An unheard voice said something to Pine. He nodded towards the sidelines and turned back to the huddle.
“Okay, we’ve pounded it up the middle enough for now, let’s mix it up. Y-set, screen pass right. Quentin, maybe this time you could actually run with the ball instead of pussyfooting it to the line so they can smack you around like a little girl?”
Quentin’s eyes widened with rage. “What are you talking about?”
“We’d have this game wrapped up if we had Fayed, or even Yassoud, but all we’ve got is you, you lazy backwater rookie.”
Without thinking, he pushed his way forward to slide between Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, who were in front of him, bent down so the players behind them could see Pine. Quentin raised his right fist to swing at Pine, but two sets of hands and one set of tentacles grabbed him from all sides and held him back.
“Hey,” Pine said, holding his hands out, palms up, that arrogant grin on his bloody face. “You want a piece of me you little spoiled racist brat?”
The word seemed to slip into Quentin’s brain like a branding iron. He jerked against the hands holding him back as the huddle shifted and broke apart.
“You wanna mess with me, Pine?” Quentin screamed. He tried to break loose. From behind, a strong arm wrapped around his neck and squeezed, lightly, just enough for Quentin to feel pressure on his windpipe — just enough to know he’d pass out if the arm tightened further.
“Stop this right now,” Tom Pareless said quietly. “I let you go, you run the play, deal?”
Quentin nodded, or at least moved his head — he couldn’t nod with Pareless’ thick arm wedged around his neck and under his chin.
“WHAT’S GOING ON there, Chick? The Krakens are fighting in the huddle.”
“Well, Masara, it looks like tempers might be flaring. Can we get a close-up of Barnes’ face? Now run it in slow-mo.”
“You want to see if you can tell what this argument is about, Chick?”
“You got it, Masara. Look at that guy, he’s as wide-eyed-mad as a Brahma bull getting a three-pound suppository. Hold on, let me see what he’s saying… well, it seems that Quentin Barnes had a few choice words. He said — ”
“I think the viewers have a good idea what he said, Chick.”
“Yeah, but he called Donald Pine a — ”
“And we’re back to the action on the field! The Krakens are lining up in an I-formation with Hawick wide left, Scarborough wide right and Kobayasho at right tight end.”
QUENTIN LINED UP in the I-formation, right behind Tom Pareless. He was so mad he could barely see, barely hear the snap count. So now he knew what kind of a man Pine really was — screw all the favors Quentin had given him, screw the fact that Quentin had saved the man’s reputation and career: when the going got tough, Donald Pine passed the buck.
“Green, twenty-eight!” Pine shouted.
Quentin couldn’t even stand the sound of that blue-boy’s voice. How could he have been so stupid to give up the quarterback spot for the biggest game of the year? He asked Hokor for this!
“Greeeeeeen, twenty-eight!”
Well he and Pine would settle up once the game was over. That old man was going to get his, that was for certain.
“Hut-hut!”
Quentin drove forward and to the right as Pareless stood, hands out, to pass-block. On the screen pass, Quentin’s job was to block down on the defensive tackle, then bounce outside and wait for the pass. Cay-Oh-Kiware and Vu-Ko-Will, the right guard and tackle, respectively, would make half-hearted blocks, enough so that the defense could go right by, then bounce to the right and block for Quentin. The defensive line would chase after Pine, who would back up, drawing them in — when Pine threw the little dump-pass to Quentin, those same defenders would be too far away from the play to do anything about it.
Quentin ran up as Chok-Oh-Thilit spun around Vu-Ko-Will’s pseudo-block.
I’ll show you, Pine.
Quentin launched himself forward just as Chok-Oh-Thilit finished his spin. Quentin’s elbow smashed into the Ki lineman’s helmet, snapping his head back. Chok-Oh-Thilit stumbled, then fell to the ground.
BLINK
The world decelerated: Quentin bounced to the right and looked back. Three defensive linemen closed in on Pine, who backpedaled and looked confused. The linemen gathered and shot forward towards the scrambling quarterback — who at the last possible second deftly tossed a floating pass. Quentin watched the ball in total fascination. It moved so slow he could read the small letters burned into the ball (Riddell GFL-licensed), and count the pebbles in the leather grain. The ball slowly spun towards him, until his hands seemed to reach out and pull it in like an old friend.
He turned upfield. Vu-Ko-Will and Cay-Oh-Kiware were already in front of him, two biological bulldozers moving forward on multi-jointed legs. Kipir the Assassin tried to cut past Vu-Ko, but the Ki lineman managed to get a partial block. Kipir spun and stumbled by, off-balance but reaching for Quentin. Quentin switched the ball to his right arm, reared back with his left, and delivered a crushing forearm to the linebacker. Kipir’s feet came out from under him, and he went down hard.
Quentin stayed behind Cay-Oh, who ran as fast as his little Ki legs would carry him. Jurong tried to reach Quentin, but she was fighting off a running block from Scarborough. Montrouge, the cornerback, came free, but had a bad angle — she tried to make a cut around Cay-Oh-Kiware, but the Ki lineman gathered at the last second and launched forward. Even in Quentin’s Zen-state, he heard the crowd’s “OHHH” when Cay-Oh-Kiware smashed Montrouge into a limp Sklorno puddle.
Quentin cut outside, zipping past Jurong who couldn’t separate from Scarborough’s block. Suddenly, there was no one left. Quentin sprinted forward, big legs chewing up the yardage. The goal line loomed before him like the gate to heaven. He looked to his left — Volgograd closing in. Quentin watched in seeming slow-mo as she gathered for a touchdown-saving leap. Quentin’s brain effortlessly timed the Sklorno’s dive — when she went horizontal, diving at his feet, he launched himself lengthwise. Volgograd passed by where his feet had just been, her tentacles flailing as she tried to grab a foot, a leg, a shoelace, anything, but came up with only air.
Quentin’s face mask hit the ground first — he slid forward, realizing, suddenly, that the grass he looked down upon wasn’t green.
It was red, the color painted in the end zones.
BLINK
The world rushed back in a hammer-blow of noise and color and intensity.
[TOUCHDOWN, KRAKENS! A 45-YARD PASS FROM PINE TO QUENTIN BARNES!]
Quentin looked for flags, but saw none. The Harrah zebe signaled a touchdown. He glanced up at the scoreboard.
Krakens 20, Earthlings 17.
1:31 left to play.
His teammates swarmed around him as he ran off the field. The Krakens faithful in the stands were a blur of jumping, screaming excitement — two sections of anarchy set amidst a stadium of disappointment.
Now it was all up to the defense.
QUENTIN STOOD on the sidelines, as far away from Don Pine as he could get. Case Johanson limped onto the field, and Quentin felt a bond of brotherhood. Even from thirty yards away, Quentin could see the look in Johanson’s eyes — he was ready to sacrifice anything to get the win.
Arioch Morningstar had knocked in the extra point, giving the Krakens a 21–17 lead. His following kickoff had sailed into the end zone. The Earthlings started their last drive at their own 20.