Quentin undressed at his locker, feeling neither happy nor sad about the outcome. He’d played as well as could be expected under the circumstances, the circumstances being that the offensive line didn’t really give a crap about protecting him. He’d finished the day 15-of-35 for 186 yards, with 37 yards rushing. His body felt like he’d gone ten rounds in the octagon with Korak the Cutter. He’d thought he’d taken some blows in practice, but now he knew that his own defenders had been holding back, if only just a bit.
The Krakens changed in almost total quiet. They had one win, two losses, and were already two games out of first. Their chances of moving up to Tier One seemed near nil. Nobody spoke, except for Yassoud, who went from player to player, asking who was up for a night in Port Whitok’s gambling district.
As Quentin pulled off his chest armor, Donald Pine hobbled over, the crutches making him awkward as he slowly sat.
“You played well out there, Q.”
Quentin shrugged. “Not that any of my so-called teammates would notice. Or care, for that matter.”
Pine nodded. “Oh, they noticed. But you’re right, they didn’t care. I told you before, there’s more to being a quarterback than skill and talent.”
“Listen, gramps, I don’t need a lecture. Now take off.”
Pine didn’t move. “You do need a lecture, Quentin. So did the offensive line, but I already gave them one. Several, as a matter of fact.”
Quentin started to speak, then stopped. He remembered Pine on the sidelines, arms waving like a madman, yelling his head off at 3,000-plus pounds of offensive line. No one else had done that. Not Warburg, not Hokor, not Quentin himself. Just Pine.
“Okay,” Quentin said quietly. “Say what you’ve got to say.”
“Q, you’ve got all the talent in the world. It pours off you like stink from a skunk. Your brain works overtime — I see you come up with play adjustments that are almost as good as those of another Krakens quarterback I know.” Pine smiled with the joke. Quentin felt some of his stress fade away — Pine’s smile had a way making people feel comfortable.
“Yeah,” Quentin said, “that Yitzhak is pretty damn creative.”
Pine laughed. “Right, right. So you’ve got all the tools, but as you saw today, the greatest general in the world can’t win if the troops won’t go to war. The Ki linemen are not some random beings from their culture, they are soldiers. I’ve seen normal Ki citizens, have you?”
Quentin shrugged. “Just a few on the streets in Ionath.”
“And did they look violent? Did they look strong?”
Quentin thought back, then shook his head. They didn’t look violent at all, In fact, they were Human-sized, weighing probably 250 pounds or so, half the weight of a Kraken lineman. He hadn’t realized that fact until this moment.
“The difference between citizen and warrior isn’t as dramatic as it is in the Quyth culture, where there’s a completely separate sub-species built for fighting, but it’s there. Ki soldiers are selected from a very young age, like the equivalent of three years old in Humans. They’re trained from that time in how to fight, how to kill, how to endure pain and hardship that Humans couldn’t come close to handling. Most of our linemen have taken sentient life, Quentin, some with their bare hands. So to speak. All of them participated in ground combat at one point or another.”
“And that’s supposed to excuse them for piss-poor blocking?”
Pine shook his head. “No, you don’t get it. They love blocking, they love tackling. Physical combat is a huge part of their culture. But they aren’t in control of this game. They’re not calling the plays, they’re just doing what they’re told to do. Someone has to lead them. And if they don’t respect that someone, they simply don’t try as hard.”
Quentin thought about Pine’s words. “So what you’re telling me, is that the big, mean, deadly Ki are kind of… sensitive?”
Pine smiled and nodded. “If you don’t respect them, they’re sure not going to respect you. And if they don’t respect you, they’re not following you, they’re just going through the motions.”
Quentin looked off in the distance. Yassoud flitted about Tom Pareless like a big mosquito. Pareless kept pushing him away, but Yassoud just buzzed back again — he obviously had run out of people to go gambling with, and Pareless was his last hope.
“Okay,” Quentin said, looking back at Pine. “So what do I do about it?”
“You really want to know? You’re not going to like it.”
Quentin waved his left hand in an inner circular motion, as if to say come on, come on.
“The Ki are a very tight species,” Pine said. “They send nerve impulses through their skin and vocal tubes. That’s why they cluster up like that all the time, on the sidelines and at night. When they’re touching, they can kind of talk without speaking. That also makes for closeness among them, gives them a sense of tribe, or of family.”
“So they’re not just sensitive,” Quentin said in a deadpan. “They’re also touchy-feely?”
Pine shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t cause their evolution, I just study it. You act like they’re revolting.”
“They are.”
“So what?” Pine said angrily. “So what? So they’re revolting. Do you want to win games or not?”
Quentin nodded.
“Fine. You have to stop acting like they have the plague. Touch them. Hug them the way you would any Human player who did something good.”
“I, uh, don’t really do hugs.”
“You know what I mean, jerk. Get it in your head that you have to stop thinking of different races, and start seeing all of them, Ki, Quyth and Sklorno, as your teammates.”
Quentin’s face wrinkled up in guarded suspicion. “I don’t know, man. This seems a little too, well, like Creterakian propaganda, that we all have to get along as one giant race of sentients. I mean, come on, does this stuff really work?”
Pine smiled and held up his right hand, fingers outstretched. Glittering championship rings adorned his middle and ring fingers.
The point finally clicked home. Quentin nodded. Pine wasn’t his enemy. The man was trying to help him, probably had been all along. Quentin had trouble getting his thoughts around the concept — no one had ever helped him before, not without wanting something in return. And Pine not only wanted nothing, he had everything to lose by helping Quentin. The more Pine helped, the more likely he was to lose his starting job. It just didn’t make any sense.
And Pine was an expert on the subject, proof positive being his two Galaxy Bowl wins. Quentin realized he’d been a damn fool — he had one of the greatest players in the game trying to help him, and he’d treated that help like some kind of underhanded trick.
“Pine, why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Helping me.”
Pine looked confused. “Because you need it, why else?”
“Yeah, but, if you help me, and I get better… ” Quentin’s voice trailed off.
Pine nodded. “Oh, now I understand. I’m helping you because you’re on my team. You get that yet? I need a backup that can win games. Besides, my career only has a few years left, I know that. It would be nice to, well, have someone to teach. Someone to… to… I don’t know.”
“Carry on the Don Pine tradition?”
Pine smiled. “Sure, that works. Someone to carry on the Don Pine tradition.”
“Thank you,” Quentin said. He extended his right hand, which Pine shook. “I’ve got a good idea on how to take your advice.”