THE ALL-PRO (60 page)

She walked out, leaving Quentin alone in the dark, alone with the hissing sound of spraying water.

Alone ... with his thoughts.

• • •

QUENTIN ENTERED
the Blessed Lamb. A chorus of
Quentin!
greeted him the second he walked through the door. He smiled, nodded at the welcoming faces. Humans, one and all. Other races simply weren’t encouraged here.

An all-Human establishment. Sitting at the bar, holding court, was the tall, wide, muscular form of Rick Warburg. Such a surprise. Rick sipped a beer, stared at Quentin.

Quentin took a deep breath, then let it out in a cheek-puffing huff. Time to take his medicine. He walked up to the bar.

“Rick,” Quentin said. “Can I join you?”

Warburg raised his eyebrows, then mockingly looked down at either side of his chest. “Well, I don’t see an extra set of arms, Quentin. Are you sure you can slum with a lowly
Human
like me?”

The other patrons laughed. They thought it was a joke, not Rick ridiculing Quentin’s choice to treat other races as equals.

“Yes,” Quentin said. “I’m sure.”

“Don’t want me to turn blue?”

Quentin gritted his teeth. He’d forgotten Rick’s hate wasn’t limited to just other species — Humans with the wrong color skin counted as well.

Quentin looked at the other patrons. “Guys, mind if Rick and I have a little space? We have to talk some football.”

Heads nodded quickly, as if the other patrons were in on some holy mission — Elder Barnes and Elder Warburg had to discuss spiritual matters.

Quentin sat on the stool to Rick’s left. Rick kept staring. Quentin signaled to Brother Guido behind the bar. “Beer?”

Guido quickly filled a mug. To have
two
Krakens in his bar at the same time? It was better than mounting a giant holosign on the city dome that says
The Blessed Lamb is the place to be for Nationalite Ex-Pats just like you!

Quentin took a long drink. He had to steel himself for this. Eating crow was not one of his strong suits.

“Well?” Warburg said. “If you’ve come to give me a lecture on species interaction, that we’re all one big, happy, galactic brotherhood, I already gave at the office.”

“Not here for that,” Quentin said. He set the mug down. “I came to apologize.”

Warburg’s stare slowly faded into an arrogant smile. “Oh, I see. Now that you realize Crazy George is actually
crazy
, now you want to throw me the ball. Am I right?”

Quentin searched for a way to spin things, to justify his actions, but he didn’t search long — there was no justification. Now, when he
needed
something, moral posturing was no longer an option.

“That’s right,” Quentin said. “I was wrong.”

Rick turned, stared at the mirror behind the bar. He took a drink. “You say you’re wrong only because you need me. If you didn’t need me, you’d still think you have the right to sabotage my career.”

“I admit I thought I had that right,” Quentin said. “But I don’t. I acted ... well, I acted like I was High One, like I could pass judgment on you. That was wrong, Rick, and now it’s biting me in the ass.”

Warburg slowly turned. His hard stare seemed to soften a little. “When I did get in, I played my ass off. You
knew
that.”

Quentin thought back to the game against the Lu Juggernauts, when he’d completely ignored a wide-open Warburg. Had Rick stood there and pouted? No. Rick had come back to block, knocking out a linebacker and springing Quentin for the winning touchdown.

“I know,” Quentin said. “I chose to be blind. But that’s over. You need me and we need you.”

“It’s a little late for this, don’t you think?”

Quentin shook his head. “It can’t be. For two reasons. First, you collect a paycheck to play for the Ionath Krakens. We need to beat D’Kow, Themala
and
Vik to make the playoffs for sure. We need to win out.”

Warburg huffed. “If someone didn’t have daddy issues, we’d probably be in second place, not fifth. I was open against the Pirates, too.”

Daddy issues
. Rick wasn’t going to make this easy. Not that Quentin deserved easy. “That game is over, Warburg. We move on. We have the War Dogs in two days.”

Rick nodded. “You can just turn it off like that? Put the Pirates game behind you like nothing happened?”

“I already have. The past is the past. We can’t change it. All we can do is worry about today and plan for tomorrow.”

Rick started to talk, then seemed to think it over. He drained his beer, signaled to Brother Guido for another.

“Okay,” Rick said. He nodded. “That’s your first reason. What’s your second?”

“The second reason—” Quentin extended his index finger and lightly poked Warburg in the chest “—is
you
. I did you wrong. I’m going to make it right. You want off the Krakens? You want other teams to see your skills so you can get that big contract? You want the ball? I’m going to get you the ball.”

“I’m not going to change who I am,” Rick said. “I know what the
truth
is, Quentin. I won’t betray my beliefs.”

“I wish it wasn’t that way, but that’s the way it is. Off the field, you can do whatever the hell you want. It’s not my place to judge.
On
the field, you’ll do your job and help us win games. I’m never going to like you, Warburg, but I’ll stop being the sanctimonious ass I’ve been — when we play ball, I’ll treat you like the asset you are.”

Warburg smiled. A small one, but genuine. He finally had recognition for his talent, for his efforts. “Okay. That works for me. I can tell you right now, though, you’re going to regret this.”

“Why?”

Rick again turned to face the mirror. His smile widened. “When you see what I can do, you’re going to wish you pulled your head out of your ass a whole lot sooner.”

Quentin stood. “I hope so. See you at practice.”

He walked out, hearing the groans of the patrons asking
do you have to leave so soon?
But he couldn’t stay.

He had to study. A win against D’Kow put the Krakens back in the hunt. A loss meant they were out of the playoffs for good.

• • •

“SO THERE’S NOTHING
we can do?”

Quentin already knew the answer, but he had to ask. Danny Lundy’s mechanical arms played with the holo display a little more. Probably just for show — he already knew the contract inside and out. Aside from the two of them, Danny’s office was empty. He’d even sent home his eye-candy secretary.

A long sigh escaped Danny’s blow hole. “Nothing. This agreement is iron-clad, guy. You really should have let me do the talking.”

Quentin looked up to the ceiling, nodded. Danny was right. Quentin should have let his agent handle things. Instead, he’d played into Gredok’s hands.

“Look on the bright side,” Danny said. The Dolphin seemed resigned to the facts — contracts were his game, he’d taken on Gredok the Splithead and he’d lost. All’s fair in football and war. “You can’t play for another team, not even Tier Three ball. You got cheated out of twenty-five million, but you’re making more at this than you would, say, washing dishes, which is the kind of job you’d probably get with your high level of education and well-developed skill set.”

“That’s your definition of a
bright side
?”

“You wanted to be a Kraken, buddy. The bright side is you’re a Kraken and will be for the next ten years. Gredok has salary-cap room to go get other players. In a way, you got exactly what you wanted.”

Right. Like Quentin wanted to play for a sentient that had toyed with his emotions, manipulated him like some kind of pet.

“What if I quit football altogether?”

Danny’s Dolphin squeal-laugh had no humor. “Sure, buddy. Quentin Barnes is just going to quit the game. And I have a nice undersea bridge to sell you. Time to get over it, guy. You lost. You’re going to play because that’s all you want to do, it’s all you know how to do. You’re going to play for Ionath. You’re going to play for Gredok the Splithead. Mind if I give you some advice?”

Quentin laughed. “Sure, why not?”

“You lost. It’s over. It’s just like when you lose on a Sunday afternoon. Put it behind you, move on to the next game. The only sentient that can get you out of this contract is the owner of the Ionath Krakens and we know that’s not going to happen.”

Quentin bit his lip, then nodded. Danny had done all he could. The agent could do no more. Quentin stood, shook the metal hand, then left the office.

The only one who could get him out of the contract was the owner?

Fine.

That was just fine.

Quentin would worry about that another time. After the season. For now, he had to get his head straight, as Ma Tweedy had told him. If he led his team to a home win against the D’Kow War Dogs on Sunday, the Krakens might just make the playoffs after all.

One game at a time.

• • •

QUENTIN ROLLED LEFT
on a boot pass, his feet flying over Ionath Stadium’s blue turf, Becca Montagne out in front of him to block. The game demanded every shred of concentration — it pushed away the thoughts of his father. Or maybe the horrific uniforms of the D’Kow War Dogs did that, so ugly they blocked out everything else.

Lime-green jerseys with purple numbers trimmed in orange. Quentin had been told the purple was something called
mauve,
but all he knew was that the color was even uglier than regular purple. Lime-green thigh armor with horizontal orange stripes on the thighs, purple lower-leg armor and shoes. The right shoulder showed the team’s emblem — a lime-green, stylized walking dog on a black-lined orange shield. The left shoulder showed the player’s number, again in orange-trimmed purple. Damn near hurt to
look
at the uniforms.

Three War Dog players closed in fast — HeavyG defensive end Michael Grace, Quyth Warrior linebacker Zeus the Ram and cornerback Tübingen. Tübingen barreled in on a corner-blitz. She had lined up woman-to-woman on Hawick, who was streaking down the sidelines.

Because Tübingen blitzed, the safety had to run with Hawick — that meant there were no defenders left on the outside to cover Rick Warburg, who was rushing straight upfield and about to make his flag-route cut of 45 degrees to the left.

Rick would be wide open,
if
Quentin had time to throw. Tübingen came from the outside, cutting off any run to the sidelines. Quentin’s feet chopped at the ground, stopping his momentum, taking him back to the right. He kept his eyes downfield as Michael Grace reached for him, but Becca launched herself like a missile and hit Grace square in his big chest. Grace stumbled back, his forward momentum gone.

Becca should have fallen to the ground, but somehow she
twisted
in mid-air, stretching herself out the other way to fall at the feet of the sprinting Quyth Warrior, Zeus. The linebacker tripped — not enough to fall, but enough that he also lost his momentum. Tübingen shot past them, closing in from the left. Quentin threw just before she leveled him, an awkward left-handed toss while running right. The ball sailed through the air, wobbly but on-target, toward the sidelines — it dropped in just over Warburg’s left shoulder.

Looking back over that shoulder, Warburg watched the pass, so soft it could have been a baby set in his palms by a worried mother. He hauled it in, tucked the ball in his left arm as he turned upfield, big legs chewing up the yards. The screaming crowd urged him on.

The safety broke off of Hawick and rushed in to meet Warburg at the 10. Warburg reared back to deliver a big blow. The safety reared back to match, but just before contact, Warburg made a little jump to the right, to the inside. The safety flew by, her tentacles ripping across his thigh armor. Warburg was too big to be brought down like that. He ran into the end zone for his second touchdown of the day. Ionath up 34-30, extra point still to come.

Quentin felt his shoulder pads being pulled, someone trying to lift him off the ground. He stood, seeing that Becca and Tübingen had both helped him up. Quentin brushed blue turf off of his black jersey.

“Nice hit,” he said.

Tübingen shivered. “Oh, thank you, Godling! I tried to please you!”

Becca laughed. “By knocking him on his ass?”

“Absolutely,” Quentin said, then patted the cornerback on the helmet. “You are a blessing to your team.”

Tübingen knelt, used her tentacle fingers to pluck a few blades of blue-leaved Iomatt, then handed it to Quentin. “Now you sniff your touchdown powers of holy-holiness?”

“Huh?”

Becca nodded toward the offered blue plants. “The sniff. You do it after every big touchdown.”

Quentin looked at her. “I do?”

“Yeah.” She again nodded to the outstretched tentacles. Quentin took the offered plants and sniffed. Smelled like cinnamon.

Tübingen squealed, then sprinted off the field at full speed. Quentin and Becca jogged to the sidelines as the extra point team came on.

“Did you see that move Warburg threw?” Becca said. “I always thought he was nothing but a bruiser.”

“Usually he is. He likes to hurt sentients,
especially
Sklorno. Seems he’s got skills he hasn’t used.”

“I’ll say,” Becca said. “Very athletic.”

Hands and pedipalps and tentacles patted them as they reached the sidelines. Quentin looked for defensive end Rich Palmer. He grabbed the rookie’s jersey, looked at the nervous blue eyes inside the helmet.

“Palmer, we need you to step up.”

Palmer nodded, said nothing. The look on his face carried a dual expression of excitement and anxiety.

“Khomeni’s hurt,” Quentin said. “We need to play smart, okay? You can do this. Bring home the win.”

Quentin slapped Palmer’s helmet. The big defensive end ran on to the field. Quentin took off his helmet. He and Becca walked to a medbay. Lying on his back on that bench, Ibrahim Khomeni. The star defensive end’s knee was lost inside of metal rigging, wires and needles. Doc Patah’s mouth-flaps flicked in and out of the rig, the open flesh beneath it, working a ligament stapler and a bone grafter.