Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“I’m here all day!” Fayed shouted, thumping his fist against his chest. “Just see if you can tear my leg off.”

Fayed walked back to the huddle. Quentin felt a wave of awe wash over him — Yalla the Biter had just crippled Paul Pierson, and on the very next play Fayed not only carried the ball, but went headhunting for Yalla. The play energized the entire team. If Fayed could show that kind of courage, so could everyone else.

Another running play put the Krakens on the Demolition 5-yard line.

“S-set, double-cross,” Hokor barked. Quentin relayed the play to the Krakens’ huddle. He felt the pure vibe of control now, the rhythm of the game coursing through him, answering to him, obeying his every whim. The huddle broke and he strode to the line, his predator’s eyes sweeping over the defense. S-set was a single-back set: Fayed in the backfield, five offensive linemen, Hawick and Mezquitic split out left, Warburg in the right slot, and Scarborough wide right. It was the first time that day the Krakens used such a setup, and the Demolition scrambled to adjust. They quickly fell into woman-to-woman coverage with a linebacker wide on either side. That left four down linemen and a single middle linebacker — Yalla — in the middle.

Quentin knew what he wanted to do even before he snapped the ball.

“Red, ninety-one, red, ninety-one, hut- hut !”

The receivers drove off the line and cut inside at six yards. Quentin dropped back as Fayed rolled to the right flat. Yalla moved with him, and Quentin made his decision — after just a three step drop, he planted and bounced forward, his 360 pounds hitting top speed almost instantly. The sudden change caught the onrushing defense off-guard, he slipped past them without so much as a single cut. Yalla was already moving to the right to cover Fayed — the linebacker drove back to the left, but was far too late to match Quentin’s quickness.

Quentin strode into the end zone untouched.

Demolition 21, Krakens 16.

Quentin started to run off the field when he saw Hokor signaling to him to stay.

“We’re going for two,” Hokor called calmly over the ear-piece. “I-set, show left dive, naked boot right. Kobayasho blocks inside and releases to the right. Hit him for the conversion.”

Quentin nodded, but his mind raced with possibilities. A two-point conversion would pull them to within three points, one field goal away from tying. With the game on the line, Hokor was calling a naked boot, which meant Quentin rolled to the right with no blockers. It was both an insult and a compliment: an insult, because the Demolition still wouldn’t think Hokor would put the game on a rookie’s shoulders; and a compliment because Hokor was putting the game on his shoulders.

He felt palpable excitement in the huddle. All eyes looked to him, awaiting his words. There was victory in the air, every being felt it. All they had to do was reach out and take it. Warburg and Kobayasho, the tight ends, were in the huddle, as was Pareless the fullback. Scarborough and Mezquitic were back on the sidelines — it was a two-tight end set with a fullback, clearly a running formation.

“I-set, show left dive, and Fayed make it count. Naked boot right. Kobayasho, block in and release deep. If I have to run, I don’t want the guy covering you able to stop me from scoring, got it?”

Kobayasho nodded, as did the other players.

“Break!”

The Krakens lined up. The Demolition dug in. Quentin surveyed the defense, and saw Yalla drifting to the offense’s right. Quentin’s instincts screamed at him to call an audible, change the play to a dive left to take advantage of the cheating middle linebacker.

Run the plays I call , Quentin heard in his mind.

“Hut-hut!”

The ball slapped into his hands and he pivoted to the left. He put the ball in Fayed’s stomach and turned with the running back, guiding him to the line. Just before Fayed crashed into the mass of bodies, Quentin pulled the ball out and pivoted hard to his right. He sprinted to the sidelines. The defense had bought the fake, all were converging on Fayed… all but Yalla the Biter. The monstrous, pitch-black-eyed Quyth Warrior linebacker went into a side-roll, staying flat to to the goal line as he matched Quentin’s horizontal movement. Kobayasho bounced to the outside, but he was covered by the Demolition cornerback.

Quentin thought about the pass for one more second, then tucked the ball and sprinted for the corner of the end zone. Kobayasho instantly reacted to the situation, turning and blocking his defender, taking her out of the play.

That left only Quentin and Yalla the Biter.

Yalla popped out of his roll and sprang forward, hitting Quentin at the two-yard line.

You wanna mess with me? Quentin thought as he switched the ball to his right hand and threw his left forward in a vicious, snarling upper-cut. His fist slammed into Yalla’s chest, bounced up, and nailed the Quyth Warrior right between the pedipalps. Yalla reached out and grabbed at Quentin’s jersey as sharp teeth slashed Quentin’s left hand. Yalla’s full weight slammed into him — Quentin stumbled, but recovered and drove forward. His momentum pushed Yalla backwards, just a touch, but it was enough. They both started to fall… Quentin managed two more powerful strides on the way down, and landed after the ball just crossed the goal line.

Demolition 21, Krakens 18.

Flags flew. Unnecessary roughness on Yalla the Biter, to be assessed on the kickoff. The Krakens offense ran off the field to the boos of the Demolition faithful. Yalla’s bite had torn open the skin on the back of Quentin’s left hand, a bloody gash running from the knuckle on his index finger to the middle of his forearm. Blood poured from the wound, leaving an intermittent trail on the white playing field. Pine met him halfway, his cane doing a double-time that barely kept up the pace.

“Quentin, you idiot, why didn’t you audible out of that? I could see from here that Yalla knew the play, and I know you saw it!”

“I run the plays that are called,” Quentin said as he jogged back to the bench, leaving the crippled Pine behind him.

“Doc!” Quentin shouted, oblivious to the shoulder pad and helmet slaps his appreciative teammates threw his way. “Doc get over here!”

The Harrah doctor glided over, his tentacles immediately grabbing Quentin’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Sit still,” Doc said firmly. “This is a deep cut, we’ve got to get you to the locker room for the healing tank.”

“Forget that!” Quentin yanked his hand away. Blood flew in all directions. Teammates stopped what they were doing and stared at him, but he saw nothing except Doc, who was now no more than another obstacle trying to stop him from winning.

“You fix this up right now!” Quentin’s face twisted into a mask of challenge and fury. “I’ve got to put another three on the board.”

“You’re out of the game!” Doc yelled back.

Quentin’s eyes widened to giant white balls spotted with flecks of pure black. He suddenly rushed Doc, grabbing his floating body, finding it surprisingly light. He started to shake Doc when Yitzhak and Yassoud grabbed him, pulling him away.

“Jesus Christ, Quentin, stop it!” Yitzhak shouted as he stepped between Quentin and Doc.

Quentin ignored him, looking over Yitzhak’s shoulder and shaking his blood-dripping finger at Doc. “If you don’t fix up my hand, I’ll bounce you off the ground like a damn toy, you got that? I don’t care if you have to cauterize it with a damned branding iron, stop the bleeding. ”

Doc hung there for a second, then reached into his bag and pulled out the now-familiar blue strip. He wrapped it around Quentin’s shredded skin. Yitzhak and Yassoud let Quentin go, cautiously, as if he might snap again at any second. Quentin hissed as the acid-like sting spread through his hand. Blood pooled up around the edges of the blue strip and dripped to the trampled white plants below. He looked down, seeing that his blood had stained his orange jersey with stripes and splotches of bright red.