Quentin stood behind the center and surveyed the defense.
“Red, nineteeeeen! Red, nineteen!”
All the defenders moved up to the line. The free safety and the safety stood only a few yards back from the linebackers, who had lined up just two yards off the line of scrimmage. With the defense packed in like that, there was nowhere for Fayed to run.
As Quentin bent to take the snap, he stole a glance at Wichita, the Hydras’ cornerback: she was only one yard off the blindingly fast Hawick. Too close. Hawick could run a seven-yard slant in less than a second. All Quentin had to do was take the snap, stand and throw as fast as he could, and Hawick would be seven yards downfield.
“Flash! Flash!” Quentin called. Krakens’ heads turned to look at him in amazement. “Blue thirty-two, blue-thirty two!” With the audible, the Krakens players had their new instructions. Heads turned back to face front. He’d win this game and win it right now.
“Hut, hut!”
The ball snapped into his hands. Quentin stood, turned and fired. Hawick was a blur, Wichita a half-step behind. The ball ripped through the air like a laser — but a misguided laser, just a bit behind the target. Wichita closed so fast Quentin’s mind couldn’t even process the movement. Hawick reached back, but Wichita cut in front of her, snatched the ball out of the air, and in the same motion cut to the outside and angled for the Krakens’ end zone.
Quentin turned reactively to pursue, but it was already too late — in the time it took him to change direction and head downfield, Wichita already had a ten-yard lead. Hawick, the only player with a hope of catching her, gave chase, but didn’t have enough time to catch up. Wichita ran the fifty yards to the end zone in less than four seconds.
Hydras 23, Krakens 23.
The Hydras’ kicker, Kash Wallace, and the kicking team ran onto the field. The sandpapery sound filled the stadium, along with other derisive noises from the smattering of other species present. It was the loudest “boo” Quentin had ever heard. He stood there, dumbfounded.
Hokor’s face appeared once again in the heads-up display. His fur was puffed out all the way, but there was nothing cute about it this time. His eye was blacker than even a Ki’s unblinking spot. “Barnes! Get your stupid, inbred face off my field.”
Quentin turned and ran to the sidelines, feeling like a condemned man walking his last mile. Teammates stood on the sidelines, glaring at him, some shaking their heads in disbelief, some pounding the ground in rage.
He said a quick prayer to the High One, but the High One wasn’t listening — Wallace’s extra point sailed through the uprights.
Hydras 24, Krakens 23, 1:13 to play.
Special teams ran onto the field for the kickoff.
Quentin ran to Hokor and kneeled down. Hokor’s eye swirled with colors: blacks and reds, the colors of anger and hate. “What did I tell you to call?”
“Dive left.”
“And what did you run?”
“Slant pass left.”
Hokor nodded and glared. Something about the look said I told you so. Quentin felt his face turn red, and he dropped his head in shame. He’d just cost his team the game.
“You want to prove yourself? ” Hokor said. “Well here’s your chance. We’ve got a minute left to win this game. We’ve only got one timeout left. Your arm is going to do it for us.”
Quentin looked up. Hokor was putting him back in, back in to win the game. Quentin felt a new rush of adrenaline. This is what he was born to do.
“I won’t screw up again, Coach.”
Hokor nodded. “If you do, Gredok will probably have you killed.”
The crowd roared as the kickoff sailed through the air. Richfield caught the ball at the five. She ran up-field, then cut right. The Hydras closed in, weaving through blockers or just running them over. Quentin recognized the Hydra with the number 23 — Wichita — dodge around blockers as if they weren’t even there.
Richfield cut back inside and jumped high to avoid the tackle, but Wichita read the cut and launched herself through the air. She hit Richfield dead-center and at top speed — Richfield’s torso snapped backwards, her legs still moving forward.
First-and-ten on the Kraken’s fifteen.
Quentin led the offense onto the field. Arioch Morningstar, the Kraken’s kicker, could hit from 45-yards out, sometimes from 50. That meant the Krakens had to get at least to the Hydra’s 35-yard line to get into Morningstar’s range, and they had 1:08 in which to do it.
“X-set,” said Hokor’s voice in Quentin’s ear. “Pulse-34, work the sidelines.”
Quentin nodded and looked over his huddle. They all looked at him, expecting him to lead them.
“X-set, pulse-34,” Quentin said. “Make sure you get out of bounds.”
He broke the huddle and came up the line.
The Hydras dug in, knowing it was now their game to lose. Bilis the Destroyer crowded the line, showing blitz. The crowd’s roar grew so loud Quentin could barely hear himself call the signals. Hawick and Scarborough lined up wide to the left, Denver and Mezquitic wide to the right. Wichita again lined up over Scarborough, in bump-and-run coverage. Quentin looked to his right, to Denver. If Bilis the Destroyer came on the blitz, Denver would angle in and run a hook in Bilis’s abandoned coverage area.
“Blue, sixteeeen!” Quentin shouted, trying to be heard over the crowd’s roar. Bilis took another step forward, edging in between his Ki defensive tackle and his heavy-G defensive end.
“Hut-hut!”
BLINK
The ball slapped into his hands as the clock started ticking. Quentin dropped back, ball held high, looking for Denver’s route. Bilis didn’t blitz — instead, he back-pedaled on all fours, scurrying back to cover the short zone, right where Quentin had hoped Denver would run. Denver saw the coverage and angled for the sidelines, but she was covered. Quentin looked left: Scarborough hooked up at the sidelines, but she was also covered. Hawick ran a post — she was wide-open, no defender. Quentin planted, after only three steps of his five-step drop, and started to throw even before he saw the blur of motion coming from his left.
Nothing can move that fast flashed through his head just before Wichita, on a corner blitz, caught him dead in the chest. Two hundred eighty pounds of power moving at blinding speed knocked Quentin back like a rag doll. His helmet popped off, seemed to hang in mid-air as he was driven backwards. A pain stabbed through his mouth, but all he could think about was the fact that the ball was no longer in his hands. He turned as he fell, his naked face sliding across the grass.
He saw the brown ball bouncing on the blue Iomatt, wobbling towards the sidelines. Quentin scrambled to get up, but Wichita was much faster. She popped to her feet.
Quentin’s breath froze in his chest. All players converged on the loose ball.
But the Wichita got to it first.
BLINK
The world returned to normal speed as the whistle blew. The ref flew in and repeatedly thrust a tentacle towards the Krakens’ end zone — Hydras’ ball. Quentin’s heart sank right down out of his chest, through his legs and into the ground. It was all over but the crying. He felt a hard something in his mouth. He spit; a bloody white tooth landed on the blue field.
The game was over. A corner blitz. He’d successfully handled that same defensive tactic more times than he could count, but Wichita had come so fast, arriving perhaps two full seconds sooner than any Human corner could have ever managed. Quentin picked up his helmet and walked off the field, head hung low, the taste of his own blood salty in his mouth.