Yitzhak took the next ball. The next Sklorno’s jersey read “Mezquitic.”
“Hut-hut!” Yitzhak dropped back three steps and fired — again seemingly far too high. Mezquitic sprang high, caught the ball, landed, and streaked down the field. Quentin was still staring at the streaking Sklorno receiver when Pine poked him in the rib pads.
“You’re up, boy.”
Quentin grabbed the next ball from the rack and squatted down just behind the fifty. He looked to his right — “Scarborough” looked back at him, awaiting his signal.
“Hut-hut!” Quentin drove backwards three steps and planted. He started to throw, but hesitated a half second because Scarborough was still a good eight yards from hooking up the route. In less time than it took to blink, Scarborough was there, turning, leaping and looking for the ball. Quentin threw as quickly as he could, but it was too late. Scarborough had hit the ground by the time the throw reached her — it sailed far over her head.
“Barnes!” Hokor barked. “What the hell was that?”
Quentin blushed.
“Get used to the timing, Barnes. With Sklorno receivers, passing is a three-dimensional game. You’re not in the bush leagues anymore.”
Practice continued for another hour. Quentin struggled with the Sklornos’ blinding speed and leaping ability, but made significant progress pass after pass. He had some trouble with Mezquitic, who dropped two of his passes, but he clicked well with the other receivers, particularly Denver. Only in the final five minutes did Hokor open it up for long patterns. Pine dropped back seven steps and fired a 55-yard strike to Hawick. The Sklorno receivers let out a series of rapid clicking noises.
“What is that sound they’re making?” Quentin asked Yitzhak.
“Sklorno equivalent to ooh and ahh,” Yitzhak said. “The ladies love the long ball.”
Yitzhak threw next, hitting a 45-yard streak to Mezquitic. The receivers let out clicks, but they weren’t as loud as they had been for Pine’s pass.
Quentin smiled as he grabbed the ball and squatted down for his rep. Neither of these guys could match his arm strength, not even the once-great Donald Pine. Scarborough lined up to his right. Quentin barked out a “hut-hut.” He dropped back the prescribed seven steps, and kept going, finally setting up a good fifteen yards from where he’d “snapped” the ball. He watched Scarborough the whole way, his mind now somewhat accustomed to the receiver’s 3.2 speed. Quentin unleashed the ball — the Sklorno’s clicks started immediately as the ball arced through the air like a laser-guided bomb. Scarborough angled under it, and caught it in stride at the back edge of the end zone.
The Sklornos not only clicked and chirped louder than ever, they started jumping up-and-down and hugging each other. Raspers lolled and spit flew everywhere.
“Damn,” Pine said, shaking his head.
“That was seventy-five yards in the air,” Yitzhak said. “And right on the money.”
Quentin smiled, his hands patting out a quick ba-da-bap on his stomach as he waited for accolades from his new coach.
“Silence!” Hokor shouted at the Sklorno. The anger in his voice seemed to terrify them. They huddled together, shaking and twitching in a mass of fear.
Hokor turned to Quentin. “What was that?”
“A touchdown,” Quentin said.
“I know that, what was that drop?”
Quentin shrugged. “I just wanted to show you what I can do.”
“And what you can do is drop back fifteen yards? What are you, a punter?”
Quentin felt his face flushing red once again. “Well, no, Coach… I just wanted to show you how deep I could throw it.”
“Well if you like to show off so much, how about showing me how far you can run? Take ten laps around the field, we’ll finish up reps without you.”
Quentin blinked, his mind suddenly registering the coach’s words. “Finish up… without me?”
“I said take ten laps!” Hokor said. “Now move!”
Pine grabbed a ball and squatted down for the next rep while Denver crouched in readiness for her turn. Pine dropped back, Denver sprinted, and everyone seemed to ignore Quentin.
Coach Graber had never singled him out like that. Quentin’s face felt hot. Anger swirled in his chest as he trotted to the edge of the field and started his first lap.
QUENTIN’S ROOM WAS EMPTY save for a bed, a table with two round stools, a large vertical equipment locker, and a wide couch that sat in front of the holotank. He sat on the couch, staring at the life-sized image projected by the holotank.
The current image was a Human football player, his jersey a series of horizontal light blue and grey stripes. The computer droned away with stats.
[KITIARA LOMAX. THIRD-YEAR LINEBACKER FOR THE BIGG DIGGERS, NAMED ALL-PRO LAST YEAR. SIX-FOOT-TEN, FOUR-HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE POUNDS. LAST YEAR ACCUMULATED FIFTY-TWO TACKLES AND TWELVE SACKS. LAST CLOCKED TIME IN THE FORTY-YARD-DASH, 4.1]
Quentin clicked his remote, and the image shifted to a Sklorno player, also dressed in a light blue-and-grey striped jersey.
[ARKHAM. FIFTH-YEAR CORNERBACK FOR THE BIGG DIGGERS…]
The computer continued to rattle off statistics, but Quentin looked away from the image and stared at his blank wall. His legs gave off a subdued but ever-present burning feeling, the result of one hundred laps ran for a variety of transgressions, each one as unexpected as the last. His face also burned, but that wasn’t from physical exertion. It was a new feeling, and he found it quite unacceptable.
A buzzer sounded, signaling a visitor at his door. The computer stopped the statistical litany.
[DONALD PINE AT YOUR DOOR]
“Enter,” Quentin said in a toneless voice. He heard the swish of the door, but didn’t bother to get up. He hit the button on the remote. Arkham disappeared, replaced by a huge Ki lineman named Pret-Ah-Karat.
“Better watch out for him,” Pine said quietly. “Last year he hit me so hard he knocked me out of the game.”
Quentin said nothing.
Pine crossed in front of Quentin and sat down on the couch. “We missed you at team dinner, kid. What’s up?”
“Gotta study,” Quentin said sullenly. “Hokor wants me to know all these damn players.”
Pine nodded. “Yeah, you’ve got to know this stuff. But hey, you’ve got to eat, right?”
“Not hungry now, I’ll have something later.” The truth was he was famished, but he had no intention of hitting the mess hall when the rest of the team was present — they’d all watched him run the endless laps, heard Hokor scream at him for various mistakes.
“It’s no big deal, Hokor rips on all the rookies,” Pine said, as if he read Quentin’s thoughts. “He’s got to shake out the weak ones. He’s going to spend most of his time busting on you, because you’re a quarterback. It’ll get worse before it gets better. Tomorrow we do route passing, but this time against the defensive backs. And the next day’s practice is full-contact. So watch out for the Ki defensive linemen.”
Quentin shrugged. “I’m not worried about some damn salamander, I just have to get these stupid players memorized.”
Pine’s eyebrows rose up in surprise. “Salamander, eh? Don’t let them hear you say that, they’ll tear your head off. Not worried about them? Our nose tackle, Mai-An-Ihkole, weighs 650 pounds and can bench-press 1,200 pounds, for crying out loud, and you’re not worried? I’ve been on this team for two years, they’re under strict orders not to hit me, and I’m worried.”