“Good to see you again,” Quentin said. “But if anybody’s going to get hurt, it’s going to be you when I run you over.”
Alonzo laughed, not an evil laugh, but as if an old friend had told him a good joke. He stood and reached out a hand.
“We’ll see about that,” Alonzo said as he helped Quentin off the ground.
Quentin ran back to the huddle. He could barely move his arm, but the tingling feeling was already fading away. If that was the best hit Alonzo had to offer, Quentin thought me might make it through the game after all. He ran to the back of the huddle to stand in the tailback’s spot, thinking how strange it was to watch someone else call the play.
“Quentin!” Pine barked. “Take it easy when I hand you the freakin’ ball, you almost took my hand off.”
“Oh… sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it. You feel better now?”
The question confused Quentin for just a second, then he realized the butterflies were gone and he no longer had to pee.
“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I guess I do.”
Pine nodded, just once, then his eager eyes swept the offensive players. “Okay, they’re already confused by Quentin, and they’ll be looking for him, so we go play-action right, towards Chok-Oh-Thilit, hot-pass to Warburg.”
“At least someone will throw me the ball,” Warburg said.
“Shut up, racist” Pine said. “Keep your mouth shut in my huddle, got it?”
Warburg glared, but nodded.
“Okay, on two, on two, ready…”
Quentin lined up in the I-formation once again. Pine barked out the signals. The linemen smashed together. Quentin drove to the right, left hand on his chest, left elbow high. Pine stabbed the ball towards his stomach again and Quentin brought his forearms together, except this time there was no ball at his stomach. He put his head down and leaned forward, charging into the line. He ran just outside Wen-Eh-Deret’s right side: the hit came from his right, enough to spin him around, then a freight train smashed into his chest. The world spun in a wild circle, and something hit him hard in the left shoulder — it took him a full second before he realized that last hit had been the ground.
Quentin gazed up into the black eyes of Chok-Oh-Thilit, who looked down at him the way a spider looks at a bug caught in its web.
Alonzo’s grinning head appeared next to Chok-Oh-Thilit’s. “Don’t he just hit like a tank?”
“My… gramma… hits harder,” Quentin said, although his voice cracked just a bit when he said it. Alonzo helped him up once again.
In the huddle the Krakens were excited and eager for the next play. Quentin realized he had no idea if the play had been successful — he looked at the scoreboard: first-and-10 on the Earthlings’ 44.
Warburg stood and looked back at Quentin. “So that’s what it’s like to catch a pass.”
Pine reached out and slapped Warburg hard in the head. “Dammit, Warburg, shut your pie-hole!” Warburg turned and bent, leaning over in standard huddle position so the players behind him could see Pine.
“Okay, now we go for the throat,” Pine said. “B-set, twenty-two post. Hawick, I’m putting the ball in the air whether you’re covered or not, you go get it or I’ll never throw you another pass as long as you live.”
A silence filled the huddle. Quentin just stared, amazed at Pine’s ruthlessness — it would have been like telling a Holy Man that if he didn’t catch the ball he’d been damned to hell by St. Stewart himself. Hawick started to shake.
“Shake all you want, sissy girl, every defensive back on the field is going to know it’s coming to you when I drop back, and it doesn’t matter — you don’t catch the ball, and you’re excommunicated from the Church of Donald Pine, do you understand?”
Hawick’s raspers rolled and unrolled involuntarily, over and over again.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Hawick chirped.
Pine nodded once. “On three, on three, ready…”
The Krakens lined up in a pro-set, Quentin five yards behind Pine and two yards to his left, Tom Pareless five yards behind Pine and two yards to his right. Warburg lined up at left tight end, and Scarborough split left. Wide right, all alone, stood Hawick, still shaking. The defensive backs keyed on Hawick’s shake — Toronto called a defensive audible. The backs shifted: Toronto moved up one yard off Hawick for woman-to-woman coverage, while Volgograd lined up ten yards behind her — Hawick was facing double coverage.
“Red, twelve!” Pine shouted. “Red, twelve.”
Alonzo jumped forward after the call, lining up over the left guard and showing blitz. If he came, he was Quentin’s responsibility. Alonzo stood quickly and pointed at Quentin.
“Here it comes, pretty-boy! Here comes the hurt!” Alonzo squatted, fists shaking with adrenaline rage, eyes wide as a nocturnal predator.
“Hut-huuuut… hut!”
Pine took the snap and dropped back smooth as silk. Quentin stepped forward, with one step to the left, legs bent and hands up in front of him. The left defensive tackle drove towards the center as Alonzo took a small step back and moved quickly to his right, away from center.
A linebacker stunt, Quentin thought.
The slashing defensive tackle drew blocks from both Sho-Do-Thikit, the left guard, and Bud-O-Shwek, the center. Warburg blocked the defensive end. Alonzo stepped up through the sudden opening, coming free and unobstructed like a rabid bearcat.
Block him or Pine goes down, Quentin thought quickly as he stepped up and leaned forward. Alonzo bent forward at the exact same moment, bringing his right arm forward in a vicious undercut. Quentin recognized the rip-move at the last second — Alonzo would power by his right side and have a free shot at Pine. Quentin lunged to his right, desperately trying to correct his mistake. Alonzo hit him with all of his considerable strength, driving his rip move from his feet through his thick thighs to his powerful arm, all with a strong twist of the hips to make the move as concussive as a heavyweight’s knockout uppercut. Quentin was off-balance from his desperate dive, and without his feet planted he had no strength to counter the move — Alonzo’s forearm hit him under the chin, lifting him off his feet and knocking him backwards. Quentin saw nothing but bright lights and felt a quick tug on his chin before his helmet spun through the air like a decapitated head. He landed on his butt and rolled backwards, feet-over-head. The world whirled around him, a blur of green grass and red leg armor. He felt a foot kick him in the ribs, then the weight of another player landing on top of him. Quentin rolled backwards one more time, then lay flat — there was a ringing in his ears.
But there was also a roar.
A roar of the crowd.
Suddenly a hand grabbed his, yanking him to his feet.
“Great block, kid!” Pine said, shaking Quentin’s shoulders as he screamed in his face. “We got ‘em!”
“Wha…” Quentin stammered.
“Touchdown, kid, touchdown!”
Quentin felt something in his mouth. He spit — his front right tooth landed in a clot of blood, red-and-white on green.
That thing is never going to heal right, Quentin thought as he limped off the field.
“THAT’S GOT TO BE the greatest catch I’ve ever seen, Masara!”
“Amazing! Amazing! Let’s see the replay on this.”
“Hawick is double-covered from the get-go, Masara. Watch the move she puts on Toronto to get clear, but then she’s still got Volgograd in woman-to-woman. She’s totally covered.”
“But if she’s double-covered, why would Pine throw that ball, Chick? He just put it up for grabs!”