Quentin thought the term “run through” was a funny concept, because he’d been hit so many times he could hardly walk, let alone run. The first-string defense had had a field day with him, blitzing every down, throwing stunts and overloads and everything else they could think of. The second-string defenders hadn’t been any easier, especially Mum-O-Killowe, who attacked every play like he was seeking vengeance on someone who’d killed his family. The rookie Ki lineman had also delivered the biggest hit of the day — a cheap shot, a full two seconds after Quentin had thrown the ball.
He wasn’t going to be the starter, his battered body told him that as clearly as if Hokor had spelled it out on paper. He’d played poorly — again — throwing three interceptions on thirty plays. He’d also thrown two touchdowns, and gone 5-of-13 overall. But three interceptions! It was the freakin’ speed of the game, he just couldn’t get used to it. The defense came at him so much faster than he’d ever seen, and when he threw the ball, the Sklorno defensive backs broke on it like they’d been reading his mind.
He was third-string. And right now, that’s where he belonged.
“Prepare well for tomorrow’s practice,” Hokor said. “You are dismissed.”
As the players walked off the field, Hokor’s cart descended and landed in front of Quentin.
“Barnes, you are throwing behind your receivers. You’ve got to adjust your throws, and you’ve got to start getting the ball higher in the air when throwing to Sklorno. Do you forget that they can jump to catch the ball?”
“No, Coach… well, yeah, I do forget that sometimes.”
“Well stop forgetting. If Pine goes down against the Wallcrawlers you’re not ready to come in.”
“Coach, I’m ready.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think about it, but they rang hollow even to his own ears. “All I need is more reps, I’m getting the hang of things.”
“Are you? Fine, then tell me who is the primary cornerback for the Wallcrawlers.”
“Bangkok,” Quentin said. He was exhausted, and didn’t want to play this ridiculous trivia game, but would answer the questions asked of him. “Three-year veteran, Wallcrawlers MVP last year, started for last two years, eleven interceptions last year.”
“So with eleven interceptions, do we throw to her side of the field?”
“Not if we can help it,” Quentin said.
“So if we don’t throw at her, who is the strong safety?”
“Marlette. Five-year starter. Has lost an estimated five inches on her vertical leap since leg surgery at the end of last season. Throw high and deep on post patterns.”
Hokor’s pedipalps quivered lightly. “Good. Say it’s third-and-seventeen. The nickel back comes in — who are you facing?”
Quentin started to answer, then had to stop and think. Nickel back for the Wallcrawlers… who did they bring in for passing situations?
“Oshkosh!” Quentin said quickly when the name jumped into his head.
“And what’s her weakness?”
“She… she…” Quentin tried to remember the one obscure fact about Oshkosh that could impact a game, but his tired mind came up with nothing.
“She has fused chitin plates near her hips,” Hokor said. “They’re too near her nervous center for anyone to operate safely. The fused plates greatly limit her ability to turn in mid-air, so if you throw to her area you throw behind her, where she can’t turn to get the ball. Your receivers know this already, and so should you. Now think about that while you start running.”
Quentin’s head dropped. He was exhausted. And he had to run again?
“Hold on, Barnes,” Hokor said. The diminutive alien turned and called through the cart’s loudspeakers.
“Mum-O-Killowe!” Hokor shouted a few more syllables, all of which were pure gibberish to Quentin. The giant rookie lineman turned and scuttled over. He stopped three feet from Quentin. The Ki’s black eyes burned into him in an expression of pure hatred (at least Quentin wanted to think it was hatred, and not the emotion he suspected it might actually be, which was hunger). Hokor barked a few more syllables. Mum-O-Killowe suddenly roared and reared up on his last set of legs, briefly making him a ten-foot-tall, arm waving monster.
Hokor, obviously unimpressed, simply pointed to the ground. Mum-O-Killowe dropped back down to six legs, and fell quiet.
“I have told Mum-O-Killowe he is to be punished for his late hit. Such undisciplined play could have injured you, and someday you could be a valuable component of this team. Therefore, he will run with you until I am tired of thinking about it.”
Quentin stared, dumbfounded, at his tiny coach. This thing wanted to kill him, and Hokor wanted the two of them to run laps like workout buddies?
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Coach,” Quentin said. “This guy will come after me as soon as we’re alone. He’s already tried twice.”
“Then you’d better learn to communicate with him, and fast. He is, after all, your teammate.”
Hokor flew off, leaving Quentin and Mum-O-Killowe staring at each other. Quentin shook his head and started to run, but was careful to keep an eye on the young Ki. Mum-O-Killowe followed suit and ran alongside, staring at Quentin with his unblinking black spider eyes.
FIFTY-THREE LAPS later, Hokor apparently got tired of thinking about it. He called over the stadium’s sound system, sending the two rookies to their respective locker rooms. They’d managed to run laps without an incident, to Quentin’s surprise.
He pulled off his drenched uniform, each motion an exercise in ache. He was so soaked he wondered if even the plastic parts of his pads were sweat-logged. Quentin walked to a mirror and stared at himself — he already had discoloring bruises covering most of his right shoulder and chest, as well as darkening spots on both legs. Bruises. He hadn’t had any bruises since his rookie season in the PNFL. That was the last time anyone laid a solid hit on him.
The locker room, of course, was empty except for Messal the Efficient, who busily gathered up Quentin’s clothes and pads.
“Which way is the shower?” Quentin asked. Messal scrambled to open the first of a row of doors built into the wall.
Quentin sighed heavily — another nannite shower. It just wasn’t what he needed.
“Don’t you guys have a water-shower here?”
Messal nodded immediately. “Yes, sir, we do.”
Quentin felt a wave of relief wash over him. “Well, show me where it is.”
Messal nodded again and started walking, Quentin followed as quickly as his exhausted and battered body would allow.
“If you’ll follow me to the Ki locker room, sir,” Messal said. “I will be happy to take you there.”
Quentin stopped dead in his tracks. “The Ki locker room? Are you kidding me?”
Messal nodded. “Oh no, sir. The Ki prefer running water to nannite cleansing.”
“Well so do some Humans!”
Messal nodded again. “No, sir, Humans prefer nannite cleansing.”
“Not this Human, pal.”
The nod, Quentin realized, was a gesture of subservience, not agreement. “Yes, sir, of course. I will take you to the water shower.”
“Isn’t there one in this locker room?”
Nod. “No, sir. It is in the Ki locker room. I will happily take you there so that you are satisfied with my service.”
Quentin hung his head. He was bruised, beaten and exhausted, but he wasn’t that tired. He waved Messal away and dragged himself to the nannite shower.