Scott Sigler - The Rookie

BLINK

The world rushed back to normal, some unseen force seeming to tap off the “mute” button in his brain — the sound of 185,000-plus hit him like a hammer.

He stood up, energy pumping through every molecule in his body while pain radiated through his brain. He’d thrown that same move at least a thousand times in his PNFL career. It always left the defenders in the dust. But the Quyth Warrior linebacker… he’d never seen such amazing lateral movement. Bilis the Destroyer had matched his in-cut and his out-cut as if he were Quentin’s mirror-image. On all-fours, their low center of gravity let them move side-to-side far faster than any Human.

The Hydras called a timeout, stopping the clock at 1:36. The ref signaled first down and the chains moved forward. Quentin jogged back to the huddle. He’d picked up eleven yards on the play.

Hokor’s faced popped to life in the holographic heads-up display.

“Barnes, what the hell was that?”

“A first down, Coach.”

“I called a dive-right.”

“That’s what I ran, Coach,” Quentin said as he reached the huddle. “Only I missed the handoff, so I improvised.”

“Well stop improvising!” Hokor screamed so loud Quentin wondered if Quyth Leaders had vocal cords that could rupture.

“Okay, Coach, no problem.”

“Good. Same play. And this time, hand it off. ”

First-and-10 on the Krakens’ 43. Quentin turned to the huddle. The Humans were smiling at him, the Sklorno stared at him with newfound reverence, and the Ki just looked at him in their unemotional way.

“Okay, let’s do it again, X-set, dive right, on one.”

“You gonna hand it off this time?” Fayed asked without a hint of irritation.

“Yeah. Get me some yards.”

Fayed nodded once.

The Krakens lined up. He handed off to Fayed: this time the free safety stayed off the line, and the right corner waited, making sure Quentin didn’t have the ball. Bilis the Destroyer came free and swung his arm in a vicious hook that caught Fayed in the throat, lifting the Human off the ground and snapping him back after a three-yard gain. Quentin watched in horror, fully expecting Fayed to lay on the ground with a broken neck. But the whistles blew, Fayed popped up good as new and ran back to the huddle, smiling all the way.

Hydras used their second time out: 1:29 to go.

Hokor’s voice came over the transmitter. “Off-tackle left, tell Fayed to keep that ball covered up.”

Quentin nodded and called the play in the huddle. The crowd roared like a hundred take-off rockets, so loud their combined voices shook the very ground. The ball snapped into his hands. As he turned he watched the defenders — once again they were selling out, coming to stop the run and only the run. Quentin handed off to Fayed, who avoided a would-be tackler that broke through the line. Fayed spun to his left, back inside, but there was nowhere to run. He plowed into the line for no gain.

The Hydras used their last timeout.

Third down and seven on the 46, 1:22 to play.

Quentin reached to his belt and tapped the transmit button. “Coach, they’re bringing everyone to stop the run. I can do a quick slant for the first down.”

Hokor’s face appeared in the heads-up display. “Dive left,” he said.

“Coach, we won’t get a first down! They’ll get the ball back.”

“We chew up another thirty seconds, punt, and make them work the length of the field.”

“But Coach — ”

“Hand off the damn ball!” Hokor’s voice was loud enough to make Quentin flinch. The Coach’s fur puffed out and his eye flooded a deep black.

Quentin walked to the huddle. “Okay, okay, we’ve got this in the bag. X-set dive left, on two, on two. Break!”

The Krakens jogged to the line. The Hydras players looked like characters from some war movie, dug-in deep and ready for a heroic last stand against the enemy. The ballgame hinged on this one play. If the Hydras stopped the Krakens here, they’d get the ball back with just under a minute to play. No timeouts, but they’d have a chance to win. If the Krakens got the first down, Quentin would just take a knee on the next two plays and the game was over. If they got the first down, they controlled the win instead of giving the Hydras a chance to snatch the victory.

Quentin stood behind the center and surveyed the defense.

“Red, nineteeeeen! Red, nineteen !”

All the defenders moved up to the line. The free safety and the safety stood only a few yards back from the linebackers, who had lined up just two yards off the line of scrimmage. With the defense packed in like that, there was nowhere for Fayed to run.

As Quentin bent to take the snap, he stole a glance at Wichita, the Hydras’ cornerback: she was only one yard off the blindingly fast Hawick. Too close. Hawick could run a seven-yard slant in less than a second. All Quentin had to do was take the snap, stand and throw as fast as he could, and Hawick would be seven yards downfield.

“Flash! Flash!” Quentin called. Krakens’ heads turned to look at him in amazement. “Blue thirty-two, blue-thirty two!” With the audible, the Krakens players had their new instructions. Heads turned back to face front. He’d win this game and win it right now.

“Hut, hut !”

The ball snapped into his hands. Quentin stood, turned and fired. Hawick was a blur, Wichita a half-step behind. The ball ripped through the air like a laser — but a misguided laser, just a bit behind the target. Wichita closed so fast Quentin’s mind couldn’t even process the movement. Hawick reached back, but Wichita cut in front of her, snatched the ball out of the air, and in the same motion cut to the outside and angled for the Krakens’ end zone.

Quentin turned reactively to pursue, but it was already too late — in the time it took him to change direction and head downfield, Wichita already had a ten-yard lead. Hawick, the only player with a hope of catching her, gave chase, but didn’t have enough time to catch up. Wichita ran the fifty yards to the end zone in less than four seconds.

Hydras 23, Krakens 23.

The Hydras’ kicker, Kash Wallace, and the kicking team ran onto the field. The sandpapery sound filled the stadium, along with other derisive noises from the smattering of other species present. It was the loudest “boo” Quentin had ever heard. He stood there, dumbfounded.

Hokor’s face appeared once again in the heads-up display. His fur was puffed out all the way, but there was nothing cute about it this time. His eye was blacker than even a Ki’s unblinking spot. “Barnes! Get your stupid, inbred face off my field.”

Quentin turned and ran to the sidelines, feeling like a condemned man walking his last mile. Teammates stood on the sidelines, glaring at him, some shaking their heads in disbelief, some pounding the ground in rage.

He said a quick prayer to the High One, but the High One wasn’t listening — Wallace’s extra point sailed through the uprights.

Hydras 24, Krakens 23, 1:13 to play.

Special teams ran onto the field for the kickoff.

Quentin ran to Hokor and kneeled down. Hokor’s eye swirled with colors: blacks and reds, the colors of anger and hate. “What did I tell you to call?”

“Dive left.”

“And what did you run?”

“Slant pass left.”

Hokor nodded and glared. Something about the look said I told you so. Quentin felt his face turn red, and he dropped his head in shame. He’d just cost his team the game.

“You want to prove yourself? ” Hokor said. “Well here’s your chance. We’ve got a minute left to win this game. We’ve only got one timeout left. Your arm is going to do it for us.”

Quentin looked up. Hokor was putting him back in, back in to win the game. Quentin felt a new rush of adrenaline. This is what he was born to do.