Scott Sigler - The Rookie

Tweedy’s mocking smile turned into a gleeful snarl. “Well, show me what you got. So far you ain’t got nothin’.”

I’LL POKE OUT YOUR EYES AND CRAP ON YOUR BRAIN played across Tweedy’s face tattoo. Quentin watched it for a second, then shook his head, trying to concentrate.

He ran through ten more plays, his frustration growing with each pass. He threw two more interceptions, his third and fourth of the day, one on a deep passes to Scarborough, and one where Virak the Mean rolled forward in addition to sideways and sprang open right in front of a hooking Kobayasho.

“You’ve got two plays left, Barnes,” Hokor called from his loudspeaker. “Let’s see if you can continue your ineptitude.”

The defense continued to taunt him. He was so mad he could barely see, barely think. This hadn’t been what he’d expected at all. He lined up for his second-to-last play, a three-receiver set with Warburg on the right. Quentin dropped back, trying to read the coverage. Within two seconds, he saw that all of the receivers were well-covered. He checked through the routes, but no one was open. Frustration exploded in his head as he read his last option — Warburg on a crossing route — only to see Tweedy lurking close by. Rage billowing over, Quentin reared back and vented all of his anger on a laser-blast pass. The ball was a blur as it shot forward. Tweedy sprang at it, but too late, and fell flat on his face. The ball slammed into Warburg’s chest, hitting him so hard that it knocked him backwards. Warburg stumbled, bobbled the ball, but hauled it in before he dropped to his butt.

For the first time that afternoon, the defense fell silent. Tweedy got up slowly, staring hatefully at Quentin.

Quentin blinked, his rage clearing away, one thought echoing through his head. If you want to shut them up, go after Tweedy again, but this time hard.

The receivers returned to the mini-huddle. Quentin called his last play, a two tight end set, and made sure to include a deep crossing route behind Tweedy. At the snap he dropped back three steps, then reared back to throw a hook to Warburg. Tweedy jumped forward, much sooner than he’d done all day. Quentin pump-faked, then tossed an easy pass over Tweedy’s head to the crossing Kobayasho.

Quentin turned and looked back at Pine, who simply smiled and shrugged.

AFTER QUENTIN’S last pass, the team started jogging back to the tunnel, headed for the locker room. Quentin stopped when Hokor called out to him. As his teammates disappeared into the tunnel, Quentin waited while Hokor’s cart floated down to the field.

“You have to make your reads faster,” Hokor said.

Quentin felt embarrassed, but couldn’t argue. He felt like he was moving in slow-motion. He’d finished up ten-of-thirty with four interceptions — four — and only his first pass went for more than fifteen yards.

“Who’s the second starting cornerback for the Wallcrawlers?” Hokor asked.

“Jacobina,” Quentin said instantly. “Great vertical leap, but not very strong and easily blocked. Two-year vet.”

“What’s her weakness?”

“Trouble reaching maximum vertical leap during a full sprint.”

“How do you beat her?”

“Throw deep and high, make the receiver have to really sprint and jump to make the catch. Jacobina usually can’t match the jump if the ball is thrown correctly.”

“Good,” Hokor said. “And their second-string nose guard?”

Quentin opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. “Come on Coach, he’s just a lineman. All I have to do is avoid him, I don’t need to know anything about him.”

Hokor’s pedipalps twitched, just once. He pointed to the sidelines. “Start running.”

Quentin groaned. “For how long?”

“Ten laps.”

“Come on Coach, that’s crap!”

The pedipalps twitched, and this time kept twitching. “You’re right, that is crap. Twenty laps.”

“What? You just said ten!”

“Did I? I thought I said it thirty. Yes, I said thirty.”

Quentin clenched his jaw tight. He felt helpless, out of his element. Hokor held all the cards, and would until Quentin took over the starting spot. Quentin’s mouth closed into a tight-lipped snarl. Hokor stared at him another five seconds, until Quentin jogged to the sidelines and started doing laps around the field.

Post patterns? Crossing routes? Woman-to-woman coverage? If you want to elarn more about the passing game, hear the author explain the basics at http://www.scottsigler.com/passing101.

HOKOR THE HOOKCHEST sat in the control room mounted a hundred feet up from the practice field end zone. A dozen small holotanks lined the big window that looked out onto the field. The holotanks let him watch any of his players at any time, wherever they were in the ship.

The Ki slept together, as was their custom. They looked like a pile of legs and long bodies. The Ki section of the ship consisted of four large rooms — the communal room, the feeding room, and sleeping rooms for offense and defense, respectively. He visited their communal room at least four or five times a season. It was decorated with multi-colored mosses and various slimes he was told were plants. He’d entered the defensive room once, and only once, because the place stank like a combination of rancid meat and animal offal. Ki family units slept together. It wasn’t sexual — he’d heard stories about the Ki mating season, and had no intention of ever witnessing such a brutal display.

He made the offense and defense sleep separately — they had to face off against each other in practice every day, and when they all slept as one big family unit, they were far too civil to each other. He needed violence and aggression on the practice field. It was the only way to prepare the team for the weekly war against the other GFL squads.

The Sklorno were deep into their morning worship. There were thirteen of the beings on the team, seven receivers and eight defensive backs. Even after ten seasons of coaching, the Sklorno still seemed so bizarre to him. They worshipped strange things, like trees, the clouds on certain planets, works of literature, and — strangest of all — quarterbacks and coaches. Three of the veteran receivers were high-ranking members of the Donald Pine church. Another two, both defensive backs, worshipped Frank Zimmer of the To Pirates. He didn’t know what the rest worshipped, and didn’t care, as long as it didn’t complicate football.

He rarely checked up on the Quyth Warriors. He saved his spying for the sub-races. Warriors deserved the right to come and go as they pleased.

Eleven of his thirteen Humans were in bed, sleeping away. Ibrahim Khomeni, the 525-pounder from Vosor-3 was, of course, eating again. Hokor wondered how those heavy-G Human worlds maintained any economy at all, considering how much their subjects ate. Between Khomeni and Aleksandar Michnik, also from Vosor-3, they daily consumed enough food for ten normal-G Humans.

But while Hokor kept tabs on all of his players, he was really only concerned with one — Quentin Barnes. The Human rookie was in the virtual practice room, working away on the timing that had given him so much trouble in the first three days of practice.

The door to his control room hissed open. Hokor’s antennae went up, briefly, long enough to sense the presence of Gredok. He stood, turned and brushed back his antennae.

“Don’t bother old friend,” Gredok said. “Sit down, continue what you were doing.”

Hokor sat and again turned his attention to Quentin. The Human surveyed his holographic players and the holographic team, then dropped back as the line erupted into holographic chaos. He took a strong five-step drop, set up, and rifled the ball downfield. It fell short of the holographic Scarborough — a defender dove to intercept the ball.