Authors: Scott Sigler
His teammates didn’t need to look at him, they knew the calls — Quentin would roll left and look to run or throw. All receivers would run patterns to the left: Milford on a hook, Warburg on an out and Halawa on a far-side flag, coming from the right side of the field all the way over to the left corner of the end zone. Halawa’s route took a long time to run, but Quentin suspected she would be open. He had one interception so far — he had to put this on the money.
“Hut-hut!”
The orange and black roared into the black and red. Quentin reverse-pivoted, opening up to the right, then coming around to sprint left. Rebecca ran a few yards in front of him, looking for someone to block. Milford ran up the left sideline and hooked in at 10 yards. The cornerback covering her, Mars, came up in defense. Warburg ran straight out 15 yards, then cut left. As Quentin suspected, the safety cheated up, drawn in by Warburg.
If Halawa got behind the safety, she would be open. Woman-on-woman coverage. Halawa was faster than the right side corner covering her. With a route that far across the field, she would pull a step or two ahead of her defender.
Right outside linebacker Ricky Craig barreled in. Rebecca took him head on, a devastating hit that left both players flat on the ground.
Middle linebacker Michael Cogan sprinted in on a delayed blitz. Quentin kept running, started to throw the ball to Milford for a short pass, what he was supposed to do when under blitz pressure.
But his team needed more than four yards.
Quentin kept moving left, went a little deeper, waiting to see if Halawa got behind the safety. Two seconds before Cogan closed in. Halawa sprinted, Quentin waited — he wouldn’t have time.
One second.
Then Mississauga, the safety, made a mistake, took another step toward Warburg.
A half-second.
Quentin was almost to the sidelines — he would have to plant and step up to throw.
Three-tenths of a second.
Halawa shot behind the Mississauga, headed for the corner of the end zone.
One-tenth of a second.
Quentin stepped forward and threw on the run, releasing the ball as fast as he could. No sooner had the leather left his hand than he felt a helmet drive into his right foot.
And something in there
snapped
.
Quentin fell, slid out of bounds and into the Wolfpack sidelines. He started to grab at the knife-pain in his right foot, but stopped himself. He couldn’t let the Wolfpack know he’d been hurt, or they’d pour on the pressure.
The roar of the crowd told him his pass had hit home. Touchdown Ionath.
Wabash players helped him up. Quentin jogged toward his own sidelines, using all of his concentration to hide his limp. He wasn’t going to let Don Pine in this game, no way. Pain or no pain, two feet or one, Quentin Barnes would finish this thing.
He ran off the field. His teammates seemed excited ... but not excited
enough
. The extra point was good. Wabash now led 21-7.
They had a game.
• • •
QUENTIN TOOK THE SNAP
and dropped back. His foot hurt bad, but he could handle it. Third-and-long on the Ionath 45. Just 32 seconds left in the half and the Krakens were desperately trying to get into field goal range. He planted his left foot, stepped up into the pocket. Pressure from the left — Col-Que-Hon bull-rushing Kill-O-Yowet. Kill-O sure as hell wasn’t playing like an All-Pro. Col-Que knocked Kill-O over, then gathered, compacted for a hit. Warburg was open across the middle. Quentin stepped forward too fast — he planted his right foot and the stab of pain threw off his aim. The ball sailed wide left. Just before Col-Que smashed him senseless, Quentin saw linebacker Michael Cogan pick off the pass.
Quentin blinked his eyes against the blackness swirling in his vision. Alien hands picked him up off the tan turf — Kill-O, clearly ashamed of his poor blocking. Quentin forced a smile, slapped his teammate on the helmet.
At the half, the Krakens went into the locker room down 21-7.
• • •
WABASH SCORED ANOTHER
touchdown in the third quarter and one more to start the fourth. Ju broke a long run after that, but it was too little, too late.
Quentin didn’t bother hiding his limp anymore. If felt like someone had driven a rusty nail into his foot and he helped by driving that nail deeper with each step.
Out on the field, the Wolfpack lined up in the victory formation. Fourth quarter, twenty-two seconds and ticking, Wabash up 35-14, Ionath with no timeouts left.
Quentin felt an arm around his shoulder pads. He looked —Michael Kimberlin, tears welling in the big man’s eyes. Quentin looked away fast, lest he do the same.
The season was over.
The Krakens had lost.
Rich Bennett took the snap, backed up one step, then knelt. Whistles blew. Both sidelines walked out onto the field. The Krakens walked slowly, like the beaten team they were. The Wolfpack moved with more purpose, more intensity. The black, red and the white weren’t celebrating. This was just one step closer to their goal, to defending their title.
Media swarmed onto the field. Quentin saw Coach Hokor, guarded by three Ki police who escorted him to the 50-yard line to congratulate Wabash coach Alan Roark, who was also guarded by police. Reporters pushed and shoved, lights glared. Lev-cameras and Harrah swirled, angling for the best positions.
Quentin sought out his counterpart.
Rich Bennett saw Quentin, jogged over, auburn hair wet with sweat but still flopping as he ran, looking every bit the hero he’d been in the game.
“Quentin,” Rich said, extending his hand. “Good game.”
“Not as good as yours. You haven’t played like that all year, man.
Four
touchdowns?”
Rich smiled the smile of the victor. “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in awhile.”
“Did you guys eat some super-food or something? Learn some mystical ritual? I’ve never seen anything like it. You kicked our ass from beginning to end.”
“It’s the playoffs,” Rich said. “It’s a whole different feeling, a whole different level of intensity. Now you know. Same thing happened to us in ‘82. We played the To Pirates in the first round and they kicked the crap out of us. We thought we were ready — we weren’t. You can’t know how to do that until you’ve been here. Well, now you’ve been here.”
Quentin stared, then nodded with understanding. Rich reached out and ruffled Quentin’s sweaty, bloody hair. It was a friendly gesture, part
we are equals
, part
you’ll get yours someday, kiddo
.
Rich moved on, talking to other players. He stopped to share a smile with Don Pine — the two Galaxy Bowl champion quarterbacks, members of a club so exclusive it had only seventeen members.
In all the universe, only
seventeen
of them.
Quentin watched, letting the jealous rage roil in his chest. Maybe it was a sin to be envious of Becca, but not of Pine and Bennett. No, not at all, because
that
kind of envy would fuel him, drive him to work harder, to prepare more, to play even better.
He looked around the stadium. Wolfpack fans in white and red and black, still celebrating in the stands. Mixed in among them, clusters of orange and black. The Krakens fans hadn’t left early to beat traffic; they had stayed. Stayed and watched their team get soundly whipped.
For those fans, he would win a title.
He looked at his teammates. They were shell-shocked but still showed class, congratulating their counterparts from Wabash. All the hatred and animosity between the clubs was fine during the game, but Wabash had moved on and Ionath had not. Now was the time to acknowledge that, to tip one’s hat to the victors. He looked at Kill-O, who’d played his worst game of the season. He would be embarrassed that his line had given up four sacks just a few days after he was named one of the best in the game.
Next year, Kill-O would be ready.
Quentin looked at Becca, who was sharing a moment with Wabash fullback Ralph Schmeer — the All-Pros, the two best fullbacks in the game. She had played well, but like her teammates, she’d been outclassed from the start.
Next year, Becca would be ready.
He looked at Ju, blue cotton sticking out of both nostrils. Ju was talking to Wabash coach Alan Roark. Roark had a hand on Ju’s shoulder pad, was leaning in, giving advice or encouragement. Ju listened. Ju nodded.
Next year, Ju would be ready.
Quentin scanned all of his teammates and in all of them, he saw the same understanding that now coursed through his veins.
Next year, they would
all
be ready.
Quentin would win a title for his teammates.
Finally, his gaze drifted toward a cluster of huge sentients in the center of the field. Big sentients,
dangerous
sentients — crowd and reporters both gave this group a wide berth. In the middle, down low among the legs of the bodyguards, Quentin saw Gredok the Splithead talking to Hokor the Hookchest. Gredok had actually come down to the field to speak with his coach. Quentin could see it wasn’t a lecture, wasn’t a dressing-down. Gredok seemed to offer words of encouragement, words that soothed Hokor. Demands for victory would come later, perhaps, but for now even Gredok could give credit where credit was due.
Hokor had been out-coached, his team had been out-prepared and out-played.
Next year, Hokor would be ready.
Quentin would win a title for Hokor.
As for Gredok? Gredok would get something else altogether. Quentin would see to that.
He turned to walk off and almost ran over the blue-skinned beauty of Yolanda Davenport.
“Quentin! Can I ask you a question?”
She held a recorder. She was here in official capacity. He wanted to scream at her, maybe even push her out of the way, but this was part of the game like everything else. This was part of his job.
“Sure,” he said, leaning down so he could hear her. “Go for it.”
“You led Ionath to the playoffs, but your season ended today. Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”
“Both teams played hard,” he said. “Wabash was more prepared than we were. They deserved the win.”
Yolanda nodded. “Does a loss like this impact the franchise in a negative way?”
Quentin stood and stared down at her. He shook his head, then leaned in close again. “Nothing can stop us,” he said. “We’ll be back. The Ionath Krakens are on a collision course with a GFL title. The only variable is time. And you can quote me on that.”
He started to gently push past her, but she stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“Look,” he said. “You’re the last person that I want to—”
She turned off the recorder, put it in her pocket. She waved her hand inward, beckoning him to lean down so she could talk without screaming to be heard over the crowd. What was this?
He wanted to ignore her, to get out of there, but her eyes — she
needed
to tell him something. She needed it desperately.
Quentin leaned in close.
“I know I made things bad for you,” she said. He felt her breath on his ear. It made the hairs on his neck tingle. “I
will
make it right. I have news about your sister.”
He stood up straight, once again staring down at her. She waved him close again. He bent, he listened.
“She’s safe,” Yolanda said. “I talked to her. I talked to Fred.”
“Why won’t she contact me?”
“It’s ... a little complicated,” Yolanda said. “Too much to tell you now, but she’s had men in her life that were rough with her.”
Rough with her
. Quentin had seen his sister just once in the last fifteen years and those words instantly made murder rage through his soul. Someone had hurt his sister? Then that someone would pay.
“She’s had a lot of trouble in her life,” Yolanda said. “She said she saw what you did at Gredok’s dinner. She doesn’t know if she can handle knowing a brother that is capable of such violence.”
Quentin closed his eyes. He’d
snapped
, tried to kill Gredok, beaten Vinje, ruined that HeavyKi’s eyes with a broken chair ... and his sister had seen all of that.
“Just give her some time,” Yolanda said. “Fred will keep her safe. You just have to be patient, okay?”
Yolanda’s face seemed beautiful once again. She’d found his sister, ended that mystery. At least for now. Yolanda didn’t have to do that. Or, at least, she didn’t have to do that
off the record
, not with such a dramatic story waiting to be published.
Yolanda smiled at him. She turned and walked away.
A weight had been lifted. His sister ...
safe
. She was afraid of him, though. That was bad, but he could fix it. Just give her some time. Out of all the betrayal he’d faced, all the hurt, it seemed he could still count on Frederico Esteban Giuseppe Gonzaga.
A true friend.
Just don’t let her get hurt, Fred. Protect her.
Quentin headed for the locker room. So much emotion, hard to deal with it all. Later, he would think about how to handle the situation with his sister. It was critical, but even that couldn’t push away his raw feelings at losing to the Wolfpack.
The loss
hurt
. Of that there was no question. His life-long quest was pushed out for another year, a year that seemed simultaneously a distant eternity and an enticing tick of the clock away. All that work and preparation, lost.
No, not lost.
Not at all.
All that work and preparation had gotten them
here
, to
this
place, so that they could learn
this
lesson. Learn it from champions.
They had lost 35-14.
Not even close.
That, too, was part of the lesson. He hadn’t led his team well enough to merit anything other than a humiliating 21-point defeat.
Next year, Quentin Barnes would be ready.
He would win a title for the fans, for his teammates, for his coach. The only variable was time. But he would also win a title for one more person.