Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Yitzhak,” Hokor called out on his loudspeaker. “Take over.”

Quentin bit his lip in anger. This second-rate benchwarmer was taking reps before he was. Quentin calmed himself — this early in the season, each quarterback would get the same amount of reps. Once the first game was out of the way, practice time would become so precious that very little of it could be used for the second- and third-string quarterbacks. But for now, he had to bite his tongue and wait.

If Pine made the offense look easy, Yitzhak illustrated how difficult it really was. He seemed to read the defense fairly well, but he did not possess Pine’s pinpoint accuracy. Yitzhak finished his thirty plays with two interceptions, eighteen completions and only two passes for that went for more than fifteen yards.

“Barnes!” Hokor barked. “Let’s see what you can do. And remember, this isn’t punting practice.”

The defense laughed at Hokor’s insult, and Quentin’s face turned red. Obviously the entire team knew of his embarrassing incident the day before. Well, they wouldn’t be laughing for long.

Quentin swaggered to the line. He’d watched the other two quarterbacks, and he’d watched the defenders — he knew how to run things. He lined up, feeling a surge of adrenaline pump through his veins. As Quentin bent down to start the play, the defensive players started calling out to him.

“Hey, rookie!” John Tweedy yelled. “Throw it my way, boy, make me look good for the Coach.”

“Come on, Human,” called Choto the Bright, the Quyth Warrior that played right outside linebacker. “You Nationalist racist scum, come make us sub-species look bad.”

“You won’t last, Human,” said the left outside linebacker, number 58, Virak the Mean. “You’re going back to your Third World planet in a body bag. I should have killed you on the landing dock at the Combine and just got it over with.”

Quentin smiled. He hadn’t been taunted since halfway through his first season of football back home. It had taken his opponents that long to learn what he was all about, that no matter what they said, he was going to tear their defense apart.

The defense closed in for bump-and-run. The cornerbacks Berea and Davenport lined up directly over Scarborough and Hawick, respectively. Quentin scanned through the rest of the defense, but he’d already seen what he needed to see.

“Hut-hut, hut !”

He took his strong five-step drop. Berea shoved Scarborough at the line of scrimmage, but Scarborough fought through the hit and streaked down the sideline. Quentin saw Stockbridge, the strong safety, moving over to help Berea but it was already too late. Quentin waited, waited, then fired. The ball tore through the air on a shallow arc, hitting Scarborough in stride thirty yards downfield. Stockbridge pushed Scarborough out-of-bounds — a 35-yard gain.

The Sklorno receivers on the sidelines hooted and clicked and jumped with excitement.

“You took too long, Barnes,” Hokor called. “You’d have never got that pass off. You’ve got to go through your reads quicker.”

Quentin put his hands on his hips and stared up at Hokor, who hovered fifteen yards above the field in his little cart. Quentin stared for a few seconds more, then walked back to the line, shaking his head.

He called out the next set, which featured one tight end and three receivers. Scarborough lined up wide to the left, Hawick and Denver to the right, Kobayasho lined up at right end. The defensive backs quickly shifted, taking out Choto the Bright, a linebacker, and bringing in another Sklorno defensive back. Quentin surveyed the field, running through the routes in his mind, matching them against the defensive set. Hawick was covered woman-to-woman by Davenport — Hawick’s pattern in that coverage called for a post, and Quentin didn’t think Davenport could handle Hawick’s speed. Quentin tapped his stomach in a quick ba-da-bap , then barked out signals and snapped the ball.

He dropped back five steps, looked left to throw off the defense, then turned and launched the ball deep. As soon as he let it go he saw his mistake: Davenport had broken off woman-to-woman and dropped into zone coverage, where she was responsible for defending a particular area of the field. Stockbridge, the strong safety, had the deep outside zone, where Quentin had thrown. Correctly reading the deep coverage of Stockbridge, Hawick broke off her post route and hooked up at fifteen yards — the ball sailed over her head, and Stockbridge swept in for an easy interception.

Tweedy let out a grating, evil, mocking laugh that sounded like a stuttering buzz saw. “Thanks, rookie!” he called out through cupped hands. “You just answered Hawick’s prayers!” The Human defenders laughed. Quivering pedipalps showed the Quyth Warriors’ amusement.

Quentin’s face felt hot under his helmet. Davenport had easily disguised her coverage by running stride-for-stride with Hawick, until the defender reached her assigned zone coverage. It all happened so fast — seemingly twice as fast as anything happened back in the PNFL. Quentin had thrown too early.

The team fell silent as Hokor’s cart lowered to the field. “Barnes, how many reads did you make that time?”

Quentin looked down. “One.”

Hokor’s pedipalps quivered, and clearly not from humor. “One. You just turned the ball over, again.”

“Relax, Coach, I’ve got it now.”

Hokor just stared at him with his one big eye. “Run it again,” he said, then his cart rose noiselessly to fifteen feet and hovered behind the end zone.

Quentin lined up for another stab, but his confidence had suddenly abandoned him. Things were moving too fast. He ran the same play, saw the defensive coverage, and opted for a short dump to the tight end. Even that was almost an interception: Virak the Mean tightened up into a ball and rolled sideways, not as fast as a Sklorno but pretty damn fast, a rolling blur that popped open at the last second when the ball drew near.

The next play, Quentin checked off his primary and secondary route, which were covered, and fired a short crossing pass to the tight end — as soon as he let go, he knew he’d messed up again. Tweedy had seemed to be yards away from the play, but he stepped in front of Warburg and picked off the ball.

This time Hokor didn’t come down, but it didn’t matter — Tweedy’s buzz-saw laughter roared across the field.

“You’re my kind of quarterback,” Tweedy called. “I just wish you were playing for Wallcrawlers instead of us, it would make my job easier.”

Laughter and quivering pedipalps were all Quentin heard and saw. His face burned with embarrassment.

“You’re not utilizing your arm strength.”

Quentin turned to see Pine next to him.

“Tweedy is giving you the same cushion he gives me,” Pine said quietly, practically whispering. “But you throw much harder than I do. If you want to shut them up, go after Tweedy again, but this time hard. These tight ends are much better than the guys you played with in the PNFL. As soon as you burn Tweedy a couple of times, he’ll close the cushion, then call crossing routes over his head.”

Now Pine was giving him advice as if he were some school-boy playing pickup ball. It was the final insult. Go after Tweedy, who’d just picked off a pass? Did Pine think Quentin was stupid ? Pine obviously wanted to make him look bad.

“Get out of my huddle, Pine,” Quentin growled. “I don’t need any help from a blue-boy.”

Pine leaned back as if he’d been slapped. He stared, shook his head sadly, then turned and jogged back to Yitzhak.

“Is daddy helping Little Quentin play the game?” Tweedy called out loudly.

Quentin’s patience hit a dead end. He pointed his finger at the linebacker. “Shuck him , and shuck you , Tweedy.”