The Starter (18 page)

Coach Hokor’s upper left pedipalp gestured to the open chair next to Don. Quentin sat.

“Barnes,” Hokor said, “we have an opportunity. The regular season starts in just over a week, and we have shortcomings. We have a chance to improve those shortcomings, but we wanted to talk to you about it first.”

Quentin looked around the room, quickly taking in each face. The first face was the clear, one-eyed, cold stare of Gredok. Nothing to read there, but Quentin knew that Gredok was reading him. Quentin took a quick, deep breath and forced himself to be calm. If Gredok wasn’t going to show emotion, Quentin wouldn’t either.

Coach Hokor’s eye swirled with a touch of green — the color of stress, sometimes anxiety. His fur seemed a bit more fluffed than usual.

Finally, Quentin looked at Pine. Pine looked... sad? Corners of his mouth turned down, just a bit, eyes soft.

Quentin looked back to Hokor. “Okay, Coach. What’s this opportunity?”

“We have a major issue at right guard,” Hokor said. “Would you agree?”

Were they going to buy a free-agent right guard? Maybe an All-Pro? Quentin fought to keep himself calm. A high-level right guard would solidify the offensive line, give him time to throw.

“Yes, Coach. I would agree.”

“Put yourself in my position,” Hokor said. “If you were me, what would you do about Shun-On-Won?”

Quentin thought for a moment. Two weeks into practice, and Shun-On hadn’t shown significant improvement. He just wasn’t good enough. There was no way around it. Sad for the rookie, but that’s the way it was. Still, Quentin was the team leader, and if someone had to make a tough decision that benefited the franchise, he would be the one to do it.

“Shun-On is a liability,” Quentin said. “But we have Aka-Na-Tak coming back in week four.”

“Week
four
,” Gredok said quietly. “We could be oh-and-three by then. Winless. In last place.”

Quentin shook his head. “Not gonna happen, Gredok. We’ll win at least one, maybe two.”

Quentin automatically looked at Pine for confirmation. Don just raised his eyebrows, then dropped them back down again. An unreadable reaction.

“Barnes,” Hokor said, “we have a trade offer for Michael Kimberlin, right guard from the Jupiter Jacks.”

Michael Kimberlin? Quentin’s eyes flashed to the holotank showing the player dressed in silver, gold, and copper. Kimberlin. An All-Pro, a veteran and one of the few non-Ki offensive linemen in the GFL. While the HeavyG was probably in the final few years of his career, there was no question that Kimberlin could instantly solve the Krakens’ offensive line problem. Probably solve it permanently — when Aka-Na-Tak came back from injury, he wouldn’t have a starting job waiting for him.

This should have been good news, exciting news, but Quentin sensed a coldness in the room. Nothing from Gredok, of course, but Hokor seemed bothered, and Quentin picked up even more of that sadness from Pine.

“Kimberlin,” Quentin said, knowing he had to ask the next question, knowing he would hate the answer. “Who do the Jacks want for him?”

“They need receivers,” Hokor said. “Scarborough and Denver.”

Quentin just stared. That was a ridiculous offer. “Scarborough is my top receiver. And Denver, she’s... she’s our future.”

Quentin almost bit his tongue after he’d spoken her name. He had been about to say
she’s my friend
. That was his first thought. An alien, one of the Satanic races... his
friend
.

“It’s a good offer,” Hokor said. “Both teams prosper. The Jacks have a second-year right guard. They think he’s going to give them ten seasons. That means they can afford to deal Kimberlin.”

“But we can’t afford to deal Scarborough,” Quentin said. “Like I said, she’s my top receiver.”

“Was,” Gredok said. “Hawick is our top receiver now.”

Quentin felt his anger welling up. He fought to control it.

“Gredok, you know Hawick had that year because of double-coverage on Scarborough. Okay, sure,
now
Hawick is our number-one, but we can’t win without Scarborough.”

Don leaned forward. “You sure about that, Q?”

“Yes I’m sure.”

“What about next year?” Hokor said. “Scarborough is getting old. This could be her final season of high production. Do we want to pass up a player like Kimberlin, who will give us three, maybe even four seasons, to hold onto a receiver whose best years have passed her by?”

“Then what about Denver?” Quentin said. “She’s in her
second
year. She’s the fastest receiver we’ve got. She’s only going to get better in seasons to come.”

“Seasons to come,” Gredok said. “Such an interesting phrase. Tell me, Barnes, how much benefit is that to the franchise if those
seasons to come
are back in Tier Two?”

Quentin shook his head. “We’re
not
going back. No way. I won’t let it happen.”

Don reached out his hand as if he was going to touch Quentin’s shoulder, but he stopped himself and put the hand back on his knee.

“It
can
happen, Q,” Don said. “It can, and if our offensive line can’t protect you, it
will
.”

Quentin felt his face getting hotter, redder. Were these jerks serious? Denver had played her heart out. The team adored her. Quentin had to control his anger, talk reason here.

“So we trade our number two and our number four receivers,” he said. “And we get a right guard that that will only last a few years?”

“Long enough to find a better one,” Gredok said. “I am developing the best scouting agency in the galaxy. All we need to do is stay in Tier One for this season and I can give you a team of all-star talent.”

Quentin stood before he even knew he was doing it. “We
have
a team with all-star talent. We are
not
going down to Tier Two! I object to this trade.”

Coach Hokor’s black-striped yellow fur fluffed out, then settled back down. “That’s why we called you here, Barnes. Normally, we’d pull the trigger on a trade of this caliber, but these are two of your top receivers. The decision is yours.”

The words stunned him. “It’s...
my
decision?”

Don nodded. “I told them they needed your take, Q. You’re the guy who has to deal with a weak offensive line. It’s great to throw to Denver and Scarborough if you have time to throw, which you won’t, at least not until Aka-Na-Tak comes off injured reserve.”

“But he comes back in Week Four.”

“Quentin,
think
,” Don said slowly. “This is Tier One. This is the promised land of football. Every... game...
matters
. A season is only twelve games. Lose the first three, and it could already be too late. And you’re forgetting something else here.”

“Yeah? Am I,
Pine?
What am I
forgetting?
”

Don leaned back. Now he was the one trying to control his patience. “Aka-Na-Tak is a second-string player to begin with. How good do you think he is? When he comes back, is he good enough to protect you?”

Quentin stared at Don, stared and blinked. Quentin hadn’t thought of that. Aka-Na-Tak
was
a second-stringer. He was better than Shun-On-Won, sure, but how
much
better?

As usual, Don Pine, the veteran, the two-time Tier One Champion, the former league MVP, was thinking several moves ahead.

Quentin sat back down and let out a slow breath. “Okay, Don. I’m listening. You tell me — if it was you, what would your call be?”

That sad look on Don’s face again. “It sucks, but I’d make the trade. You can’t win if you spend half the game looking for your teeth.”

The office fell silent. They were waiting for him to decide. The future of two receivers hung on his decision. No, the future of two receivers, an All-Pro lineman, and an entire
franchise
. His other teammates. All those people in the administrative offices.

But most importantly, the future of Denver. She’d been on that landing deck with Quentin back on the
Combine
. They’d been rookies together, fighting to take the Krakens into Tier One. She worshiped Quentin — literally,
worshiped
him. If they made the trade, if
he
made the trade, what would that do to her?

“No,” Quentin said finally. “Scarborough is too valuable. And Denver has just too much up-side. We can’t make this trade.”

Coach Hokor leaned forward, yellow-furred pedipalp hands pressed against the black desktop. “Are you
sure
, Barnes? When you are lying on your back after your fifth or sixth sack of each game, will you be
sure
then?”

Quentin nodded. He’d taken beatings before. He’d just have to keep taking them for a little while. He could win with the offensive line he had. He knew he could.

“I’m sure,” Quentin said. “I promise you, we will not go oh-and-three.”

“We’d better not,” Gredok said. “All I can say is that if we leave this decision up to you, and we go winless for the first three games, then the result is on
you
, Barnes. Not on Hokor, on
you
.”

There was no way around it. His coach, his mentor, his owner, they all wanted to make this trade. If passing on it was the wrong call, they might never again trust him to make the smart decision.

But smart or not, he knew he’d made the
right
decision.

Quentin stood. “Is there anything else, Coach?”

“No,” Hokor said. “You may go.”

Quentin left the control room and headed for his quarters. He’d made the right decision, sure, but if they didn’t win, did the right decision even matter?

• • •

TWO DAYS AFTER
the stressful trade discussion, Quentin, Yitzhak Goldman, Virak the Mean and Choto the Bright walked down the corridor toward the
Touchback’s
landing bay. Manny Sayed had flown in to discuss Quentin’s endorsement for Manny’s luxury yacht company. Gredok wouldn’t let Krakens players return planet-side, not with the season so close and potential bombers possibly lurking in Ionath City.

Yitzhak came along to counsel Quentin, while Virak and Choto were there for security. As far as Gredok was concerned, everyone was a threat — including a fat, old, one-legged, Purist Nation businessman. The two Quyth Warriors walked in front, each wearing a gun strapped on his right side just below the head. It was interesting to see how fast Virak’s and Choto’s demeanor changed, from on-field bad-ass football player to intimidating, cold-eyed, gangland enforcer. They had much more experience as the latter, and it showed.

“Q,” Yitzhak said. “You limping?”

Quentin shook his head and tried to walk straighter, but his leg hurt like crazy. When he didn’t focus on each step, he did limp. In practice earlier that day, Quentin had felt pressure and scrambled for yards instead of taking a sack. He’d dodged Aleksander Michnik’s huge HeavyG arms, only to be leveled by Mum-O-Killowe. Coach Hokor was furious with both Quentin, for not sliding, and Mum-O, for hitting a starting quarterback. Quentin had thought his days of running laps as punishment ended when he became the starting QB — he’d been wrong.

“You’ve got to stop insulting Mum-O-Killowe,” Yitzhak said. “I don’t get that. Why are you making him so mad? He’s going to kill you on the practice field.”

“We have to figure out what’s up at right guard,” Quentin said. “If I make Mum-O mad, then he comes at me as hard as he can, just like he would in a game. We need to know if Shun-On can really block for me. If he can’t, we’re going to have to try someone else at right guard. Maybe Cay-Oh-Kiware can step up.”

Yitzhak shrugged. “If he can make the switch from left guard to right guard, sure. We should try that Zer-Eh-Detak kid. I know he’s only eighteen, but that’s the biggest damn sentient I’ve ever seen. Regardless, Quentin, your little science experiment won’t matter if you miss the first game because you’re digesting inside Mum-O’s belly. And it’s not just our right guard you have to worry about — Vu-Ko-Will has to block Ryan Nossek. Kind of sucks to be you, Q.”

Quentin had been thinking a lot about Nossek, the Isis Ice Storm’s All-Pro defensive end. Vu-Ko, the Krakens right tackle, would have to defend against that gigantic HeavyG. Nossek had led Tier One in sacks last season. He’d also killed four sentients in his career. Many considered him the best defensive end in football. Quentin would square off against him in just eight more days.

“Just promise me something,” Yitzhak said. “
Please
tell me that when we play the Ice Storm you’re going to
slide
and stop taking head-on hits if you scramble?”

“If I don’t have blocking, I have to run. I can’t slide every play, Zak. I have to make things happen out there.”

Virak the Mean stopped and turned. “The Quyth have a saying, Quentin.”

“Which is?”

“It’s hard to make things happen when you don’t have a head.”

“That’s not really a Quyth saying, is it?”

“Close enough,” Virak said, then he continued down the corridor.

Quentin followed and said nothing. He knew Yitzhak, Hokor, and even Virak were right. He had to start treating his body like a precious resource. But every slide felt like an admission of weakness. He’d never slid in the PNFL. Of course, back then he’d been bigger than almost everyone else on the field. He wasn’t in the PNFL anymore.

They reached the landing bay and boarded the orange-and-black shuttle. They waited for the airlock to cycle, then the catapult hurled the shuttle out. It would be a short trip — Manny’s luxury yacht was also in orbit, only a click away.

As the shuttle approached, Quentin took in the yacht’s long, flowing, curved lines. It possessed a sleekness that the
Touchback
did not. The Krakens team ship was an old military vessel, built for efficiency, for combat. The yacht, which was maybe a tenth the length of the
Touchback
, was built for comfort, built for looks. It seemed more a work of art than a functioning vessel. The yacht’s glossy, orange hull reflected the stars and the approaching shuttle’s running lights. Long, swooping black lines trimmed with white ran the length of the yacht’s hull.