A three-year contract, with the To Pirates, the greatest franchise in GFL history — his childhood dream come true!
“That sounds great,” Quentin said. “Tell Mr. Kollok I’m very interested.”
“Of course you’re interested, backwater. It’s the To Pirates. Everybody is interested. But there’s one catch.”
“Which is?”
“You have to make sure the Krakens don’t make the playoffs.”
Quentin’s face furrowed. “But why not? What difference does that make?”
Maygon fluttered his wings, a clear sign of irritation. “Because, backwater, if the Krakens make the playoffs and make it into Tier One, all players are protected for two years. That means that the Pirates, or any other team for that matter, can’t touch you unless the Krakens cut or trade you.”
“Oh yeah,” Quentin said, some of his excitement fading away. “Yeah, I forgot about that.”
“But it doesn’t look like it’s going to be a problem,” Maygon said. “You guys are already one and one, and there’s no way you’re going to beat the Pioneers, so you’ll be two games out of first place. Just make sure the Krakens lose any games you start, and you’ll be wearing the blood red before you know it. Mr. Kollok thinks there’s big things in your future. If I need to talk to you again, I’ll contact you, but we can’t be seen together. If the league finds out we’re talking, the Pirates will be fined and you’ll be suspended.”
“Suspended?” Quentin quickly looked around the bar, but still saw only drunken Quyth Workers. “Why didn’t you say that before we started talking?”
“Not my fault if you don’t know GFL regulations. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to go. I can’t stand the stink of Humans.”
With that, Maygon fluttered up and flew out the door. Quentin stared after him. The To Pirates. The To Pirates! Winners of five GFL championships, more than any other team. The Pirates, with their legendary blood-red jerseys, they wanted him.
Just make sure you lose the games you start.
Those words pushed to the forefront of his brain, dissipating his excitement. Tank a game or two? Sure, they had one loss, but with a win against the Pioneers the Krakens were right back in the race.
Quentin shook his head and walked out of the gin joint. He’d never thrown a game in his life, but odds were he wouldn’t have to. The Pioneers were the best team in the Quyth Irradiated Conference. They’d probably walk all over the Krakens’ defense. It wouldn’t come down to Quentin tanking the game.
At least he hoped it wouldn’t.
HE STOOD AT THE FRONT of the pack. The Krakens players crammed into the tunnel. It seemed wider than the one at Ionath Stadium. Wider and newer. In fact, everything about the stadium reeked of newness, from the full wall of multi-race vending machines in the team lobby, to the smart-paint lockers that changed color to suit each player’s preference. The communications equipment was state-of-the-art, but what else would you expect from a stadium sponsored by a telecom company like Earth Ansible & Messenger?
The stadium’s quality, however, faded to insignificance as the game-fever started to overtake Quentin. The Krakens players grunted, and clacked, and chirped, and bounced, and twitched with the anticipation of battle. Pheromones filled the air: the thick scent of Ki aggression combining with the tang of Human sweat. An electrical charge ripped through the unified mass of players, cycling from one end to the other and back again.
“Time to draw the battle line,” Yassoud said from somewhere in the back, his voice muffled by the tight press of bodies packed into the tunnel. Human grunts acknowledged his words.
“We will accept Condor’s gifts,” a Sklorno called out, referring to Condor Adrienne, the Pioneer’s star quarterback. The other Sklornos chirped excitedly, all of them bouncing up and down, unable to contain the energy that filled their bodies.
The sensation built up quickly, thickly, so intense that Quentin couldn’t even think, he could only feel, like an animal waiting to pounce. It was like the last two games, but it was different — this time they were his to command, his to lead. This was the moment he’d waited for all of his life.
The announcer introduced the Ionath Krakens.
“Kree-goll-ramoud!” Mum-O-Killowe roared in his deep, warlike voice, and the team surged out of the tunnel to the deafening sound of boos. Small, hard items plinked off their armor. Bits of wet matter, both cold and hot, spilled down on them as they ran onto the field. Quentin covered his head as he looked up into the stands and saw an endless sea of midnight-blue and neon-green, the colors of the Whitok Pioneers.
He reached the sidelines. The Krakens surged around him like a python, everywhere at once, pressing in, their eyes on him, their breath in his face and on his neck. They bounced and surged and punched and clawed like a tiger in a cage.
Quentin started to speak, but John Tweedy beat him to it.
“This is it,” Tweedy shouted. “This is it! We need this win, we want it more than they do! We must destroy this house!”
The Krakens roared and clicked and jumped and pushed. Quentin felt a rush of anger — he was the quarterback, the team should be looking to him, not Tweedy.
“Pine is out, so we’ve got to pull together,” Tweedy shouted. “This is war. We take the battle to them. Now let’s go kick their asses!”
The team surged even tighter one last time, bouncing Quentin about like a cork in a typhoon. Then the huddle broke and the players wandered away, preparing for the game.
Quentin fumed on the sidelines. They still didn’t give him enough respect. Well, they would all be jealous when he suited up in the blood red for Tier One season, and they were all at home, watching the holos.
The Pioneers won the toss, received the kick, and started with the ball on their own 28. Condor Adrienne wasted no time, dropping back on the first play. His offensive line, a huge wall of Ki averaging 630 pounds, gave him all the time in the world. Adrienne launched a deep pass to a streaking receiver, who sprang high in the air. Davenport, the Krakens’ right cornerback, went up high as well, but she was just a step behind. The ball floated down just an inch away from her outstretched tentacles to drop perfectly into the hands of Bangor, the Pioneer’s receiver. The two players came down as one, but Davenport stumbled on impact. Bangor sprinted the remaining fifteen yards into the end zone.
“Ain’t that a pain,” Yassoud said. The crowd roared like a thousand-pound bomb. Giant pompons and flags, all midnight blue lined with neon green, waved in the air, making the 181,500-plus crowd seem a single, massive anemone.
The kick was good. The first play of the game found the Whitok Pioneers up 7–0.
“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, men,” Mitchell Fayed shouted as the offense gathered to take the field. “Let’s get that one back.”
Richfield returned the kick to the Krakens’ 30. The offense ran onto the field to the sound of concentrated boos. The pompons and banners vanished, like that same anemone pulling in its flowery tentacles at the first hint of danger.
As the players huddled up, Quentin took one quick look around the stadium. “Boy, they love us here, don’t they?”
“We won here two seasons ago,” said Yotaro Kobayasho, the tight end. “The crowd rioted. Twenty-seven beings died before they got it under control.”
“They take this stuff seriously,” said Tom Pareless, the fullback. “You’ve got to love it.”
“Okay boys, let’s take care of business,” Quentin said. He tapped his right ear-hole to activate the heads-up display inside his visor. Hokor had already specified the first twenty offensive plays. Quentin knew them by heart, having re-read the list at least a hundred times to make sure he knew every step of every player for each and every play (fifteen running plays and five short passing plays — not a bomb in the bunch). But he checked again, just to be sure. The first play: Y-set, belly right. He tapped the button and the list of plays disappeared from the visor.