredok did not sound like his usual, confident self.

“And what can happen at this meeting?”

“Froese is the emperor of the little empire known as the GFL, Barnes. He can suspend you for a game. Possibly even for the season.”

Gredok’s tone, his body language — both so subtle they were barely recognizable, but those tells showed Quentin that Gredok had no power in this situation and that he hated that fact. Quentin was getting better at reading his boss.

“I have more bad news,” Gredok said. “We did not get all of the rookies. I was able to sign Cheboygan, Rich Palmer and Tim Crawford.” Black wisped over Gredok’s cornea. “Regat the Unobtrusive will play for the Yall Criminals. Gladwin and Cooperstown signed with Wabash. Gloria Ogawa out-bid me, damn her eye. But I will get us defensive backs in free agency, I assure you.”

Quentin nodded. Gredok had been beaten out for three players. That would not sit well with the control-obsessed Quyth Leader, especially when he’d lost two of those players to Ogawa, his nemesis.

“And Tara the Freak?” Quentin said.

Gredok waved a pedipalp as if the question didn’t even merit his time. “Of course. No one else wanted your misshapen mutant.”

“Thank you for trusting me on this one, Gredok. Tara will pay dividends, I promise.”

“
Trust
is not a word I think you should discuss with me for a long time, Barnes. Now leave. I grow weary of dealing with your impossible level of wasted intellect.”

Another sigh escaped Quentin’s chest. That was a tell of his, but he didn’t care. He’d live to play another day. Quentin turned and walked out of the office.

FOR THE SECOND WEEK OF PRESEASON
, the entire team moved up to the
Touchback
. Quentin had insisted. Two practices a day, plus an evening conditioning session. Some of the Humans and HeavyG complained, defensive end Alexsandar Michnik the loudest, but Quentin didn’t give anyone an option.

Winning a title had been a worthy goal, but had seemed somehow theoretical. Not anymore. Everyone knew the Krakens could take it all — if they worked hard enough, and they got a little lucky.

So once again, the
Touchback
rang with the sounds of practice and team life. Only veterans so far. Invited free agents would arrive tomorrow to try out for the team. Rookies arrived in three days.

With familiar teammates onboard, Quentin decided to address something he’d left undone during the previous season. Even with John Tweedy and Don Pine along for support, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

Last season, Quentin had dined with his Ki offensive linemen. He would have called the experience several things, including
crazy, scarring
and possibly
mentally shattering
.

One word he would never have used, however, was
civilized
.

And yet as Quentin looked at the six Ki
defensive
players tearing into an animal that was almost as big as they were, the offensive linemens’ feast seemed like proper etiquette by comparison.

“High One,” Quentin said. “Don, is it always like this?”

John Tweedy pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. “Don’t wanna get it bloody,” he said.
IF YOU EAT IT, SOMEONE HAS TO KILL IT
flashed across his chest in big red letters. He punched Quentin in the shoulder. “Good times down on the farm, Q! You’re gonna
love
it!”

The walk here had seemed so familiar. Like the offensive linemen, the defensive players had their own forested chamber inside the
Touchback
. No hallways, no rooms, just an open space filled with red moss, tightly coiled, green ground cover plants, waist-high bushes with broad, yellow leaves and brown vines that reached up and spread across the ceiling. More red moss hung down from the dense vines, making the artificial surfaces of the ship all but vanish from sight.

The main difference, however, couldn’t be missed. The offensive linemen had a stone table with a blood trough lining the edges. The defense? Their “dinner table” was a clear patch of dirt.

A clear patch of black-stained,
bloody
dirt.

The yellowish bones of strange, alien animals lined the clear patch, remnants of meals gone by. And in the center of that deathcircle? Five hundred pounds of a beast Quentin instantly wished he had never seen.

The Ki defenders swarmed on the creature. Mum-O-Killowe and Mai-An-Inkole weighed it down with their bulk. Per-Ah-Yet pinned it with his multi-jointed arms. Chat-E-Riret and Wan-ATagol bit down with mouths full of triangular teeth. Black blood flew, as did stray bits of flesh.

The prey creature screamed and screamed.

John pumped his left fist. “Lookit him squirm! You got lucky, Q. The more they fight, the better they taste!” John ran forward and dove onto the creature, managing one big bite before the slick blood made him slide off the animal and onto the clearing’s dirt.

Quentin stared at the scrambling, bloody, spindly mess fighting for its life.
Stay still
, he thought to his feet.
Don’t you dare run. Stay still, we have to do this.

Yes, he was talking to his feet. Every atom of his body wanted to get the hell out of this living nightmare.

Don’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Try to relax, Quentin. Just follow John’s lead. He loves it.”

“That’s because John is crazy.”

“True,” Don said. “Stay calm. This will be over before you know it.”

Blood flew. The screams slowed.

“But I’ll remember it, won’t I?”

Don nodded slowly. “Yes. You’ll remember every nasty, disgusting, disturbing moment of it.”

“But I’ll get used to it, right? It won’t be so bad next year.
Right?
”

Don smiled. “Do you want me to lie to you?”

“Please.”

“Kid, it won’t be so bad next year.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Black blood jetted out in a misty cloud, splattering smelly droplets on Quentin’s face.

“Kid,” Don said, “do you have your happy place?”

“My happy place isn’t happy enough for this.”

“You’re right. But you got to do it anyway.”

Quentin shook his head. “No. No way, I can’t.”

Don did what Don always did — he held up his right hand, showing off the GFL Championship rings on his ring and index finger. He waggled them. Gold and jewels reflected the light.

Quentin looked at them as he always did — with raw envy and lust. But it wasn’t enough, not this time.

“I need more,” he said. “Let me wear one.”

Don’s head snapped away from the grotesque scene of the Ki and John Tweedy feasting on the still-living monstrosity. At first, Don seemed angry, but that quickly faded. He understood. He pulled the ring off his index finger and handed it over.

Quentin slid it on his ring finger, noting that it fit perfectly even though he was bigger than Don Pine. Quentin held the hand in front of his face, palm-out, ignoring the black blood-strands crisscrossing his skin.

A GFL Championship ring.

Red ruby, sparkling.

Gold glowing with promise.

On
his
hand.

He wanted nothing more than this. He would give anything,
do
anything, to attain it.

Quentin nodded, took a deep breath. He took off the ring and handed it back.

Don took it. “That what you needed?”

“Yep,” Quentin said. “Let’s eat.”

The two quarterbacks stepped forward.

• • •

QUENTIN TORE OFF
his helmet, whipped it in a long arc and smashed it into the blue turf.

“Dammit, Pareless, that’s the hardest you can run? Ma Tweedy can sprint faster than you!”

The fullback had his hands on his knees, head down, shoulder pads lurching rhythmically as his chest drew in sucking breaths. The rest of the team stretched across the black end zone’s goal line, all in various stages of exhaustion. Some of them weren’t even standing — they’d fallen to the ground or were off to the side, vomiting.

Quentin was damn tired as well — fifty 50-yard sprints after a full practice will do that to you — but he wouldn’t show it to his team. Hokor floated in his cart, saying nothing. He seemed quite content to let someone else do the yelling for a change.

Only the Sklorno looked ready for more. But even they showed signs of fatigue, their abdomens swelling and shrinking as they drew in air to fuel their exhausted muscles.

Pareless didn’t say anything, didn’t even pick up his head. Quentin walked up to him, leaned down to scream at the older man.

“Hey, grampa! I’m talking to you! Imagine it’s the fourth quarter, we’re down by six, Becca is hurt, you have to block for me so we can win the shucking game. Dig
deep
, man. Stand up.”

Tom straightened, hands on hips, eyes scrunched. “My ankle ... killing me. I’m ... trying ... Q.”

“There is no
try
!” Quentin screamed at the entire team. “We’re too soft! We have to toughen up if we’re going to make the playoffs.”

Tom bent forward again, then threw up. Vomit dripped from his facemask in long strings.

Quentin threw his hands in the air. “I don’t care if you
all
puke. Get back on the line! Five more sprints!”

“We’ve never run this hard,” said a deep voice. Quentin turned to see defensive end Ibrahim Khomeni — all six-foot-ten, 525 pounds of him — step out of the line. “You’re pushing too hard, Barnes.”

“Too hard?
Too hard
? Do you think the Wabash Wolfpack is sitting on their asses right now?”

Khomeni gestured to the other players. “We’re working our tails off.”

“It’s
not enough
,” Quentin screamed. “And maybe you should worry about practicing harder, Khomeni. You took off, what, ten plays in practice because your knee hurts?”

The big HeavyG’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you question my intensity, little man.”

Quentin closed the distance, stared down at the slightly shorter, much denser sentient. “You will practice
hard
. You will
run
. And you will do it now! I don’t ask anyone here to do anything more than what I’m willing to do. Now get back on the shucking line.”

Khomeni glared, then walked back to the goal line.

This was what Quentin wanted, to drive his teammates to the point of failure, then make them push
through
that, make them dig deeper than they knew they could. You practice like you play. This would all pay off come the regular season.

“All of you,
up!
If you’re puking, you can run and puke at the same time. This is for the playoffs, dammit!”

Ju Tweedy stepped off the line, looked back at his teammates. “Come on, you losers! If Quentin can do it, we can do it! I want a ring!”

John Tweedy joined in. “I want
two
rings! Right here, Krakens, it starts right here. Five more sprints! Five more!”

Heads nodded. Players got up, stood straight, pulled helmets back on their heads.

Quentin jogged to the line, as did the Tweedys.

Quentin shouted to his teammates. “You can do this. On three, on three. Ready?”

Feet dug in, hands dropped to the blue turf. Eyes narrowed as sentients fought their own bodies and minds to just do
one more
.

“Hut-hut ...
hut!
”

The team sprinted off the line. Quentin’s legs burned, his arms felt like noodles. His stomach roiled — he would be the next one to puke.

And when he did? He’d get back on the line and run again.

After all, he didn’t ask anyone to do anything more than he was willing to do himself.

FREE AGENT DAY HAD COME
. Quentin stood in the
Touchback
’s orange end zone, waiting until Coach Hokor needed him. Last season’s free agent day had brought in only a few players, just running backs and tight ends. Those positions were no longer a need. At running back, the Krakens had Ju Tweedy backed up by Yassoud Murphy and Jay Martinez. At tight end, Crazy George Starcher backed up by Yotaro Kobayasho and the newly bad-ass Rick Warburg. So those problems had been solved.