Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“I won’t screw up again, Coach.”

Hokor nodded. “If you do, Gredok will probably have you killed.”

The crowd roared as the kickoff sailed through the air. Richfield caught the ball at the five. She ran up-field, then cut right. The Hydras closed in, weaving through blockers or just running them over. Quentin recognized the Hydra with the number 23 — Wichita — dodge around blockers as if they weren’t even there.

Richfield cut back inside and jumped high to avoid the tackle, but Wichita read the cut and launched herself through the air. She hit Richfield dead-center and at top speed — Richfield’s torso snapped backwards, her legs still moving forward.

First-and-ten on the Kraken’s fifteen.

Quentin led the offense onto the field. Arioch Morningstar, the Kraken’s kicker, could hit from 45-yards out, sometimes from 50. That meant the Krakens had to get at least to the Hydra’s 35-yard line to get into Morningstar’s range, and they had 1:08 in which to do it.

“X-set,” said Hokor’s voice in Quentin’s ear. “Pulse-34, work the sidelines.”

Quentin nodded and looked over his huddle. They all looked at him, expecting him to lead them.

“X-set, pulse-34,” Quentin said. “Make sure you get out of bounds.”

He broke the huddle and came up the line.

The Hydras dug in, knowing it was now their game to lose. Bilis the Destroyer crowded the line, showing blitz. The crowd’s roar grew so loud Quentin could barely hear himself call the signals. Hawick and Scarborough lined up wide to the left, Denver and Mezquitic wide to the right. Wichita again lined up over Scarborough, in bump-and-run coverage. Quentin looked to his right, to Denver. If Bilis the Destroyer came on the blitz, Denver would angle in and run a hook in Bilis’s abandoned coverage area.

“Blue, sixteeeen!” Quentin shouted, trying to be heard over the crowd’s roar. Bilis took another step forward, edging in between his Ki defensive tackle and his heavy-G defensive end.

“Hut-hut!”

BLINK

The ball slapped into his hands as the clock started ticking. Quentin dropped back, ball held high, looking for Denver’s route. Bilis didn’t blitz — instead, he back-pedaled on all fours, scurrying back to cover the short zone, right where Quentin had hoped Denver would run. Denver saw the coverage and angled for the sidelines, but she was covered. Quentin looked left: Scarborough hooked up at the sidelines, but she was also covered. Hawick ran a post — she was wide-open, no defender. Quentin planted, after only three steps of his five-step drop, and started to throw even before he saw the blur of motion coming from his left.

Nothing can move that fast flashed through his head just before Wichita, on a corner blitz, caught him dead in the chest. Two hundred eighty pounds of power moving at blinding speed knocked Quentin back like a rag doll. His helmet popped off, seemed to hang in mid-air as he was driven backwards. A pain stabbed through his mouth, but all he could think about was the fact that the ball was no longer in his hands. He turned as he fell, his naked face sliding across the grass.

He saw the brown ball bouncing on the blue Iomatt, wobbling towards the sidelines. Quentin scrambled to get up, but Wichita was much faster. She popped to her feet.

Quentin’s breath froze in his chest. All players converged on the loose ball.

But the Wichita got to it first.

BLINK

The world returned to normal speed as the whistle blew. The ref flew in and repeatedly thrust a tentacle towards the Krakens’ end zone — Hydras’ ball. Quentin’s heart sank right down out of his chest, through his legs and into the ground. It was all over but the crying. He felt a hard something in his mouth. He spit; a bloody white tooth landed on the blue field.

The game was over. A corner blitz. He’d successfully handled that same defensive tactic more times than he could count, but Wichita had come so fast, arriving perhaps two full seconds sooner than any Human corner could have ever managed. Quentin picked up his helmet and walked off the field, head hung low, the taste of his own blood salty in his mouth.

The Hydras’ quarterback took a knee on first down. The Krakens used up their last timeout. Two more knees, and the clock ticked down to zero.

Hydras 24, Krakens 23.

The sandpaper-bristle sound rose to even new heights, loud enough to make the High One himself cover his ears.

Game over. Quentin didn’t get a chance to be the hero, he was only the goat.

MANY THINGS HAD CHANGED in the course of eight centuries of football. Equipment changed, rules changed, strategy changed, even species changed. But at least two things remained constant — the feeling of the winners, and the feeling of the losers.

A noise-killing shadow seemed to hang over the Human locker room. There was almost no conversation, only the clicks and clacks of armor being removed and tossed into lockers. The shadow seemed deepest and most oppressive in front of the locker belonging to one Quentin Barnes, who sat on the bench, head hung, his gear still on.

He’d had his chance and he’d blown it. Instead of doing what he was told, instead of giving the defense the chance to win the game, he’d stupidly gone for the kill and wound up losing.

Yassoud came out of the nano-shower dressed only in a towel. His right shoulder was one solid bruise, angry blue and painful purple beneath his light brown skin. He saw Quentin, head hung low, and walked over.

“How you doin’, champ?”

Quentin looked up without lifting his head, then returned his gaze to the floor. His tongue played with the painful spot where his right front tooth had once been. “Leave me alone.”

“Hey, you threw a pick, it happens.”

“It shouldn’t have happened. Hokor called a run play, I au-dibled.”

“So?”

“ So? What do you mean, so ? I cost us the game.”

Yassoud shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. A lot of factors went into that loss. The defense gave up ten points in the third quarter. You threw an interception. It was a team loss, Q.”

Quentin shook his head. “It was my game to win, and I blew it.”

Yassoud patted him on the shoulder. “That’s nothing a night on the town won’t cure, my friend. Let’s go out and drink away our sorrows!”

Quentin stood and started unbuckling his armor. “No thanks. I’ve got to get back to my room and study some holo.”

“Hey, man, you’ve got to take a break sometime.”

“I’ll take a break after we win.”

Yassoud gave a little smile that seemed to say suit yourself , then returned to his locker.

He was the only one that spoke to Quentin that night. The others simply ignored him.

Condor Adrienne continued his hot streak, throwing for 342 yards and four touchdowns as the Whitok Pioneers(2–0) notched a 26–12 win over the Bigg Diggers(1–1).