The MVP

10





Preseason Week Two: January 8 to January 14


THE LIGHT ABOVE the Touchback’s shuttle bay door switched from red to green. Internal bolts retracted, sending a small vibration through the floor. When the doors slid open, Quentin, John and Yassoud led the rest of the team into the shuttle bay.

John walked with his knees high and swung his arms in an exaggerated motion. He looked to the left, sniffed in a big, loud breath through his nose, then looked to the right and did the same.

“Hey, Q, you smell that?”

Uncle Johnny, busting out the same tired joke as last year and the year before that.

“I don’t know, John, would it be the odor of unwashed rookies?”

“Smells like rookie stank,” John said. “And this year, I get four rookies for my defense, while you, dear Hayseed, only get one player. I’m as happy as a fargle fish with two tongues.”

Yassoud nodded and smiled. “And Gredok didn’t pick up a rookie running back this year. Oh, happy days indeed.”

Yassoud Murphy was perpetually worried about his job, but Quentin didn’t think those concerns were valid. ’Soud was the second running back on the depth chart. He wasn’t anywhere near Ju Tweedy’s league when it came to carrying the ball, but ’Soud had proven to be a good blocker and could catch just about anything thrown his way. He’d solidified his place on the team as a third-down back, brought in mostly for passing situations. Ionath’s other running back, Jay Martinez, hadn’t shown enough ability in practice or in games to threaten Yassoud’s job.

The orange shuttle sat on the deck, little whirs of machinery and the clink-ping of cooling metal echoing through the bay. The thing looked a bit beat up — it hadn’t had a paint job in three seasons. There were even marks on the Krakens logo painted on the side. That same logo — a black “I” set inside an orange shield, three white, orange- and black-trimmed stylized tentacles spreading off to the right, three more spreading off to the left — was also painted on the 50-yard line of the Ionath Stadium field. No matter where Quentin saw that symbol, it filled his heart with pride.

The shuttle had come directly from the Combine, the league’s prison-station-turned-purity-testing-zone. There, rookies were examined for body modifications. If they tested clean, they were brought to their respective teams. If they didn’t test clean, they were often never heard from again.

The Krakens, fifty-one players who each represented some of the largest individuals their species had to offer, formed a half-circle around the shuttle. Before the shuttle’s side-ramp lowered, the internal landing bay doors again hissed opened. The two small forms of Gredok the Splithead and Hokor the Hookchest entered.

Quentin’s eyes narrowed. So, the lying, back-stabbing team owner finally showed his black-furred head? The rage and the hurt swelled up in Quentin’s chest, making his soul cry out for revenge. Gredok had hurt him, and now he wanted to hurt Gredok.

The worst part of the whole debacle was that Quentin had already wanted to be a Kraken for the rest of his career. Maybe if Gredok had just sat down and talked to Quentin, they could have worked together to build a franchise that would win multiple championships. But Gredok the Splithead didn’t talk; he manipulated. He intimidated. He coerced. He took what he wanted, the needs of others be damned.


Gredok and Hokor stopped near the shuttle door. The landing bay lights played off of the gangster’s jewelry, gleamed against his glossy, smooth, black fur. Hokor wore what he always wore: a tiny little Krakens team jacket and a tiny little Krakens ball cap.

Gredok faced the team. “Players,” he said, “we are here to welcome new members into the Krakens family.”

The words further flamed Quentin’s hatred. Had Gredok used the word family just to anger him? To rub it in Quentin’s face that Gredok had won and won big?

“This year we focused on signing defensive players,” Gredok said. “We will also be looking to free agency next week for more of the same. You may now meet your new teammates.”

Gredok and Hokor stepped aside. The shuttle’s door lowered from its bottom hinge, the entire side becoming a ramp that led down to the landing bay deck.

Two Sklorno bound down the ramp, squeaking and twittering in high-pitched excitement. They wore numbers 21 and 33.

“Aw, yeah,” John said. “Twenty-one is cornerback Niami. Thirty-three is Sandpoint, a free safety. They both played for the Venus Valkyries in the union   Conference.”

The other Krakens Sklorno players flocked around the newcomers. They sounded excited, even more excited than normal, which was pretty damn excited.

Yassoud stroked his braided beard. “The new girls any good?”

John shrugged. “They’re young, and they have a lot of potential. Word is Gredok had to pay a big bounty to Venus to get them both. Losing Stockbridge means we needed depth at corner, and we’re thin at free safety, but both Niami and Sandpoint are project players. They need a season of seasoning. Ha! That’s funny!”

Yassoud nodded. “By the way, either of you know what a Valkyrie is?”

I KNOW WORDS scrolled across John’s face. “They were these super-hot, crazy-mean ladies that rode horses with wings and stuff. They’d fight alongside the male warriors or something. They were magic and mega-killed people with swords. When the guy warrior got stabby-stabbed and died, the Valkyries would take the warrior to paradise.”

Yassoud laughed and shook his head. “Well, that certainly sounds like historical fact. You believe in that nonsense, John?”

“No way,” John said. “It’s religion. You know that made-up crap doesn’t make any sense. Anyone who believes in that stuff is a super-mega-idiot.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “I’m standing right here, John.”

John laughed and gave Yassoud a conspiratorial elbow. Yassoud gritted his teeth and tried to pretend it hadn’t hurt.

The next player out of the shuttle was a stocky Quyth Warrior, number 64.

John smiled and rubbed his hands together. “That’s my guy, right there. Pishor the Fang. Played three seasons for the Saturn Sky-Demons in the JNSV. Already has three kills to his credit.”

Quentin nodded. He’d heard about Pishor. The Warrior had started for the Tier Three Sky-Demons at just sixteen years old, a good two or three years ahead of most Warriors. There were concerns about Pishor’s speed and reaction time, but no one questioned his hitting power. Pishor would fill Killik the Unworthy’s role as backup left outside linebacker, playing behind first-stringer Virak the Mean.

A HeavyG came down next. His upper body looked big and solid, but his legs looked shorter than most of his kind. Quentin was shocked to see that the man had an infinity tattoo on his forehead.

“That’s defensive tackle Jason Procknow,” John said. “You should get along great with him, Q, he played for the Cooper City Priests in the PNFL.”

“He’s a HeavyG,” Quentin said. “How did he get confirmed in the Church?”

John shrugged. “Yeah, well, he was born there or something, so they made some kind of exception. If you want my guess, your holier-than-thou people just said he was a misshapen Human so they could get him on the field.”

Looking at Procknow’s massive upper body, Quentin could imagine some Holy Man from Cooper City finding a convenient interpretation of the scriptures that would allow the HeavyG to play on Purist Nation soil. Or maybe Procknow had been adopted by an upstanding family that paid enough bribes to have him declared Human despite his obvious ancestry.

Yassoud shook his head. “Hopefully he’s not a racist like Rick Warburg. No offense, Q, but other than you, every Nationalite I’ve met is a real jerk.”

John elbowed Quentin in the shoulder, then pointed to the last rookie — a Human walking down the ramp. “Offense! Offense! Gooooo, offense! Right, Q?”

Quentin sighed and rubbed his shoulder. “You know, John, you don’t have to hit me to show your enthusiasm.”

John puffed out his lower lip. “Awww, diddums get a boo-boo?” DOES IT HURT, SALLY? scrolled across his forehead.

The Human had wide shoulders and thick legs. If Quentin’s rough body shape could be considered rectangular, this guy was a square.

“Pete Marval,” Quentin said. “Fullback, three seasons with the Hallacha Hungries. He’ll play behind Becca and Kopor.”

Becca was an All-Pro fullback, among the best in the galaxy. Kopor had been a four-year starter before Becca joined the team; he was still a damn good player. It would be all Marval could do just to make the final fifty-three-player roster.

Just one new offensive player, and that one probably wouldn’t see any playing time. That was a testament to the Krakens’ offensive depth.

Three more weeks of preseason practice, then Quentin could unleash that offense against the Isis Ice Storm. He didn’t know how he could get revenge on Gredok, or when an opportunity might arise, but once the regular season began he’d have an outlet for his rage.

Too bad for you, Isis — because you’ll be the first of many.

Quentin joined the other Krakens in welcoming the rookies to the team.

? ? ?



QUENTIN STOOD IN THE MIDDLE of his apartment in the Krakens Building. His hands moved through the air to grab floating, holographic Xs and Os. The computer knew when he was pinching an image, which let him move it until he unpinched, leaving the symbol in the new place. The computer also recognized hand gestures like his pointer finger, which let him paint motion lines, or his pointer and middle finger together, which let him assign blocking schemes. He went through the playbook, formation after formation, play after play, analyzing his offensive talent to find the best solutions to hundreds of hypothetical situations — down-and-distance, substitutions for key injuries, two-minute drill personnel and more.

For almost every problem, he saw a straightforward solution. He wasn’t about to get cocky, but in his seven-year career he had never felt this confident.

He had all of his offensive starters back, sure, but it was more than that. They’d spent most of the off-season asleep. They practiced as if they’d taken no time off at all; the Krakens still had every bit of the team chemistry that had led them to the playoffs.

Conditioning was an issue, of course — you didn’t sleep for five months without it taking a toll — but everyone saw that they had a shot at the championship, and they worked their asses off in practice. When Ionath opened the regular season in two weeks, he knew his team would be in top shape.

His hands moved icons, drew lines and substituted players. There was always more prep, always something else he could do to anticipate problems. He had to be ready for anything. His teammates looked to him, counted on him to lead, and he would not let them down.


[RICK WARBURG AT YOUR DOOR.]

Quentin stopped moving symbols.

“Let him in.”

The door slid open. As usual, Warburg wore a too-tight T-shirt that showed off his thick muscles. This time, however, the T-shirt bore the infinity sign logo of the Buddha City Elite.

So, it was done. Manny Sayed and Stedmar Osborne had made their move.

“Nice shirt,” Quentin said. “Do you really need to wear that on the Touchback?”

Rick laughed. “If anyone doesn’t like it, too bad. I signed the deal, Quentin. I’m going home.”

Quentin felt a wash of mixed emotions. “Congrats, Rick. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure if I’m mad because you’re not staying or if I’m happy to see you go.”

Warburg shrugged. “We’ve had our differences.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Warburg stared for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “This isn’t easy for me, because I honestly do not like you, but I’m here to say thanks. The deal is more than I ever thought I would make. I’ll finish my career in my home system and retire a rich man. Mister Osborne told me what you said to him. You and I will never be friends, Quentin, but I’m happy that High One saw fit to let you see the light.”

Warburg couldn’t just be gracious. Of course not. Quentin didn’t do the right thing on his own, oh no, Warburg had to make this a holier-than-thou moment.

“I didn’t see the light,” Quentin said. “Not throwing you the ball was a bad decision on my part, so I corrected that. You’re a good player. You’ve worked really hard. When the team needed you to step up, you did. I just told the truth — High One had nothing to do with it.”

Rick shrugged again. “It’s too bad you can’t see the obvious. High One helps those that help themselves. You were the obstacle preventing my success. You think it’s coincidence that when I worked harder and prayed more that you started throwing me the ball? If you can’t see the hand of the All-Powerful at work, then maybe He’s not ready for you to see it yet.”

Oh, the endless, circular logic of the pious. No matter how Quentin presented this, in Warburg’s mind it could only be divine intervention.

“Well, anyway, congratulations,” Quentin said. “I hope you’re happy there.”

“I know I will be. I don’t know how Perth will like Buddha City, but cricket integration isn’t my problem, right?”

Quentin felt a sinking feeling in his stomach; Warburg was a number-two tight end, a hard loss but one that the Krakens could handle — Perth was one of Ionath’s starting defensive backs.

Warburg smiled, obviously enjoying Quentin’s sudden disappointment. “She was a free agent, just like me. Manny Sayed gave her a big contract. No way Gredok can match the offer, not with you and Blue Boy taking up so much of his salary cap.”

Just like that, the Krakens had lost their free safety. Quentin still had to get the details, but Warburg was probably dead-on about why Gredok wouldn’t be able to match the Elite’s offer. Quarterbacks earned more than any other position in football. Don Pine wasn’t the starter anymore, but he still had the contract given to him when he was. Add in Quentin’s recent deal, and that was a good chunk of Ionath’s salary cap. Having Don Pine as a backup gave the Krakens amazing insurance in case Quentin got hurt, but it came at a price — less money to sign other free agents.

“Quentin, everyone knows this is your team,” Warburg said. “And everyone knows you sabotaged that trade for Don Pine last season. I don’t know why you did that and I don’t care. What matters is you could have done the same thing to me. You didn’t. You let me go where I’m wanted. So for that, I’ll say it one last time — thanks.”

Rick extended his big hand.

Quentin remembered the first time he’d shaken Rick Warburg’s hand. Quentin had just stepped off the shuttle that brought him from the Combine. Rick had tried to help his countryman adjust to a new life. As Quentin gradually learned about the other races, learned to evaluate his teammates as individuals and not as “aliens,” that camaraderie evaporated.

Quentin had grown as a person. Rick never would.

In a perfect universe, Rick Warburg would not find true success until he let go of his racist ways — but the universe was far from perfect.

Quentin shook the offered hand.

“See you in Week Six,” he said. “We’ll try to go easy on you.”

Rick smiled an arrogant we’ll just see about that smile and walked out. The apartment door slid shut behind him.

Quentin stared after him for a moment, then turned back to his holodisplay. He wiped his hand left to right, clearing out the offensive set. He replaced it with the defense. That positive feeling had faded — while the offense returned all of its starters, the defense had now lost a nickelback and a starting free safety. The rookie defensive backs weren’t good enough yet; the fate of the season might very well hinge on signing free agents to fill those holes.

The Krakens would score points, there was no doubt about that, but would they be able to stop other teams from scoring more?