The MVP

CJ WELLMAN TOOK THE PITCH from Don Pine and ran hard for the right sidelines, looking for a spot to turn it upheld.

Quentin watched Krakens linebacker Shayat the Thick rush in. Wellman met Shayat head to head and instantly spun away — the same move Quentin often used to break Quyth Warrior tackles. Shayat grabbed at Wellman’s jersey but slipped off and fell face-first into the freezing red-black mud.

He’d missed the tackle, but his effort had forced Wellman to cut back inside toward Cormorant Bumberpuff. The Prawatt came out of his pinwheel roll and ran forward on two legs, arms outstretched to catch Wellman. Wellman didn’t have time to make another move, so he lowered his head and plowed forward into Bumberpuff, who took the hit, wrapped the running back up and dragged him down.

Whistles blew. Wellman got up, but Bumberpuff did not. The Harrah refs looked at Bumberpuff’s limp form, then blew their whistles again to signify an injury timeout.

“Oh, dear,” Doc Patah said. “I am still not proficient in repairing that species.”

Doc’s wings fluttered. The Harrah shot out toward the fallen Kraken.

Quentin stood, testing his knee. It would have to do. He saw Vacaville run out onto the field — the much-maligned Sklorno cornerback now had to cover for the Prawatt starter.

The medsled carted Bumberpuff off the field.

Quentin watched the Jacks’ offense huddle up. Pine called the play. The Jacks ran to the line. Pine limped behind them, hitch-stepping along on his braced right leg. If Quentin were in Don’s shoes, he would go after Vacaville on the first play.

Come on, girl, time to step up and make a play.

Don lined up in the shotgun. He put a player in motion from right to left, leaving receiver Beaverdam alone just inside the right sideline — covered one on one by Vacaville.

The center long-snapped the ball to Don. The lines smashed into each other. Don stood tall as his receivers shot downfield. He turned right and pump-faked, and as he did Quentin’s heart sank — he knew what was about to happen.

Vacaville tried to jump the route, and Beaverdam shot down the sidelines.

Don fired a tight spiral that hit Beaverdam 20 yards downfield. Weasley pinwheeled over fast, but Beaverdam threw a wicked head-and-shoulders fake and cut inside. The move was enough to give her a step, and a step was all she needed — Beaverdam ran into the end zone with Weasley and Vacaville trailing behind.


Quentin set his helmet on the ground. He rubbed his face with both hands.

The Jacks’ kicker knocked home the extra point.

Jupiter 21, Ionath 13 with 8:24 left in the game.

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FIELD POSITION WAS ALWAYS the game within the game. The team that has to move the farthest usually loses. The Krakens had started every drive from inside their own 25-yard line — that meant when Ionath drove 30 or even 40 yards before they faced a fourth down, they still had to punt.

With 6:52 left in the game and the Krakens down by 8, Quentin and his offense ran off the field after yet another stalled drive. He’d gone 4-of-5 for 27 yards on that outing, and Yassoud had even broken off a solid 12-yard run, but on third-and-6 Denver had dropped a pass to bring up a fourth down.

On the way off the field, Quentin saw Vacaville running on. He waved at the Sklorno, calling her over.

“Yes, his holiness Quentinbarnes?”

Quentin grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her close.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Don Pine just beat you bad. He’s going to do the same thing and see if you fall for it again. Time to step up, Vacaville. No more mistakes, got it?”

He felt her quivering. He let her go. Her head nodded hard even while her eyestalks stayed level and focused on his.

“Yes, Godling! I will obey!”

Quentin got to the sidelines, then turned to watch. The Krakens punted. Jupiter’s returner waved for a fair catch.

The Jupiter offense ran onto the field. Don called the huddle, then lined up in the shotgun formation as the Jacks dug in for the play. Sure enough, a Jacks receiver again went in motion, again leaving Vacaville isolated in one-on-one coverage against Beaverdam.

Quentin’s chest felt like his heart had stopped — he’d been right, Don was calling the same play. He was going for the kill, trying to put his team up 28-13.

The ball flipped back as the lines clashed. Don caught it, held it near his right ear as he stood tall. John Tweedy broke through, spinning his way in. Don had to act fast. He pump-faked, then threw deep before John could get to him.

This time, Vacaville didn’t bite on the fake. She ran step for step with Beaverdam and had inside position — she was facing the ball, her back to Beaverdam, putting her between the receiver and the ball. Beaverdam tried to reach over Vacaville, but Vacaville hauled in the pass for the interception.

Both players tumbled to the ground. The line-judge ref blew his whistle and signaled Ionath’s ball.

The Krakens’ sideline erupted. For the first time that season, and at the most critical time possible, Vacaville had made a play.

Quentin and company ran out onto the field. As Vacaville ran off, Quentin stopped her.

“Great job!” he screamed in her face. “I give you blessings or whatever I’m supposed to do. Great job!”

Quentin pushed her away, then jogged to his forming huddle.

Krakens’ ball, first-and-10 on their own 17-yard line. Ionath had all of its timeouts and needed a touchdown and a two-point conversion to tie the game.

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“MASARA, BARNES IS DEADLY ACCURATE, but the Jacks are giving him the underneath routes. They’re protecting that lead by not giving up a deep pass. Even though the Krakens have converted on eight of their thirteen third-down conversion attempts, here they are again facing fourth down.”

“Yes, Chick, but this time they are on the Jupiter twenty-five. Arioch Morningstar is on the field to attempt his third field goal of the game, this one set up by the Vacaville interception. Chick, the Jacks will get the ball back with at least a five-point lead. Don Pine can barely move. Should Coach Amy Davis Roth bring in the backup to try and run out the clock?”

“Masara, if Don Pine had no legs at all, I’d still have him in the game. He’s never lost a Galaxy Bowl. He may be in the twilight of his career, but Jupiter’s late-season run deep into the playoffs has shown everyone why the man is a two-time league MVP.”

“Here’s the snap, the kick … and it’s good! Ionath has cut the lead to five points. Just four minutes to play, Chick. Ionath has all three timeouts left and the two-minute warning. They have to stop Jupiter, get the ball back and score a touchdown to win the GFL title.”

“Masara, it’s all up to John Tweedy and the Krakens’ defense. Can they make a stop and put the ball back in the hands of Quentin Barnes? We’ll find out, right after this message from Junkie Gin, the official gin of Galaxy Bowl Twenty-Seven.”

? ? ?



QUENTIN AND HIS OFFENSIVE TEAMMATES stood on the sidelines. They were all praying, even the ones who didn’t practice religion or believe in High One. They all watched John, Alexsandar, Mum-O, Virak, Ibrahim and the others dig in on third down, a last-ditch effort to stop Jupiter and get the ball back for the Ionath offense.

Jupiter had returned the kickoff back to their own 40. Don Pine threw for a quick 12 yards to pick up a first down. Pine then tried another pass, which Katzenbaum Weasley broke up, stopping the clock. On second down, New Delhi caught an out-pass and was forced out of bounds by Wahiawa — a major mistake by New Delhi, as she should have fallen down in-bounds to keep the clock ticking.

That brought up third-and-one on the Jupiter 39, 2:11 to play. If Jupiter gained that yard, if the Jacks got the first down, the game was all but over.

Jupiter lined up in a power set: two tight ends, a fullback and a tailback. They weren’t even bothering to hide it — they were going to pick up that yard on the ground. The Krakens’ D packed in tight, the linemen down low, Virak the Mean, John Tweedy and Shayat the Thick standing in the gaps. Even the defensive backs came up close, Vacaville, Davenport, Weasley and Wahiawa hovering just off the line of scrimmage.

This was as smash-mouth as football got: one yard to determine who was tougher.

Don barked out the count and took the snap. He turned and handed the ball to Wellman. Out of all the defensive stars on the Krakens, it was a backup linebacker that made the stop — Shayat the Thick slipped through the blockers and hit Wellman in the backfield. Wellman spun off, but the damage was done as Mum-O and John Tweedy brought him down for a three-yard loss.

Fourth down, four yards to go.

The clock ticked down to the two-minute warning. Whistles blew. The wind whipping snow all around him, Quentin held his breath as he watched the Jupiter sidelines and waited.

Coach Roth had to make a decision — punt or attempt a 59-yard field goal. Jupiter led 21-17. If they hit the long field goal, they’d be up by seven with two minutes to play. But if they attempted and missed that field goal, the Krakens would have the ball on their own 42-yard line and need to drive just 58 yards in those same two minutes. If the Jacks punted, Ionath would have to drive 80 or even 90 yards for the winning touchdown.

The two-minute warning timeout ended. The Jacks’ punt team ran onto the field. That was the smart choice — with the crappy field conditions and the wind, Coach Roth didn’t trust her kicker to make that long field goal.

Quentin forced himself to breathe normally. If he could lead his team to a touchdown, one little, measly touchdown, the Ionath Krakens would take the GFL title.

? ? ?



THE POCKET COLLAPSED around him. Quentin tried to scramble right, but blitzing linebacker Katan the Beheader hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around. Quentin stumbled, trying to keep his feet — he pushed out with his right hand, palm hitting hard against Katan’s facemask, then righted himself only to see the Ki defensive tackle Kal-Gah-Het already extending, his huge body shooting forward like a missile.


Quentin rocked back. The hard hit hammered him, but that pain felt insignificant compared to the sudden agony that raged through his right hand. Two big bodies drove him into the ground, frozen crests of mud jabbing into his ribs like dull knives.

Whistles blew. Quentin relaxed his left hand and let the ball roll away. He felt one of the bodies push down as whoever it was got off of him. Quentin tried to pull back his right hand, but he’d barely moved before the pain raged up his arm and locked him still.

Quentin looked up to see Katan the Beheader’s black eyes staring down at him — Quentin’s pinkie had slipped through the bars of Katan’s facemask, then twisted and broken during the tackle. The pinkie bent at an obscene angle. A little bit of bone stuck out through the skin between the first and second knuckles. Blood dripped down onto torn white turf and the red-black ice. Katan’s pedipalp hands gently removed Quentin’s ruined finger, but even the smallest touch rippled with shearing agony.

His pinkie, broken. Agonizing pain blazed from his hand up to his elbow and beyond. It didn’t matter, he had to stay in the game … he had to lead his team to the win.

Quentin started to rise when big hands pressed on his chest and held him down.

“Sit still,” Michael Kimberlin said. “Doc Patah is on his way out.”

“Get off me, Mike. Huddle up.”

Kimberlin shook his head. “No, Quentin, look at your hand.”

Quentin pushed Mike away and stood, his left hand clutching his ravaged right to his chest. And then Doc Patah was there.

“Young Quentin, come with me.”

“No! I can’t go out now!”

“You have to,” Patah said. “The officials called an injury timeout. Since you are the player injured, you must leave the field for at least one play.”

Doc was right, that was the rule. Quentin started walking off the field and saw Yitzhak running on.

Quentin stopped and turned back to Kimberlin.

“Michael,” he said. “Get Becca.”

Kimberlin jogged to the huddle. Yitzhak stopped in front of Quentin, his white face alive with excitement.

“Don’t worry, Q,” he said. “I can do this.”

Quentin shook his head. “No, you can’t.”

Yitzhak looked confused, then more so when a battered Becca jogged over.

She looked like she’d been through a war. A cut under her left eye bled profusely. Her swollen lower left lip puffed out in a perpetual pout. Blood and frozen mud streaked her torn jersey. She’d cracked her helmet in two places, and her left forearm guard dangled from a broken strap.

“You wanted me, Q?”

Quentin nodded. “You’re in at quarterback.”

The eyes of both Yitzhak and Becca widened, but for different reasons.

“No way,” Yitzhak said. “Look at her, she’s beat to hell! She’s been in the whole game, she’s taken too many hits.”

Quentin again shook his head. “You’re out. Becca’s in.”

Yitzhak pointed a finger at Quentin’s face. “I’ve been on this team for five years, practicing this offense for five years. This is my chance! I’ve been on the sidelines the whole game, I have fresh legs — you’re picking a beat-up fullback over me?”

“Becca gives us the best chance to win,” Quentin said. “Sorry, Zak, but get off the field.”

Yitzhak’s face screwed into a scowl of hate, of humiliation. He turned and ran back to the sideline.

Quentin’s eye piece popped down.

“Barnes!” Hokor screamed. “What’s going on? Why is Goldman coming out?”

“Becca’s at QB, Coach,” Quentin said. “Send out Kopor the Climber to take her place at fullback.”

Hokor started to talk, but Quentin tapped his helmet to shut of the heads-up display. He turned to Becca.

She nodded. “I won’t let you down. I can win this.”

“Maybe, but you won’t get the chance,” he said. “I’m coming back in. Just don’t turn the ball over.”

Even as Quentin ran off the field, Patah’s mouth-flaps pulled at his right wrist.

Quentin let the Harrah take the hand as they headed for a medbench. Quentin looked up at the holoscreen high above the field. One minute, thirteen seconds to play. The Krakens had all three timeouts.

Quentin sat. “Doc, get me back in the game.”

Doc said nothing. Quentin took his first good, long look at the wound.

The pinkie seemed like it was barely attached. Blood pooled up around a shard of bone sticking out of his skin. He wouldn’t be able to take a snap, wouldn’t be able to hold the football with both hands.

Coach Hokor rushed up, eye swirling green. “How is it? Can he play?”

Quentin started to say of course, but Doc Patah spoke first.

“Young Quentin is finished for the day.”

Quentin felt numbness in his soul. Fourth quarter of the Galaxy Bowl, his team down 21-16. Up on the big screen, Becca handed off to Yassoud, who slammed the ball forward for three yards. Second-and-seven. The clock kept ticking.

Hokor looked from the hand to Doc. His softball-sized eye flooded black. “Fix it,” the coach said. “You fix that hand, or I’ll see you flayed. Get Barnes back in the game.”

Doc Patah ignored the little coach, spoke directly to Quentin instead.

“You need to come to the training room right now,” Doc said. “I have to operate immediately if I am going to save your finger.”

Late in the fourth quarter, his team down by five, and he’d leave the game to save a pinkie? A pinkie that wasn’t even on his throwing hand?

No.

“Don’t save it,” Quentin said.

Out on the field, Becca took the snap and rolled right. The Jacks closed in on her, but she lowered her head and ran a linebacker over, then stumbled forward for a six-yard gain.

Hokor looked at the game clock — 0:48 to play.

“Timeout!” he screamed, then ran toward the field. “Timeout!”

Whistles blew. The Krakens had a third-and-one, two timeouts left, ball on their own 45.

Doc Patah released the hand, floated up until his sensory pits were at eye-level.

“Quentin, what do you mean, don’t save it?”

“Every little bump hurts so bad it shuts me down. I can’t have it dangling there. I have to get back in the game. So, cut it off”

Doc Patah said nothing. The sensory pits stared back, seemingly emotionless.

Quentin did not look away. It wasn’t a battle of wills as much as it was an understanding, an unspoken pact that any sacrifice was worth a title. Patah had been a ringside doctor for heavyweight fighters — he knew better than anyone how far an athlete would go to become a champion.

The Harrah fluttered over to a rack and opened a drawer. He reached in and pulled out a small, metal device. He fluttered back and slid the device around Quentin’s broken pinkie.

“Quentin, you do realize this is permanent. You can’t regrow it. You understand that once it’s gone, it’s gone?”

Quentin looked up at the holoboard above the end zone. It showed Becca lining up behind Bud-O-Shwek, ready to take the snap. The dirty, bloody, metallic Jupiter players dug in for the stop. Becca called out the signals, her breath billowing with each syllable. The wind picked up, forcing her to scream even louder just to be heard.

She was a phenomenal fullback, an All-Pro last year, one of the best in the game. But lined up behind center, barking out the signals, Rebecca Montagne looked like she belonged.


She took the snap, dropped back three steps, then turned and gunned a pass five yards downfield to George Starcher. Crazy George caught it and turned toward the sidelines, trying to get out of bounds to stop the clock, but the Jacks brought him down well in-bounds.

Whistles blew as Hokor used another timeout. Forty-two seconds to play, fifty yards to go, and the Krakens had only one timeout left.

Quentin looked at Doc. “I understand. Do it.”

“I’ll have to cut it, clamp it and then cauterize it to stop the bleeding. The nanomeds won’t have enough time to seal the skin. Do you want anesthesia?”

Quentin shook his head. “Nothing that will dull my reactions. Get it over with.”

Doc Patah hit a button; the device made a whirring, metallic sound.

“Try to hold still,” Doc said.

Quentin closed his eyes.

? ? ?



“AND MONTAGNE SCRAMBLES out of bounds for a four-yard gain. Chick, it’s second-and-six on the Jupiter forty-five. Is this it for Ionath? Their All-Pro running back is out, their quarterback is out, and their starting fullback is in at quarterback. One timeout remains, thirty-six seconds to go. Can Becca The Wrecka pull off the win?”

“It looks doubtful, Masara. Jupiter got here because they have the best defense in the league. If they kept Barnes out of the end zone, I don’t think Montagne can do any better.”

“Any chance that Barnes will come back in?”

“Zero chance, Masara. Did you see that hand? It looked like the aftermath of a Sklorno male being run over by a wheel truck. We’re talking squish!”

“Chick! That’s not an appropriate thing to —”

“Sorry, Masara, sorry, folks at home, I just … what’s this? The crowd is going crazy.”

“Chick! Quentin Barnes is coming onto the field!”

“I don’t believe it, Masara. How can he play with that hand? Can we get a close-up of his right hand?”

“Chick, I see that hand is heavily bandaged with nanocyte tape there, but something doesn’t look right about it.”

“Well, slap my bare behind and christen me a follower of High One, Masara, it looks like Quentin Barnes had his right pinkie cut off to get back into the game.”

“Cut off? Amazing! But how will he take a snap?”

“He’ll have to go from the shotgun formation. Wow! Listen to this crowd! Quentin Barnes must be carved from solidified testosterone, Masara!”

“Chick, calm down! Your elbows are flying all over the place!”

“Sorry, Masara, I’m just so pumped up! Kopor the Climber is running off the field, Montagne is staying in at fullback. The Krakens are huddling up. This is the stuff of living legends, Masara. A field goal won’t cut it. Ionath needs a touchdown to win the Galaxy Bowl. Can Nine-Fingers Barnes actually pull this off?”

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