by Scott Sigler
Quentin jogged to the huddle. He moved to stand in front of it, briefly forgetting — for the tenth time that night — that it was no longer his place. He ran around to the back-center, standing behind Bud-O, Ju on his immediate right, Cheboygan past Ju, Crazy George on his immediate left, Tara the Freak past George. It had been the main formation of the game: Ionath’s strongest receivers and dominant tight end provided more blocking mass for the run game.
The front wasn’t his place anymore, because that’s where Becca stood.
She bled from a deep cut on her cheek. It didn’t ooze, it pumped, coursing red down her jaw, then pattering onto her already-soaked black jersey. Somewhere on this drive, a fist or a foot or a tentacle had broken her nose. The bone stuck out a little bit, red-smeared white. Becca looked like she’d been mugged, yet if she felt any pain, she didn’t show it; her eyes remained clear and focused.
“Third down,” she said. “We don’t get a touchdown here, we kick a field goal and tie it, but that leaves the door open for them to kick one of their own and win the game. If we want to be champions, we have to shove this ball right down their throats and score on this play.”
Quentin felt a small burst of energy, his soul willing his body to go on, driven by Becca’s words, her intensity. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in her.
“Listen up,” she said. “I-formation, wide-set, fake-dive-right, QB boot left.”
Quentin stood straight.
“No, they’ll see that coming. They—”
“Shut your mouth, Barnes,” Becca hissed. “My huddle, don’t ya know.”
“And my team. I’m the coach for this game, Montagne. I-formation, tight-set, pitch right.”
She shook her head. “No, we go with the boot.”
One play from a lead, and she was arguing with him?
“Montagne, just run the plays that I call!”
Her armored hand reached over Bud-O and grabbed Quentin’s facemask. She twisted it and yanked him forward so fast he had to put his hands on Bud-O’s back to keep from falling on top of him.
“My huddle,” she said. “Right now you’re my fullback, and my fullback shuts the hell up in my huddle, you got that?”
She shoved him back into place. Quentin stared at her, so stunned he didn’t know how to react.
Ju started laughing. “I’m glad I lived long enough to see that happen.”
Becca reached over the front row and slapped Ju’s helmet.
“Tweedy! You too. I will send your ass off and bring Yassoud in here to finish the job.”
Ju stopped laughing. He nodded.
“Sorry,” he said.
He wasn’t patronizing her, or placating her. He accepted that Becca was running the show.
She looked at Quentin. Quentin did the same thing his brother had just done: he nodded.
It’s her game now. Know your role.
Quentin bent slightly, put his hands on Bud-O’s back. He did that, and he listened.
“I-formation, wide-set, fake-dive-right, QB boot left,” Becca said. “Ju, I don’t have Quentin’s wheels, so I need to cut upfield just past the left end. You have to sell this fake — I need at least two linebackers to take you down so I don’t have all three of them chasing me from the backside.”
“Done,” Ju said.
“George, Cheboygan, Tara, you make those downfield blocks count,” Becca said. “I don’t want any of the D-backs crashing in.”
“Done,” George said.
“Done,” Tara said.
“Kill-cook-eat,” Cheboygan said. “Happy-happy-happyhappy happyhap—”
“Shut up,” Becca said.
Cheboygan did.
Becca looked at Quentin. “Q, anyone who’s left, you have to take them out — can you do this for me?”
He would: not because she was his girlfriend, but because she was his quarterback.
“Done,” he said.
She nodded.
“On three, on three ... ready?”
“Break!”
The walking wounded that were the Ionath Krakens stepped to the line. The walking wounded that were the Jupiter Jacks dug in. The Jacks were just as ready to give all they had — their lives, if necessary — as the Krakens were.
The linemen got in their positions. Becca stood behind Bud-O. Quentin bent, ignoring the pain that rolled all across his battered body, and leaned into his three-point stance.
He felt a hand on his shoulder pad, heard a voice close to his ear.
“Just make this one damn block,” Ju said. “Do that, and Ma will make us cookies.”
And then Ju was gone, a few yards behind Quentin, his hands on bent knees.
Becca called out the signals.
“Red, fifty-five,” she called down the left side of the line. “Red, fifty-fiiiiiive,” she called down the right side.
Quentin saw the defensive backs lined up tight on Starcher, Tara and Cheboygan: bump-and-run coverage.
He saw Katan the Beheader look at him, then Becca, then Ju, trying to figure out where the ball would go.
In that moment, Quentin knew it would come down to him and Katan.
“Hut-hut... hut!”
Quentin drove right, exhausted legs carrying him to the line where he bent low as if to drive into the pile, then scooted to the left. He didn’t need to see behind him to know that Becca extended the ball for Ju, who clamped his arms down on empty air for the run-fake.
Two of the three linebackers collapsed on Ju, hammering him at the line. His big arms stayed slammed shut on his imaginary ball, his massive legs kept pumping, and he screamed a guttural challenge at his foes.
Quentin ran past Kill-O-Yowet, the Krakens left tackle, who was trying to hold a block on HeavyG defensive end Tony Jones. Quentin looked for someone to hit, knowing Becca was close behind.
Katan the Beheader hadn’t bought the fake. He scraped to his right, Quentin’s left, keeping his shoulders parallel to the line of scrimmage. Katan was the only Jack coming. The rest of them were tied up.
Just one player to block ...
Tony Jones planted and roared: the massive rookie HeavyG got under Kill-O, actually lifted the 500-pound offensive tackle off the ground and tossed him to the side.
Two players to block ... no way Quentin could get them both ...
BLINK—
The lines of power flared to life. Two gold-, silver- and copper-clad beasts came at him, one from either side, looking to kill the quarterback behind him, but he was her protector and he would not let that happen.
Tony Jones barreled in on all fours from Quentin’s right, Katan the Beheader from Quentin’s left.
Tony’s hands shot out, a slow-motion attempt to grab Quentin under the shoulder pads, stand him up, block-destruct and toss him aside. Quentin turned sideways and drove in, sliding between the wide hands as he threw his armored right elbow forward — it smashed into Tony’s facemask, knocking the big head back.
Quentin felt and heard something in his right shoulder crack.
That was your collarbone ... you just broke your collarbone ...
The blow stood Tony up, made him stumble, his momentum thrown off by a hard shot to the face from a 380-pound fullback. Tony’s hands rose up, grabbed Quentin’s facemask just as Quentin planted his right foot and drove back to the left. Quentin’s head twisted and turned to the right but he kept going left, desperate to block Katan — the helmet ripped free, tearing at his face as it slid off.
Katan came in. Quentin threw his head and shoulders forward, leaning in hard for the hit. Katan did the same; a helmet smashed into Quentin’s right eye, knocking his head back and rattling his brain.
Something slammed into Quentin from behind, something solid and strong and violent, something that drove Quentin forward, bouncing his face off Katan’s helmet a second time. Quentin slid off Katan, fell forward, that weight from behind still on his shoulders. He hit the ground hard and had a moment — just a moment — to see that he was on white, not gre
en ...
... his face was on the goal line.
Another blow to the head, the hardest of all, sharp points driving his face into the painted, churned-up grass. Bodies crashed in. Something impossibly heavy landed on him, compressing him, making it impossible to draw a breath. Another impact, then another, so many bodies they blotted out the stadium lights.
Quentin lay there, in the darkness, and for a brief moment he felt no pain at all.
BLINK—
The crowd’s deafening roar rushed back, as did the piercing sound of zebe whistles, the yells and complaints and epithets of the players around and on top of him. He also felt the pain, all of it crashing over him like a tidal wave: his left arm, his right shoulder, his back, his head.
His right eye wouldn’t open. As bodies pushed off him, he looked forward with just his left, squinting ... in front of him, in the end zone, lay Becca Montagne, her body tucked tightly around the ball.
A zebe flew in, clean black and white stripes seeming to vibrate under the stadium lights. The zebe looked close at Becca, at the ball clutched tightly in her arms, then raised his mouth-flaps toward the sky.
Touchdown.
Live feed from
UBS GameDay holocast coverage
“Chick! I can’t believe it!”
“What a play by Barnes, Masara — he blocks the defensive end like some martial arts master, gets his helmet ripped off as he then moves just enough to slow down Katan the Beheader and takes a helmet in the face for his troubles. A bad block on Katan, but it made just enough room for Becca the Wrecka to bury her head in Barnes’ back and plow forward for the score.”
“And Chick! Look at this replay — Montagne would have been down short of the goal line if her last step hadn’t landed right on the back of Barnes’ head! The officials are reviewing the play, but we can see on our monitors her knee did not touch the ground before the ball crossed the plane.”
“That’s six points for sure, Masara. The official is signaling now ... yes, touchdown, Ionath! And a fifteen-yard facemask penalty on Tony Jones, to be assessed on the kickoff. Oh, my, they’re helping Barnes off the field as the extra point team comes on. My goodness, Masara, I didn’t know one Human could bleed that much! They’re setting up for the extra point ... it’s good! Ionath fourteen, Jupiter ten, three minutes to play.”
“And the stage is set, Chick. If you wanted drama, sports fans, drama you’ve got. My fur is standing on end. This stadium is shaking. Don Pine has been a fourth-quarter king in these playoffs. Can he rally his Jacks for a final touchdown? Can Don Pine do it one more time?”
A FOUR-POINT LEAD.
Fifty-eight seconds to play.
Jacks’ ball, second down, eight yards to go on the Krakens’ 45-yard line. Both teams had used all of their timeouts — and Jupiter needed a touchdown to win.
Ionath was so close, so close.
Quentin stood on the sidelines. Doc Patah hovered at his side, trying to patch the various cuts on his face and head.
He could still move his right arm, somewhat, but Doc had already informed him that, yes, the clavicle had cracked. It hurt. Everything hurt. But it was all worth it, even Becca stepping on his head — he didn’t know if that had given him another concussion, or if the hit from Katan had, and he didn’t care; he would worry about that later.
Fifty-eight seconds from a win. The Ionath defense looked exhausted. John and Pishor had played every defensive down in the second half. Sam Darkeye had played most of them, coming out only when the Krakens were in a nickel package — he, too, had reached his limit. Mum-O’s middle right arm hung limp. Ibrahim Khomeni had done something to his right leg and could barely walk, but he refused to come out of the game.
It would all come down to these last few seconds, all come down to which team wanted it more.
Don Pine broke the Jacks huddle. His metallic jersey hung from his armor, ripped in several places, the dirt-smeared left shoulder plate showing clear through. Quentin wanted to beat Pine again, wanted it more than anything he’d ever wanted before, but he had to give respect where respect was due — the old man wanted it just as bad.
The Jacks lined up with CJ Wellman as the single back. New Delhi lined up wide right, Beaverdam wide left.
Pine bent behind center. The home crowd quieted for their hero, just enough for his commanding bark to be heard up and down the line. Quentin saw Pine stand, shout something to his left, then to his right. He saw running back CJ Wellman take two steps to the right and one step forward, so he was flanking Pine’s right shoulder.
Pishor the Fang adjusted, moving slightly to his left so he still had an outside shade on Wellman.
Pine took the snap, dropped back five steps and planted. Mum-O drove in hard. John, Sam and Pishor dropped into coverage. Khomeni tried to spin inside the left tackle, but Pine shuffled to his left, out of the way, then stepped up and threw: it hit Beaverdam on a come-back route fifteen yards downfield. Bumberpuff was right on top of her, bringing Beaverdam down before she could get out of bounds.
First down on the Ionath 30-yard line, but the clock kept ticking.
Pine ran forward, urging his tired teammates to the line. The Krakens defenders scrambled into place, pushing their drained bodies to give them just one more play, just one last effort.
Quentin thought Pine might spike the ball, but the veteran called the play at the line. He took the snap and dropped back again. John Tweedy drove in on a blitz. Wellman threw a shoulder into John to slow him down, then ran through the line to curl up in the spot John had vacated.
John threw himself at Pine, who backpedaled and threw a weak, high pass to Wellman. The ball hung in the air. Pishor closed on Wellman from the left, Sam Darkeye from the right. The crowd saw the pending collision, swelled with a growing roar of anticipation. The running back pulled down the ball and hit the ground just as Pishor and Darkeye arrived. The linebackers missed landing devastating hits on Wellman, but they didn’t miss each other.
The crack of their helmets crashing together echoed through the packed stadium.
Both linebackers fell to the ground: Pishor, completely motionless, and Darkeye, rolling slightly. Neither of them got up.
Whistles blew: officials’ timeout. The clock stopped. Quentin stared at his two teammates, feeling his heart sink — 38 seconds to play, the Jacks on Ionath’s 23, and the Krakens were down to just one linebacker.
Doc Patah flew out onto the field, the medsled right behind him.
Quentin saw the Jacks huddling up. They were excited, energized. They knew they still had a chance.
“Q!”
He heard his named shouted. He looked down the sidelines, but all eyes were fixed on the field.
“Q!”
He looked the other way. Who was yelling his name?
Becca appeared at his side. “Q, John’s calling you.”
Quentin looked out onto the field. There was John, waving madly at him.
“Come on, Q, get in here!”
Quentin ran onto the field before he gave it a second thought, pulling his helmet onto his swollen, bloody head; John needed him — that was all that mattered.
Halfway out, it registered in Quentin’s thoughts that John played defense.
Why the hell does he want me out here NOW?
Quentin reached the huddle.
John grabbed Quentin’s facemask, yanked him in close.
“Ow, John, my collarbone is broken!”
“Never mind your collarbone and eat your broccoli,” John said, letting go of Quentin’s facemask. “You ready to be a real man and play some defense?”
“I can’t play defense! Get someone else!”
“No one else is left. I need size and I need speed, and you’ve got both. Just do exactly what I tell you to do, okay?”
For the first time in Quentin’s football career, he felt panic sweeping over him. He knew everything there was to know about the offense, but defense? He’d never even played a down of it. There had
to be someone left.
“John, look, you can’t—”
Whistles blew. Quentin saw the medsled carrying Pishor off the field, saw Darkeye face-up on the back of Shun-On-Won, who was acting like a living medsled, carrying the injured linebacker to the sidelines.
“Q, it’s too late,” John said. “I need you.”
The Jacks broke the huddle and spread out, lined up.
John was making a terrible mistake, but there wasn’t time to do anything about it. No timeouts: Quentin had to play along.
“What do you want me to do?”
John pointed at Don Pine. “See him?”
Quentin nodded.
“Go after him, as fast as you can,” John said. “If someone gets in your way, knock them over. You blitz, Quentin. Think you can handle that?”
Quentin nodded again, feeling foolish, feeling like he had to do right by John, that he’d do anything to not let John down.
“Good,” John said. He slapped Quentin’s helmet. “Go make a beautiful mess of things. I’ll handle the rest.”
The Jacks got into position. John screamed something at his fellow defenders. Quentin didn’t understand John’s call, didn’t know the defensive signals.
The place where Quentin felt most at home in the entire galaxy now seemed like an alien world. Where was he supposed to stand? Should he blitz on the snap or wait a second? Did he have to make sure it wasn’t a run?
John said go after Fine as fast as you can, just do that...
Pine bent behind center.
Quentin didn’t know where he was supposed to line up, so he ran to the left, stood just outside the shoulder of Alexsandar Michnik.
Pine started calling the signals, turning his head as he did — and stopped cold when he saw Quentin. It threw Pine off. The quarterback gave his head a quick shake, then started the count over.
Just make a mess of things, just make a mess of things ...
“Hut-hut!”
The lines crashed into each other. Quentin stood there for half a second, forgetting to run. Michnik powered in, giant arms flailing against the Jacks offensive tackle.
