Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Pine!” Hokor said. “You’re going to have to sit out a few.” Hokor signaled to Doc for the medsled.

“But I’m not lying,” Fayed said. “I don’t like mustard.”

Hokor turned to Quentin. “Okay, Barnes, it’s up to you now. We need some points on the board. Just run — ”

“The plays that are called, yeah, I know, Coach.”

“Ham and you are a beautiful thing!” Pine screamed. “Don’t fight your urges, Fayed!”

Doc flew up to Pine, the medsled right behind him. Pine pointed a finger in Fayed’s face. “You know how many pigs die every year? Their lives are on your conscience! Swine-eater! ”

“I kind of hate mustard,” Fayed said.

Quentin sat Pine down on the medsled. “Doc, get him out of here, now.” Doc led the sled off the field — Pine carefully watched the grass go by.

Quentin and Fayed walked back to the huddle. The team looked at Quentin with a new expression.

Like I’m the savior , he thought. They think I can pull this one out. The thing was, he thought he could pull it out. They’d spent a half-game of futility and had only seven points to show for it. Quentin knew he needed to get these guys some momentum, and he needed to do it quick.

“Okay, they’ve been blitzing all day. Let them come. We’re going quarterback draw on two, on two. Just give them a good fit and let them come on by.” The huddle seemed revived with electricity.

“Dive right to Fayed,” Hokor called in his ear-piece. Quentin nodded, then broke the huddle. Hokor’s plays would have to wait — he knew what his team needed. They needed a burst of excitement, not a methodical ground game.

Quentin surveyed the defense as he lined up behind center. He’d guessed right — they showed blitz all the way. Orbiting Death ran a 5–2, and both Quyth linebackers leaned forward on all-fours, weight on their arms.

“Red twenty-one! Red, twenty-one!” The linebackers leaned farther forward. Quentin waited a second to give the Ki linemen a chance to pick their targets.

“Hut!” The Death linemen and linebackers surged forward with a metal-plastic crash against their backpedaling offensive enemy. Quentin dropped back three steps, planted and sprang forward. The blitzing defense didn’t even have a chance to slow down before Quentin was past them, moving like a tall, strong wind. His first five steps took him ten yards downfield, leaving seven defenders behind him. The defensive backs reacted instantly, but the three-step drop had given Hawick and Scarborough a chance to move into blocking position. The two receivers danced with the safety and free safety that tried to avoid them — they weren’t good blocks by any means, but with Quentin’s speed they were more than enough for him to shoot past.

BLINK

Everything moved in slow motion. Quentin suddenly saw every last detail the field had to offer. The left cornerback came from his right side — she dove for his legs. Quentin planted and spun outside, a whirling blur, the cornerback grasping only empty air as he straightened and moved downfield. The right cornerback closed on him and he bounced outside. He saw everything , her raspers hanging out just a bit from her chin-plate, her flat-black uniform flapping slightly with each powerful thrust of her long legs. She moved in, reached out.

Quentin felt a blast of something primitive. His lip curled up of its own accord. He felt the strength of a supernova in his limbs. He switched the ball to his right hand and reached out with his left, grabbing the cornerback by the neck just as she tried to wrap around his waist. He squeezed and lifted — she was so light. Like a tribesman carrying a spear, he ran another five yards with her neck in his hand, her feet dangling uselessly, her eyestalks showing sudden pain and fear. He casually tossed her away as one might discard an apple core. She flew threw the air, landing heavily on her head, tumbling in a rolling heap.

He felt something grab at his back and try to pull him down. The extra weight slowed him, but only for a second, his legs pumped with the power of an entire universe. The weight fell away and he was once again free. He distantly heard the roaring booo of the crowd, a faraway noise that was none of his concern.

He crossed the goal line, and the world blinked back to real time with a rush of deafening sound. He tossed the ball to the floating Harrah ref, then knelt and plucked a few blades of black grass. He sniffed deeply — smelled like a sappy pine tree. Hawick and Scarborough arrived suddenly and leapt on him hard enough to knock him over.

“ Touchdown, Krakens, 62-yard run by Quentin Barnes ,” the loudspeaker blared amidst the crowd’s boo and the hiss of Quyth Workers scraping in derision. Quentin laughed and pushed aside Hawick and Scarborough. He stood, only to be knocked down again, this time by Fayed and Kobayasho.

“What an excellent run !” Fayed screamed at him, his facemask smashed against Quentin’s. “A much better use of energy than punching me in the face!”

Quentin managed to stand amidst friendly-but-hard slaps to his head and shoulder pads. He ran to the sidelines and was engulfed by teammates. They seemed energized as if they were up by four touchdowns instead of down 24–14.

“Barnes!” Hokor screamed in his headset. “What was that? I called a dive!”

“Sorry Coach,” Quentin said. “I thought you said QB draw.”

“You dirty, lying Human! Run the plays that I call!”

“Yes, Coach. Got ya.”

The long touchdown run was like the harbinger of doom for Orbiting Death. Two plays later, John Tweedy came free on a linebacker stunt and put the first really solid hit on his brother Ju. The ball popped free, wobbled on the ground, where Shayat the Thick smothered it. The Death had the lead, but something intangible had changed hands. After a pair of passes to Kobayasho, Fayed scored on a 15-yard run to cut the lead to 24–21.

In the fourth quarter, Quentin dissected the Death secondary as he knew Pine should have done, hitting Scarborough for two TD passes. Ju fumbled one more time, setting up the second TD strike to Scarborough, but the wrecking-ball running back couldn’t be completely stopped. He scored on a long 44-yard run that left John Tweedy on his rear and put Shayat on the sidelines for the rest of the game.

When the final gun sounded, Quentin had led the Krakens to a 35–31 win — 28 of those points coming in the second half.

THERE WAS A NOTICEABLE difference between a 1–2 locker room and a 4–2 locker room. Players laughed and joked and shouted. The Pioneers had lost again, were now 4–2, and still had two games to go without their star quarterback. The Glory Warpigs had soundly whipped the Woo Wallcrawlers 24-6 to move to 5–1 The Krakens were now only one game out of first had to go head-to-head with the ‘Pigs in Week 8.

A conference title was no longer a fantasy — they were three wins (their own) and one loss (by the Pioneers) away from winning the championship.

Every Human took their turn coming up to Quentin and giving their respects.

“You’re a stone-bred monster !” John Tweedy shouted, hugging Quentin with his powerful arms.

“ Huge comeback, kid!” Yitzhak said with a massive grin, tousling Quentin’s hair as if he were a little boy. Quentin pushed Yitzhak’s hand away, but laughed along with him.

Everyone wanted to congratulate him. Everyone, it seemed, except Donald Pine. Pine’s ham-sandwich fixated buzz had worn off just as the fourth quarter ended. He sat alone in front of his locker, still dressed in his soiled uniform, his head hanging in his hands. Quentin felt a pang of pity for the man, but he chased that thought away — Pine made his own bed, and if sleeping in it sucked, then that was the breaks. Quentin had kept his secret, and even that was more than Pine deserved. It didn’t matter, the Krakens were 4–2 and almost — almost — in control of their own destiny.