Quentin stood as he felt a hot wetness spread across his cheek. He touched it, and his fingers came away streaked in his own blood.
The butterflies in his stomach dried up and crumbled to dust.
Blossoming rage took their place.
The Krakens started to huddle up, but Quentin walked past them, shouldering roughly past his own Ki linemen.
“You want to play with me?” Quentin shouted, pointed his finger at the back of the Ki lineman who’d cut him. The name on the back of the jersey read “Yag-Ah-Latis.” The unblinking black eyespots on the back of its head saw Quentin, of course. Yag-Ah-Latis turned to face him.
“You want to play with me, you salamander?”
Yag-Ah-Latis simply put his bloody hand to his hexagonal mouth. A blackish tongue slithered out and licked the red blood clean.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw yellow flags fly. Harrah officials in their black-and-white striped jerseys flew between Quentin and the Ki lineman. Quentin was about shove them away and go after Yag-Ah-Latis when strong arms wrapped around his chest.
“Easy, kid,” Yassoud said as he tried to hold Quentin back. “Come on now.”
Quentin kept pointing and kept shouting. “You want to do that bush-league garbage with me?”
Another flag flew. Three black-and-white jerseys fluttered in front of him, helping to holding him back. A distant part of Quentin’s rage-stoked brain found it interesting a flying creature could display such considerable strength. A ref pushed him and he almost fell backwards. Quentin shoulder-tossed Yassoud, sending the rookie running-back sprawling on the ground, then reared back to hit the ref that pushed him. Hokor’s voice in his ear screamed loud enough to make him wince.
“Barnes, no! You hit a ref you’re suspended for the season!”
The coach’s words snapped Quentin out of his one-track intentions. A season-long suspension? Hell, nothing was worth that. He helped Yassoud up and walked back to the huddle, casting glances over his shoulder at Yag-Ah-Latis as he did.
“Barnes, that little act cost us fifteen yards,” Hokor growled in his earpiece. “Now take a knee and run out the clock.”
Without looking at the sideline, Quentin reached down to his belt and calmly turned off his receiver. He looked up at the scoreboard and assessed the situation: 32 seconds to play, first-and-25 on the Krakens’ 45.
As Quentin reached the huddle, he glared at his Ki linemen. Their eyespots stared back at him seemingly impassive. They didn’t seem bothered in the least that their quarterback had just been cut by an opposing lineman.
“Hey,” Yassoud said. “Call a timeout, chief, you’re bleeding pretty bad.”
“Shut up,” Quentin growled. “No talking in my huddle. X-flash left, double deep. Denver and Milford, get deep fast and get open.”
The two Sklorno started to quiver with excitement.
“Knock it off!” Quentin barked. “You want the whole stadium to know what we’re doing?” The two receivers instantly fell stock-still.
“Shouldn’t we just take a knee?” Yassoud asked.
Quentin reached out and grabbed Yassoud’s facemask, twisting it and pulling his head forward. “My huddle. You talk one more time and you’re out, got it?”
Yassoud, surprised and wide-eyed, nodded once.
Quentin let him go.
“Line up like we’re showing a QB kneel. As soon as we get to the line, Denver and Milford sprint to X-flash. Go on first sound, ready?”
“Break!” the players called in unison.
Quentin and the others jogged to the line. Denver and Milford lined up outside the left and right tight ends, respectively, then just as the defense settled in for the predictable situation, the Sklorno receivers sprinted out along the line of scrimmage.
Quentin saw Hokor’s fur ruffle once more. The coach said something into his mouthpiece, but Quentin didn’t hear it. Just as Hokor started to signal for a timeout, Quentin shouted “hut!” and the ball hit his hands. He dropped back five steps and planted, looking downfield. The crowd roared as Denver sprinted down the sideline, then angled towards the center of the field. Jacobina, the ‘Crawler’s cornerback, matched Denver step-for-step with blanket coverage.
He suddenly realized that Mitchell Fayed had been right: this was nothing like practice. The Ki defensive tackles drove hard against the offensive linemen, roaring and punching and tearing. The offensive linemen gave as good as they got, backing up as they did, throwing punches and tearing at half-shredded jerseys. Huge bodies smashed against one another, flesh shuddering in concussive waves with each impact. Droplets of black blood flew in all directions as the pocket formed around Quentin — he stood at the eye of a storm of predatorial violence, where he was the prey.
Yag-Ah-Latis, his white jersey streaked with black, tried a spin move — it was amazing to see something so big move so fast, show such agility. Kill-O-Yowet managed to counter the spin move and stayed in front of the attacking lineman. The left defensive end had dropped into pass coverage, but the right end came with all his heavy-G force. The 535-pound monstrous Human drove forward, powered by thighs that looked like beer kegs, his thick arms pushing and pulling at Vu-Ko-Will, the Kraken’s right tackle. As big as Vu-Ko-Will was, it was all he could do to stay in front of the attacking beast in a football uniform.
They didn’t just want to tackle him, they wanted to kill him. For the first time since his rookie season in the PNFL, Quentin Barnes felt small.
Quentin waited, feeling the defensive pressure coming for him. His mind operated like a multi-processing machine, simultaneously measuring a hundred different inputs.
He let the ball fly and it arced through the air. At first he thought he’d thrown a bit too far, and a bit too high, but Denver and Jacobina turned on the jets and burned downfield. Fifty yards downfield, Denver and her defender sprang high into the air — but Denver jumped higher. Fifteen feet up, Denver reached out and snagged the perfectly thrown ball. Her momentum carried her into the end zone — she landed for a touchdown.
The crowd volume reached deafening levels. Quentin knelt and picked up a few blades of Iomatt, torn up by the constant churning cleats. He held the circular blades to his nose and sniffed — smelled like cinnamon. He stood, then pointed straight at Yag-Ah-Latis.
“That touchdown was for you, baby!” Quentin shouted. “Now go translate this!” He grabbed his crotch and shook it three times. Yag-Ah-Latis’ black eyespots shrunk to tiny pinholes, and he started to charge forward. This time the Harrah officials were ready. Flags flew again as four of them blocked Yag-Ah-Latis from coming after Quentin. The massive lineman could have effortlessly knocked the Harrah aside, but Yag-Ah-Latis wanted to sit out the season no more than Quentin did.
The offense ran off the field as the kicking team came on. Hokor’s fur stood on end. “What was that? I told you to take a knee!”
Quentin shrugged. “Transmitter was broken, so I called a play.”
Hokor’s one eye stared hard at Quentin. “After the game I’ll see you in my office, Barnes. Now go get that cut fixed.”
Quentin nodded, then smiled and walked to the bench.
Teammates thumped him on the helmet and shoulder pads. Pine approached and extended a hand. Quentin shook it before he realized what he was doing.
“Great pass,” Pine said. Amazingly, he sounded genuinely happy, but Quentin knew the veteran was mocking him. Pine still had that grin on his face. “Perfectly timed for Denver’s leaping ability.”