Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“Spread right, twenty-two post,” Hokor said. “Look for Kobayasho’s out-cut. Don’t go deep, Quentin, we need to hold onto the ball and play for field position.”

Quentin watched his team gather in the huddle. He looked back at the Warpigs, who were gathering in their own huddle.

Was Keluang limping ? Was she hurt?

Quentin’s mind raced. If she was hurt, he had to go after her. He called the play and the Krakens lined up for the snap. Twenty-two post held a couple of options — Hawick on a deep post down the left side, Kobayasho on an out-cut, and Scarborough on a flag right, which would put her head-to-head against Keluang, deep down the field.

“Bluuuueeee, sixteen, hut-hut!”

Quentin dropped back, ball held high, eyes watching the entire field at once.

BLINK

The receivers sprinted downfield in that weird real-time slowmotion dance. He saw Kobayasho cut out to the right, where he already had a step on the linebackers. Hawick was covered like stink on a skunk. Quentin planted and stepped up — at fifteen yards, Scarborough broke right on her flag cut, a half-step ahead of Keluang.

Quentin fired the ball on a rope. The brown missile streaked through the air at eighty miles an hour, so fast that Keluang never had a chance at it. Scarborough turned back, the ball hit her in the chest so hard it knocked her over. She slid out of bounds twenty yards downfield.

First-and-10 on the Krakens’ 42. Three minutes to play in the half.

Keluang turned and ran back to her huddle. She was limping, just a bit. Her stats flashed through his head: four-year veteran, played two seasons of Tier Three ball with the New Orleans Saints of the Earth League. She’d clocked a 3.1 forty in full pads, while Scarborough’s best was 3.2. She could also jump twenty-two feet into the air. And, she’d missed two games last season with a fissured left lower leg.

The same leg she seemed to be favoring now.

“Nice pass,” Hokor said in his earpiece. “Now back to the ground-attack. Basic package, sweep left.”

Quentin looked to the sidelines. Hokor stood there, clipboard in hand. Pine stood next to him, helmet under his arm like a picture off of a Wheaties box. “But Coach, Keluang looks hurt, let’s go after her.”

“Keluang looks hurt?” Hokor said. He turned to Pine, who viciously shook his head no.

“Stick to the ground,” Hokor said, turning back to look onto the field. “Pine says Keluang is faking it.”

“ Faking it?”

“Just run the plays that I call, Barnes!”

Quentin jogged back to the huddle, his eye on the play clock. He had to get this play off in fifteen seconds or suffer a delay-of-game penalty.

Faking? What defensive back would fake an injury and allow a twenty-yard pass? She wasn’t faking , she was hurt.

“Okay, kiddies,” Quentin said to his huddle. “Let’s get this play off quick. Y-set, roll out left, double post. Scarborough, does Keluang seem slow to you?”

“Yes,” Scarborough said. “Not as fast as before.”

“Then you bust your little rear end downfield, got it? We’re going to take the wind out of their sails right now.”

Quentin broke the huddle and sauntered up behind center. A quick ba-da-bap on the center’s carapace.

“Red, twelve, red, twelve, hut-hut!”

The trenches clashed as Quentin, a lefty, dropped back and rolled out to his left, eyes constantly scanning downfield. Hawick looked open for a second, but the free safety came over to help out the right cornerback, taking away that option. Fayed ran a five-yard out pattern, staying in front of Quentin, while Tom Pareless shuffled to his left, looking to block the first defender that broke through the offensive line. The right defensive end slipped past Kill-O-Yowet’s block, then Pareless undercut the multi-legged Ki with a nasty head-first dive. The Ki crumbled clumsily to the ground, leaving Quentin completely free of pressure.

Scarborough was already forty yards downfield.

And Keluang was a full-step behind.

Quentin launched the ball, a deep, arcing, perfect spiral.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered as the ball started its descent.

Suddenly, Keluang’s small limp vanished. Her legs moved perfectly as she strode downfield, her eyes turned back to the ball.

“No,” Quentin whispered as the ball continued downward.

Keluang and Scarborough simultaneously leapt upwards, but Keluang leapt higher.

She picked the ball out of the air. The two Sklorno fell to the ground, just as Quentin dropped to his knees.

“Crap-crap-crap- crap! ” He screamed, leaning forward until his helmet touched the ground. “Crap-crap- crapcrap! ”

“Barnes!” Hokor screamed in his earpiece. “Get your worthless face off my field now! ”

Quentin stood, ignoring the crowd’s boos as he ran off the field. He didn’t bother stopping to talk to Hokor, he just ran to the bench and sat.

He wasn’t going anywhere else for the rest of the game, and he knew it.

Pine jogged over and sat next to him. “Q, you’ve got to stop going for the home-run on every play!”

“Go somewhere else and die,” Quentin hissed as he pulled off his helmet. He wanted to blame Pine, blame anyone, for that matter. Wounded duck ploy, and he’d fell for it hook, line and sinker.

“I warned you,” Pine said. “But as usual, you don’t listen.”

“Scarborough couldn’t catch a ball if I shoved it right down her throat.”

“No you don’t ,” Pine said. “Don’t go blaming her. You threw to a covered receiver, against a defender that has four interceptions this season.”

“Six,” Quentin said morosely. “That was her second of the day.”

“Right, six. I told you all week you can’t play home-run ball against the Warpigs, so don’t you dare blame your teammate for your mistake.”

“Didn’t I tell you to go somewhere else?” Quentin said, turning and snarling at his friend.

“No,” Pine said with a smile. “You told me to go somewhere else and die. Big difference.”

Quentin wanted to knock those smiling teeth into a little pile on the ground. Pine started laughing, and Quentin wanted to tear his head right from his shoulders.

“Take it easy, Q,” Pine said. “You’ve bailed me out enough this season, let me bail you out this time.”

“Oh sure,” Quentin said. “Like you can just go in there and tear up their secondary!”

Pine nodded. “Just watch me. You’re playing their game. Now I’m going to make them play mine.”

THE WARPIGS MANAGED to add insult to injury by marching downfield for a touchdown before the half, making the score 2114. That made Quentin’s stats perfect — three interceptions, all three resulting in touchdowns. Crap-crap-crap.

His mind hunted for someone to blame, but this time the blame fell on only one being.

Himself.

It was his second start in a row, his fourth start of the season. He’d had starter’s reps in practice for two full weeks. He couldn’t blame lack of practice time. He couldn’t blame poor coaching — for crying out loud, he’d been warned right before the play that took him out of the game.

No one to blame but himself. It was a new feeling, and one he didn’t like at all. Not one bit. It occurred to him, suddenly and savagely, that for most of his problems he’d really had no one to blame but himself all along.

IN THE SECOND HALF, Pine wasted no time. He opened up with an entire series of X-set, which put four wide receivers on the field. The Warpigs started out in woman-to-woman, which left the slower free safety covering either Mezquitic or the blindingly fast rookie Denver. Pine showed his repaired legs were as good as new, rolling out to escape inside blitzes and giving Denver more time to make long crossing routes where her superior speed gained her a couple of steps.