Tweedy let out a grating, evil, mocking laugh that sounded like a stuttering buzz saw. “Thanks, rookie!” he called out through cupped hands. “You just answered Hawick’s prayers!” The Human defenders laughed. Quivering pedipalps showed the Quyth Warriors’ amusement.
Quentin’s face felt hot under his helmet. Davenport had easily disguised her coverage by running stride-for-stride with Hawick, until the defender reached her assigned zone coverage. It all happened so fast — seemingly twice as fast as anything happened back in the PNFL. Quentin had thrown too early.
The team fell silent as Hokor’s cart lowered to the field. “Barnes, how many reads did you make that time?”
Quentin looked down. “One.”
Hokor’s pedipalps quivered, and clearly not from humor. “One. You just turned the ball over, again.”
“Relax, Coach, I’ve got it now.”
Hokor just stared at him with his one big eye. “Run it again,” he said, then his cart rose noiselessly to fifteen feet and hovered behind the end zone.
Quentin lined up for another stab, but his confidence had suddenly abandoned him. Things were moving too fast. He ran the same play, saw the defensive coverage, and opted for a short dump to the tight end. Even that was almost an interception: Virak the Mean tightened up into a ball and rolled sideways, not as fast as a Sklorno but pretty damn fast, a rolling blur that popped open at the last second when the ball drew near.
The next play, Quentin checked off his primary and secondary route, which were covered, and fired a short crossing pass to the tight end — as soon as he let go, he knew he’d messed up again. Tweedy had seemed to be yards away from the play, but he stepped in front of Warburg and picked off the ball.
This time Hokor didn’t come down, but it didn’t matter — Tweedy’s buzz-saw laughter roared across the field.
“You’re my kind of quarterback,” Tweedy called. “I just wish you were playing for Wallcrawlers instead of us, it would make my job easier.”
Laughter and quivering pedipalps were all Quentin heard and saw. His face burned with embarrassment.
“You’re not utilizing your arm strength.”
Quentin turned to see Pine next to him.
“Tweedy is giving you the same cushion he gives me,” Pine said quietly, practically whispering. “But you throw much harder than I do. If you want to shut them up, go after Tweedy again, but this time hard. These tight ends are much better than the guys you played with in the PNFL. As soon as you burn Tweedy a couple of times, he’ll close the cushion, then call crossing routes over his head.”
Now Pine was giving him advice as if he were some school-boy playing pickup ball. It was the final insult. Go after Tweedy, who’d just picked off a pass? Did Pine think Quentin was stupid? Pine obviously wanted to make him look bad.
“Get out of my huddle, Pine,” Quentin growled. “I don’t need any help from a blue-boy.”
Pine leaned back as if he’d been slapped. He stared, shook his head sadly, then turned and jogged back to Yitzhak.
“Is daddy helping Little Quentin play the game?” Tweedy called out loudly.
Quentin’s patience hit a dead end. He pointed his finger at the linebacker. “Shuck him, and shuck you, Tweedy.”
Tweedy’s mocking smile turned into a gleeful snarl. “Well, show me what you got. So far you ain’t got nothin’.”
I’LL POKE OUT YOUR EYES AND CRAP ON YOUR BRAIN played across Tweedy’s face tattoo. Quentin watched it for a second, then shook his head, trying to concentrate.
He ran through ten more plays, his frustration growing with each pass. He threw two more interceptions, his third and fourth of the day, one on a deep passes to Scarborough, and one where Virak the Mean rolled forward in addition to sideways and sprang open right in front of a hooking Kobayasho.
“You’ve got two plays left, Barnes,” Hokor called from his loudspeaker. “Let’s see if you can continue your ineptitude.”
The defense continued to taunt him. He was so mad he could barely see, barely think. This hadn’t been what he’d expected at all. He lined up for his second-to-last play, a three-receiver set with Warburg on the right. Quentin dropped back, trying to read the coverage. Within two seconds, he saw that all of the receivers were well-covered. He checked through the routes, but no one was open. Frustration exploded in his head as he read his last option — Warburg on a crossing route — only to see Tweedy lurking close by. Rage billowing over, Quentin reared back and vented all of his anger on a laser-blast pass. The ball was a blur as it shot forward. Tweedy sprang at it, but too late, and fell flat on his face. The ball slammed into Warburg’s chest, hitting him so hard that it knocked him backwards. Warburg stumbled, bobbled the ball, but hauled it in before he dropped to his butt.
For the first time that afternoon, the defense fell silent. Tweedy got up slowly, staring hatefully at Quentin.
Quentin blinked, his rage clearing away, one thought echoing through his head. If you want to shut them up, go after Tweedy again, but this time hard.
The receivers returned to the mini-huddle. Quentin called his last play, a two tight end set, and made sure to include a deep crossing route behind Tweedy. At the snap he dropped back three steps, then reared back to throw a hook to Warburg. Tweedy jumped forward, much sooner than he’d done all day. Quentin pump-faked, then tossed an easy pass over Tweedy’s head to the crossing Kobayasho.
Quentin turned and looked back at Pine, who simply smiled and shrugged.
AFTER QUENTIN’S last pass, the team started jogging back to the tunnel, headed for the locker room. Quentin stopped when Hokor called out to him. As his teammates disappeared into the tunnel, Quentin waited while Hokor’s cart floated down to the field.
“You have to make your reads faster,” Hokor said.
Quentin felt embarrassed, but couldn’t argue. He felt like he was moving in slow-motion. He’d finished up ten-of-thirty with four interceptions — four — and only his first pass went for more than fifteen yards.
“Who’s the second starting cornerback for the Wallcrawlers?” Hokor asked.
“Jacobina,” Quentin said instantly. “Great vertical leap, but not very strong and easily blocked. Two-year vet.”
“What’s her weakness?”
“Trouble reaching maximum vertical leap during a full sprint.”
“How do you beat her?”
“Throw deep and high, make the receiver have to really sprint and jump to make the catch. Jacobina usually can’t match the jump if the ball is thrown correctly.”
“Good,” Hokor said. “And their second-string nose guard?”
Quentin opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. “Come on Coach, he’s just a lineman. All I have to do is avoid him, I don’t need to know anything about him.”
Hokor’s pedipalps twitched, just once. He pointed to the sidelines. “Start running.”
Quentin groaned. “For how long?”
“Ten laps.”
“Come on Coach, that’s crap!”
The pedipalps twitched, and this time kept twitching. “You’re right, that is crap. Twenty laps.”
“What? You just said ten!”
“Did I? I thought I said it thirty. Yes, I said thirty.”
Quentin clenched his jaw tight. He felt helpless, out of his element. Hokor held all the cards, and would until Quentin took over the starting spot. Quentin’s mouth closed into a tight-lipped snarl. Hokor stared at him another five seconds, until Quentin jogged to the sidelines and started doing laps around the field.