The MVP

WIND SCREAMED IN, moving the snow horizontally more than vertically. The stadium lights turned each flake into a fast-moving spark of white flame.

Quentin stood in front of the huddle. His right hand felt like he wore a glove of molten metal. In a lifetime of pain, he’d never known anything that hurt so much.

His teammates, his friends, his fellow Krakens, they all looked at his hand, then at his eyes. They knew what he’d done to get back on the field. At that moment, he could have ordered them to fly a ship into the sun, and they would have pushed the thrusters to full speed ahead.

They weren’t much better off than he was. Sho-Do-Thikit’s lower left arm hung uselessly. One of Halawa’s three eyestalks quivered and waved, spasming beyond her ability to control it. Blood poured down from Michael Kimberlin’s chin, soaking his orange jersey and staining the white trim around his black numbers and letters. Yassoud Murphy smiled wide, showing off his bloody mouth and newly missing front teeth. Kill-O-Yowet had tucked his middle right leg up on his back — it was hurting so bad he didn’t even want it to touch the rock-hard, frozen ground.

The Ionath Krakens were the walking wounded. Leading them was a quarterback with nine fingers.

He locked eyes with Denver. Ever since their rookie season, they’d shared a connection, a kind of telepathy that went beyond even the instinctual communication he had with his other receivers. All four of her eyes stared at him, unblinking, sending a clear message — throw me the ball, and I will not fail you.

Quentin nodded at her, then spoke to his huddle. “Our defense gave us a chance. No field goal this time. Forty-five yards in thirty-six seconds. We need to save that last timeout, so pay attention to our down and distance — if they’re going to stop you, get out of bounds no matter what it takes. Forty-five yards — that’s all that stands between you and your destiny. Now, does anyone need to sit out a play so Doc Patah can patch up your ouchies?”

His teammates actually laughed.

He looked at Rebecca. Her eyes blazed with pride for her quarterback. She didn’t get to be the hero, and she didn’t care — all she wanted was the win.

“Okay,” Quentin said. “Every formation is shotgun from here on out. Pro-set, spread left, X-slant, Y-streak, Z-hook, A-wheel. Becca, stay home and don’t let them touch me, you got it?”

She nodded. “I’ll die first.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Quentin said. “Krakens, no matter what we get on that first play, the second play is no-huddle, pro-set screen right. Line up fast so we catch them sleeping. First play on two, on two, second play on first sound. Ready?”

“BREAK!”

Bruised, damaged and ignoring their exhaustion, the energized Krakens ran up to the line as if it was the first play of the game. Orange-clad linemen got into their stances. Halawa lined up wide right, Tara the Freak in the left slot and Denver wide left. Quentin stood six yards behind center, Becca on his left, Yassoud on his right.

The stage was set for a storybook ending, but Jupiter wasn’t about to roll over and play the victim. The copper-jerseyed Jacks looked just as beat up as their Ionath counterparts. If the Jupiter defenders made the stop, they would be champions.

Quentin tucked his bandaged right hand against his belly. He stretched his left hand out in front of him. First things first: he had to focus on catching the snap one-handed.

“Blue, fifty-five! Bluuue, fifty-five! Hut-hut!”

Bud-O-Shwek flipped the ball back. Quentin tracked it, caught it with his big left hand. He started looking at his receivers even as his hand pinned the ball against his stomach, turned it until his fingers found the laces.

He counted through his receivers — Halawa on a slant from right to the middle of the field: covered; Tara on a streak: covered; Denver sprinting out: Jacks cornerback Morelia running with her stride for stride — Quentin stepped up and threw as hard as he could.

Denver planted and turned. Morelia turned with her, displaying absolutely perfect coverage, but the ball was already there — Denver hauled it in. Morelia wrapped her up, tried to drag her down. Denver’s folded legs pumped as she fought her way out of bounds for an 11-yard gain that stopped the clock.

Thirty seconds to play.

First-and-10 on the Jupiter 34.

The Krakens’ players scrambled, scuttled and sprinted to the line. The Jacks’ players screamed at each other, trying to line up as quickly as they could. Just like the last play, Quentin stood six yards back, Becca on his left, ’Soud on his right.

He waited only long enough for his linemen to settle in.


“Hut!”

The ball flipped his way — a bad, wobbly snap. Quentin grabbed at it but couldn’t hold it. The ball bounced up, spinning madly. As it dropped back down, he cupped his left hand under it and pulled it into his belly. His fingers searched for the laces. He sensed pressure coming from the right — Xuchang on a corner blitz, a blur of copper and gold. Yassoud was running out to the right, waiting for the screen pass. Quentin tried to lift the ball and throw, but it again slipped in his grip, and as it did he knew he was dead.

Xuchang drove in, but she didn’t reach him — Becca stepped in front of Quentin and leveled the blitzing cornerback.

Quentin heard the ohhhh of the capacity crowd as his fingers again found the canvas laces and he again lifted the ball to his ear. The Jacks’ defensive linemen poured in. Quentin threw it to Yassoud just as the linemen smashed Quentin into the brick-hard field.

Agony tore through Quentin’s right hand, but he used it to lift a Ki leg blocking his view. Yassoud was heading upfield, the sideline on his right side, Kimberlin and right tackle Vu-Ko-Will out in front of him. Jacks defenders slammed into the blockers. Yassoud ran toward the sidelines but cut left inside of Kimberlin’s block to pick up an extra six yards before being brought down just past mid-field.

Why didn’t you run out of bounds?

“Timeout!” Quentin screamed, pushing hard at the Ki so he could stand. “Timeout!”

Whistles blew, stopping the clock with 20 seconds to play. Quentin looked to the scoreboard: first-and-10 on the Jacks 23-yard line.

The Krakens huddled up. Yassoud ran to the back of the huddle, hanging his head — he knew his split-second reaction to go for more yards had forced his team to use its last timeout. Quentin wanted to hit him, to grab him and throw him off the field, but that wouldn’t do any good. Instead, he reached over the front row of Ki and slapped ’Soud’s helmet.

“Eyes up,” Quentin said. “We got the first down, we can still win it, so eyes up and get your head in the game.”

Becca pointed at Quentin’s right hand. “You need to go out for a play?”

He looked at the hand. The nanocyte bandage was gone, left somewhere on the torn-up white turf. Doc Patah had burned the wound shut, but that, too, had ripped open — blood streamed down to the field. Too much blood, too fast: he’d get dizzy, but there was no time for another fix.

Quentin turned to look at the enemy. He saw the Jacks players talking to each other, pointing at his hand, nodding.

If I was them, I’d think I can’t take another hit... they won’t be looking for the one-handed, bleeding quarterback to run the ball. They also won’t expect me to go up the middle, not with so little time left.

Hokor’s face appeared in his heads-up helmet display.

“Barnes! Let’s go screen left to Becca and protect that hand.”

“Sure thing,” Quentin said, then immediately tapped his helmet to turn off the heads-up. He leaned in over his huddle.

“Time to catch them off-guard,” he said. “Listen close. Second play is a no-huddle, line up immediately and we’ll throw the corner fade to Denver, but first we’re going pro-set shotgun, quarterback draw.”

Becca shook her head. “Quentin, no! Your hand—”

“Shut your mouth, Montagne! One more sound from you and you’re out!”

She stared at him hard, then ground her teeth and looked down.

Quentin again scanned the faces of his teammates. “Both plays are on first sound, first sound,” he said. “Ready?”

“BREAK!”

The Krakens ran to the line. Denver spread out to the right, George Starcher settled in at right tight end. Halawa lined up wide left.

Instead of keeping his right hand at his belly, this time Quentin put it behind his back — he couldn’t risk getting his blood on the ball and making it slick.

The icy wind chilled his face. He watched the Jacks line up: four defensive linemen, two linebackers in the middle.

“Hut!”

The ball flipped back. Quentin caught it with his left hand, fingers naturally landing on the laces. He stood tall and started checking through his receivers. He felt his linemen letting the defensive tackles come in, but pushing them to the right or the left, opening up the middle of the field. Becca ran left, Yassoud ran right, and the linebackers covering them went with.

Quentin tucked the ball tight and shot forward, armored boots hitting hard on the field’s frozen mud. He ran between Bud-O and Kimberlin and past the line of scrimmage. He cut inside Kal-Gah-Het, who couldn’t get around Vu-Ko-Will’s block. Linebacker Katan the Beheader reached out for the tackle. Quentin stutter-stepped then cut left. The linebacker tried to plant and match the move, but his forward momentum made him slide across the snowy field — his hand slapped at Quentin’s stomach, then slid away.

Quentin saw the orange end zone and angled for the left corner. So close! Morelia and Luxembourg moved in on him, blocking his path to the promised land. Quentin lowered his head, intent on dragging both of them into the end zone, but the backs were too smart for that — Morelia undercut him while Luxembourg took him high, dragging him down. Quentin turned to land on his left shoulder, protecting both the ball and his right hand. When he hit, his helmet slammed against the ice-hard ground.

The world spun, varying shades of black whizzing behind closed eyelids.

Then, hands pulling him to his feet. Becca’s voice in his ear: “Quentin! Get up! Come on!”

She half helped, half carried him to the line. His feet barely seemed to work. He pressed his wounded hand to his belly, somehow aware that if the refs stopped the game because he was bleeding all over the place, he’d have to go to the sidelines for at least one play.

Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, moved him, then stopped him in place.

He felt hot breath coming through his helmet’s ear-hole. “Stay still,” Rebecca said.

He was aware of a screaming crowd, a howling wind and the guttural shout of Becca “The Wrecka” Montagne calling out a snap-count.

Quentin opened his eyes. The offensive linemen were in their stances, ready for the play. Becca was lined up as quarterback, right behind Bud-O-Shwek. Before Quentin could react, she took the snap and spiked the ball against the ground, stopping the clock.

Wake up, wake up NOW, or this is all over.

Head throbbing, hand on fire, Quentin looked up at the score-board: second–and-goal on the Jupiter 4-yard line, 12 seconds left in the game.

He turned toward the huddle to see Becca staring at him, pointing urgently to the sideline.

“Quentin,” she said, “just get off the shucking field!”

He shook his head. It was only pain. He could ignore it just a little bit longer.

Quentin looked at the play clock — they had 17 seconds to get the next play off, or they’d be flagged for delay of game, a 5-yard penalty.

He stumbled to the huddle. As he did, Coach Hokor appeared in his heads-up display.

“Barnes! If you can’t function, get off the field! Are you sure you can do this?”

Quentin fought back the pain enough to force a fake smile.

“Just give me the ball, Coach.”

Hokor started to call a play, but Quentin reached inside his helmet, grabbed the display, snapped it off and tossed it away.

One play left, maybe two: he would make the call, and win or lose the results would be on him.

Quentin grabbed Halawa and pushed her toward the sidelines. He looked there, saw Tara the Freak and waved inward, calling him onto the field. Milford sprinted off while Tara sprinted on.


He stood in front of his huddle. His receivers: Denver, George Starcher, Tara the Freak. Becca Montagne and Yassoud could also run pass routes, carry the ball or stay home to block. The offensive line waited for his commands, ready to leave everything on the frozen tundra. They would not let him down, and he, in turn, would lead them home.

The pain in his body, his head, his hand — it didn’t vanish, but it ceased to matter. He could hurt later.

The crowd’s roar grew so loud it drowned out the howling wind. In a nighttime blizzard on an alien planet, with an entire galaxy watching, Quentin Barnes would make his mark.

“Pro-set shotgun,” Quentin said. “X-out, Y-hook, Z-fade, A and B both wheel. Get to the line fast. It’s too loud here, so we go on my foot motion. Ready?”

“BREAK!”

The disciplined Krakens sprinted to their positions. Quentin stood six yards behind Bud-O. Everyone was in place with four seconds still to go on the play clock.

Second down and goal from the four. Twelve seconds left in the game.

The play he had called sent all of his receivers and running backs on pass patterns, which meant there would be no one left to pick up a blitz. A gamble, but at the same time, the Jacks had to cover five players — someone was bound to get open.

Quentin lifted his right foot high, then returned it to the ground. Bud-O waited one more second, then flipped the ball back.

As the ball ripped through the air, Quentin felt a stabbing, shooting pain in his right hand, making him wince — it was enough to throw off his focus. The ball hit his left hand and dropped to the frozen ground.

Even as he reached for it, he felt something coming from his right. Quentin reacted on instinct, throwing his body on top of the ball just as Xuchang dove for it. She’d come on a corner blitz, so fast he’d never had a chance. She ripped at his hands with both her tentacles and her raspers, cutting grooves into his armor, but he pulled the ball to his belly and tucked his knees up around it.

Whistles blew.

Quentin jumped to his feet and looked to the scoreboard: eight seconds and counting.

No timeouts.

“Get on the line! Move!”

It was third down. He could spike the ball to stop the clock and still have one final play, but if he couldn’t hold the snap … he pointed at Becca.

“Becca, spike it!”

She ran behind Bud-O as Quentin moved to her normal fullback spot. Becca took a quick look to make sure everyone was set, then took the snap and threw the ball down at the field.

Whistles blew.

Quentin looked up at the clock: fourth down and goal from the 11-yard line, one second left in the game.

“Huddle up!”

? ? ?



“CHICK, THIS IS AMAZING! It all comes down to the final play of the Galaxy Bowl. What drama!”

“You can say that again, Masara. Fourth down, no timeouts, this will be the last play.”

“Chick, why doesn’t Barnes go out of the game? He can barely take a snap!”

“Masara, if the Krakens lose this game, that’s a question that will be asked for decades. I saw Hokor trying to wave Barnes off the field, but Barnes is ignoring him. On this final play, Barnes could become the first Purist Nation quarterback ever to lead a Tier One team to the GFL title — even if someone shot him in the head, he’d probably scoop up his brains, stuff them back in and stay in the game.”

“Listen to this crowd, Chick! The supporters of both squads are going insane. Such noise!”

? ? ?



QUENTIN TOOK A DEEP BREATH, then let it out slow. His entire life boiled down to this, to one, single play that would end in either glory or failure.

His subconscious counted off the seconds of the play clock. He had plenty of time to focus, plenty of time to really connect with his teammates, to look each one in the eye.

Denver, Quentin’s first cross-species friend, the one he’d brought home to Ionath.

Yassoud, who had learned to play for the team instead of worrying about himself.

Crazy George Starcher, who had faced down his personal demons to become one of the best tight ends in the game.

Tara the Freak, a mutant outcast who had found a family with the Krakens.

Michael Kimberlin, the former Jupiter Jack, the brilliant, patient tutor who also fought like an animal from whistle to whistle.

Kill-O-Yowet, the dominant left tackle, the sentient that protected Quentin from the best defensive ends the galaxy had to offer.

Sho-Do-Thikit, the dauntless rock of a left guard, the leader of all of Ionath’s Ki players.

Bud-O-Shwek, his ageless, stalwart center, and Vu-Ko-Will, his incredibly strong right tackle.

Quentin’s eyes finally drifted to the middle of his huddle’s second row, to Rebecca Montagne. Dirt and blood — both Human red and Ki black — smeared her face, coated her orange jersey so thickly he could barely read her number 38.

BLINK —

Time stopped, as it often did on the field, but never during a huddle. All noise vanished. Everything vanished, save for Becca. Her wide eyes blazed with fire and life. Her nose flared as she took in deep breaths. She was in the moment, fully aware of what was on the line and — like Quentin — ready to do whatever it took to get the victory.

Becca, who had been his ever-reliable teammate for two seasons.

Becca, who played every down like it was her last.

Becca, who had fought by his side at Chucky Chong’s diner on OS1.

Becca, who had played so well in the Prawatt’s Game, bravely going toe to toe with what were then unknown, monstrous aliens.

Becca, who had walked with him on the Prawatt homeworld, who had been with him when he met a living god.

Becca, the All-Pro.

They had fought together. They had bled together. They had won together.

Becca is a Valkyrie. She is MY Valkyrie.

For the first time, the truth he’d denied for so long hit home, hit so hard it made him shiver.

He was in love with Becca Montagne.

He was in love with his best friend’s girl.

She smiled at him, showing blood-streaked teeth. “This play ain’t gonna call itself, Q.”

BLINK —

The roar of the crowd again filled his ears. He looked at her one more time, took in her smile and the lust for life that blazed from her eyes. He smiled back at her.

Quentin Barnes stood tall. He had to yell to be heard over the crowd’s scream, and yell he did.

“Krakens, it’s time to make history. We are on a collision course with a GFL title, and the only variable is one second of time.”

Eyes widened, lips curled into sneers, heads nodded. Quentin banged his left fist against his chest armor, bam-bam-bam.

“This play is for Stockbridge. This play is for Aka-Na-Tak. This play is for Killik the Unworthy. This play is for Mitchell Fayed. Our brothers and sister died to help get us here. You have one play, this play, to show that they didn’t die in vain.”

He felt the huddle’s energy, a battery charged to full and then beyond capacity until it crackled and glowed.

“One play to take what is ours. Pro-set shotgun. X-fade —” that would line Denver wide right, send her in at a slant to shake the defender, then angle her to the end zone’s back right corner for a high pass.

“— Y-skinny-post —” that would put Crazy George on the line as the right tight end. He’d come straight off the line, then look back inside to his left, waiting for an almost instant pass from Quentin.

“— Z-slant-cross —” Tara the Freak would line up wide left. On the snap, Tara would slant in to the right, looking for an instant pass. If it wasn’t there, he’d cross the middle of the field just a step past the goal line, waiting to see if Quentin threw his way.


“— A-wing-left, block and out —” Yassoud would line up a step behind and a step to the right of left tackle Kill-O-Yowet. ’Soud’s job was to put a hard shoulder into the defensive end, then go five yards deep into the end zone and cut left toward the sidelines.

Quentin didn’t call “B,” the letter assigned to fullback Becca. By not giving her a route, he was telling her to stay home and block. With everything on the line, he wanted his Valkyrie by his side to protect him.

“On my second motion, second motion. Ready?”

“BREAK!”

BLINK —

The crowd noise again vanished. Quentin welcomed the silence, his old friend.

He stood six yards back from the line and stared out at the Jacks’ defenders. They were lined up in a five-man front: three defensive tackles and two defensive ends. Two linebackers stood behind them, up close to the line, showing blitz. Would they come in hard or drop back into pass protection?

On the far left, Xuchang lined up one on one against Denver.

On the far right, Morelia lined up close to Tara, a bit inside of the Quyth Warrior to cut off the quick slant pass.

At left wing, the safety Matidi lined up in front of Yassoud, and on the right side of the line, free safety Luxembourg was covering Crazy George.

On the final play of the game, the Jacks were going with one- on-one coverage, betting on their league-best defensive secondary to cover the Krakens’ talented receivers. Quentin suddenly wished he’d gone with Yassoud in the backfield for a play-action pass, but he couldn’t risk an audible that would be drowned out by the crowd.

In a bitter bit of irony, Quentin had no choice but to run the play that he’d called.

He looked to his right, to Becca. She met his gaze. He pointed left, to the Jacks’ defensive end, then pointed to the ground.

Becca nodded. She faced forward. So did Quentin.

“Red, sixteen!” he called. He couldn’t hear the words, couldn’t hear anything, but the billowing, white cone of his frozen breath marked his shouts. “Red, sixteeeeen!”

One last play to show that they didn’t die in vain.

A memory of Mitchell Fayed’s face.

This one is for you, Machine.

Quentin lifted his right foot and put it back down.

The Jacks’ left tackle rocked forward, but rocked back just as quick, avoiding the off-sides penalty. Quentin had hoped the tackle would jump, moving the ball half the distance to the goal line, but the Jacks were too disciplined.

And away … we … go.

He raised his right foot again. It seemed to take forever for his foot to return to the ground.

Bud-O-Shwek snapped the ball. It came at Quentin, a perfect, slow-motion spiral. He saw the laces, clean and white, spinning along with the ball’s rotation. He saw them, moved his left hand up, caught the ball one-handed with the laces perfectly positioned beneath his fingers. He felt their texture, felt the ball’s cool, pebbly leather against his palm.

He stepped back with his left foot, putting him into a throwing position: right foot forward, right shoulder pointed toward the end zone.

In front of him, the lines collided in a dreamy, final fight for victory. The multiple feet of Kill-O, Sho-Do and Bud-O slid backward across the frozen mud, driven by the Jacks’ assault. Kimberlin stepped forward, got under his defender’s four arms and drove the Ki down to the ground. Vu-Ko slid backward and fell, instantly overpowered by the Jacks’ left defensive end, HeavyG Tony Jones.

Jones pounded in on all fours. Becca rushed forward to block the oncoming copper-clad monster. Quentin ran left, parallel to the line and away from Jones — if Becca couldn’t stop the defensive end, Quentin had to get as far away from him as possible.

As Quentin moved he looked for options. The patterns of Denver and George had taken them toward the right side of the field — as fast as Quentin was moving left, they were already too far away to be a factor unless they broke off their routes and came back toward the middle of the end zone.

That left Quentin with two targets: Yassoud Murphy and Tara the Freak. Quentin ran hard left. Katan the Beheader kept pace, tucked into a ball and rolling along the goal line, paralleling Quentin’s path — he was “ghosting” Quentin in case Quentin stepped up and tried to run it in.

Tara was slanting toward the middle of the end zone. He raised his pedipalp hand to say I’m open, but Morelia was right behind him — Quentin couldn’t risk that throw.

Quentin saw Yassoud running left along the back of the end zone. ’Soud also had his hand raised, but the Sklorno safety Matidi was a half-step behind him, trying to bait Quentin into throwing a ball so she could step in front of Yassoud and pick it off.

Quentin had no choice — he had to run for the end zone’s front corner, he had to out-run the Beheader.

In the end zone, Tara suddenly planted, then tucked and rolled left, coming back toward the goal line, toward Quentin. Morelia planted to change direction and stay with him, but she slid, her skidding feet kicking up small waves of snow.

Katan the Beheader saw Quentin angling for the end zone. The Warrior popped out of his roll and sprinted forward to meet Quentin at the line of scrimmage.

Too fast! Quentin knew he couldn’t reach the end zone — if he tried, the Warrior would push him out of bounds, ending the game. Quentin planted hard and tried to cut inside, but — just like Morelia — his feet slid across snowy turf.

He started to fall.

Katan rushed forward, lowering his head for a hit that would finish the game.

Feet sliding left, body falling right, Quentin ran out of options — he gunned an awkward, desperation pass toward the front left corner of the end zone, hoping Tara could get there in time.

The Beheader’s shoulder slammed into Quentin’s facemask. The back of Quentin’s head bounced off the frozen ground. He saw his helmet rolling away across the field, felt the cold attack his sweaty scalp.

The impact bounced him up enough for him to reach out with his left hand, press it against the ground, holding him up enough to watch the game’s final moment.

Morelia’s speed let her catch up with Tara.

But the pass was low and dropping fast.

Tara dove toward the end zone’s front-left corner, to where the ball would land. His long, mutated pedipalp arms stretched out, hands close together and fingers splayed wide. Morelia dove as well, reaching her tentacles down in front of Tara in an attempt to knock the ball away. Quentin saw a black- and white-striped official flying close by, matching their speed.

The wobbling ball started to drop. Just two inches above the turf, it crossed the goal line. The backs of Tara’s pedipalp hands hit the ground and slid through the snow, which in that spot was strangely untouched and pristine. The ball dropped into his palms. His long fingers squeezed down just as Morelia landed on top of him, her tentacles and raspers pulling at the ball.

Together, the two players slid, their bodies kicking up arcing plumes of white that sparkled in the stadium lights. Morelia’s raspers tore at Tara’s hands, tearing skin and making black blood fly.

BLINK —

The two players slid out of the end zone’s sideline and right into a line of photographers, sending bodies and equipment flying in all directions. The crowd’s overwhelming rage and anticipation made Quentin wince.

Had Tara held onto the ball?

Floating cameras angled in from all directions. Strobes flashed and spotlights pointed, illuminating the downed photographers, Morelia, the Harrah ref and Tara, who during the slide had rolled to his back.


His bloody hands were still stretched out above his head. And between those hands, three inches off the ground …

... the football.

He hadn’t dropped it.

The Harrah ref hovered over Morelia and Tara for one last second, then blew his whistle and lifted his mouth-flaps up into the air.

Touchdown.

Quentin screamed, a single note of joy that encompassed everything he was. He struggled to rise on legs that didn’t want to obey. He pushed himself up and ran toward his receiver.

Morelia sagged and rolled off of Tara. The Sklorno fell to the ground, motionless, defeated. She had done everything that could be done, but Tara’s will had been stronger.

Tara sat up just as Quentin tackled him, leveling the Quyth Warrior and knocking the ball free. Quentin hugged Tara tight, screamed in his face.

“Tara! You did it! We won we won we won the Galaxy Bowl!”

The Warrior’s eye flooded red-violet, as if he couldn’t believe he had made the game-winning catch. His mutated pedipalps twitched and vibrated in laughing joy. Quentin tried to lift Tara up, but they were leveled by a quickly growing pile of Ionath Krakens.

Quentin’s teammates, his screaming, yelling, joyous teammates, piled into the end zone.

They were the champions of the galaxy.

? ? ?



THE KRAKENS SCREAMED. They shouted. They pushed and hugged each other. They clacked arms against their chests. They jumped, sang, ran and laughed. Orange and black confetti filled the air. The Quyth Concordia national anthem blared from the Shipyard’s sound system.

Everything seemed to go by in a blur. One second Quentin was in a pile of his celebrating teammates, the next he was shaking hands with Jacks players (he couldn’t seem to find Don — that was bothersome, but not surprising, as his childhood hero had revealed his true colors long ago), the next he and his teammates were running around the field, reaching up to high-five the Ionath fans who hung over the retaining wall, desperate to touch their victorious soldiers.

Camera flashes strobed, spotlights tracked him every step of the way. Reporters reached microphones up to his face, but he didn’t hear half of the questions and didn’t bother to answer the others. He touched as many fans as he could. The Krakens faithful were beside themselves with joy — Humans smiling and laughing, fully covered Sklorno females jumping and doing flips, Ki barking congratulations, flying Harrah doing barrel rolls, the eyes of Quyth Workers, Warriors and Leaders alike all showing the yellow-orange of utter happiness and joy. For the first time since joining the Krakens, Quentin realized something shocking — the Orange and the Black didn’t just bind the players together as one tribe, it also bound the fans. Maybe tomorrow the races could go back to hating each other, but for this single, pure moment, every species melded into one, giant family.

A tug on his arm. Messal the Efficient, shoving a T-shirt and a hat into his hands. Quentin held up the hat, looked at it — a holo-image waved across the front, an image that read IONATH KRAKENS: GALAXY BOWL XXVII CHAMPIONS.

He threw his head back and howled at the night sky. He laughed as he put the hat on, then bounced on his toes, jumping up and down in place. His Sklorno teammates swarmed in, wrapping their tentacles around him and jumping in time.

Another tug on his arm. Quentin again looked down to Messal.

“Elder Barnes, you’re wanted on the podium for the trophy ceremony.”

Messal pointed. A wide platform was floating down to midfield. People were already on that platform, including the diminutive form of Commissioner Froese.

Messal tugged on his arm again. “Elder Barnes, please — we will be late!”

Quentin reached down and picked up Messal. He tucked the Worker under his good arm, then turned to his teammates.

“Krakens! Let’s go get our hardware!”

Messal kicked and struggled. “Elder Barnes, put me down!”

Quentin ran toward the podium, fake-stiff-arming with his ravaged right hand as he pretended Messal was his football.

? ? ?



QUENTIN BARNES WAS THE CENTER of the galaxy.

He no longer felt pain in his hand. He’d finally let Doc take care of that with a few shots — Quentin had needed a clear head for the game, but now the game was over.

He stood on the stage. His excited teammates packed in around him, as did Coach Hokor, Messal the Efficient and Gredok the Splithead. The wind and snow had finally slowed to almost nothing, but now orange and black confetti rained down, landing on the field, sticking to hair and fur and filthy uniforms.

Rob Froese stood on a pedestal, putting him almost at eye level with Quentin. On that pedestal, the golden football, the GFL Championship Trophy. Standing next to Froese was a smiling Chick McGee, the sports broadcaster who — along with Masara the Observant — had called the Galaxy Bowl for several years running. Chick held a microphone and waved to the crowd.

The commissioner smiled wide; his red teeth revealed his happiness. He had presided over one of the greatest games in GFL history, a back-and-forth affair that finished on the last play of the game. There had been a few key injuries, but no one had died. It had been a Galaxy Bowl for the ages.

Gredok and Hokor didn’t have a pedestal. They moved carefully, trying to avoid the big legs of over-exuberant football players. Quentin reached down and picked up his furry coach.

“Barnes! Put me down!”

“No way, Coach. You need to be up high for this.” He sat Hokor on his shoulder pad. Hokor struggled for a moment but finally relaxed and looked around. His pedipalps shook with joyous laughter.

“Barnes, you are smarter than you look — it is a good view from up here.”

Not to be outdone, Virak the Mean pushed his way to the front of the stage. He picked up Gredok and set the tiny gangster on his own shoulder pad. Quentin laughed at the sight of Gredok riding high. There was no hate now, could be no animosity at this moment — no matter what the Leader had done, the Krakens wouldn’t have been here were it not for his immeasurable skill at player acquisition. He had earned this championship just as much as anyone who wore a uniform.

Gredok tried to stay serious, but the emotions of the moment overwhelmed even him. His pedipalps quivered with joy. His eye swirled yellow-orange. As he looked around, his gaze locked with Quentin’s.

The two sentients stared at each other for a moment. Then Quentin reached his left hand toward the team owner. Virak tensed. Quentin felt Choto the Bright behind him, suddenly trying to push forward to handle the potential threat. Quentin stepped sideways to block Choto, sending a subtle message that everything was okay.

Quentin held his hand palm-out in front of the Leader. “High-five me, Gredok. We’re number-one!”

Gredok stared for a moment, then reached out a tiny pedipalp hand and slapped Quentin’s palm.

“Congratulations, Barnes. You have earned the right to forever be known as a champion.”

Quentin nodded, then turned away to look into the stands. Much of the crowd had filtered out of the stadium, but thousands remained for the final ceremony. Orange and black confetti still fluttered through the air. Quentin couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop laughing. He felt hands on his free arm — Becca, looking up at him, her face blazing with joy. She had ditched her shoulder pads and now wore a white T-shirt.

On the shirt, orange-trimmed black letters spelled out GALAXY BOWL CHAMPIONS. Beneath those words, the six-tentacled logo of the Ionath Krakens. Below the logo, a phrase that made Quentin’s chest vibrate with pride: THE ONLY VARIABLE WAS TIME.


He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in tight for a hug. She hugged him back. Her body felt warm and inviting.

“Quentin,” she said, “we did it!”

He nodded. “We sure as hell did.”

Chick McGee raised the microphone to his mouth. His amplified voice echoed across the field.

“Let’s have a big round of applause for such a fantastic Galaxy Bowl!”

The crowd roared in approval.

“Wonderful,” Chick said. “Sentients, to present the GFL championship trophy, please give a big welcome to league Commissioner Rob Froese.”

The crowd’s yell was a paltry imitation of the roars that came during the game, but Froese smiled and waved, clearly soaking up his moment in the spotlight. He leaned into his podium and spoke into a microphone.

“What a great football game between two hard-fighting teams,” Froese said. “I thank them, and I thank you, football fans, for such a great season.”

He paused for more applause, then continued.

“It’s been twenty seasons since Ionath won a title. That span included a trip back down to Tier Two, but overcoming adversity is a part of football, as it is a part of life. I hope that this second title is all the sweeter because of it.” Froese turned to look at Quentin and the two Quyth Leaders who had led Ionath to the title. “To Gredok the Splithead and Coach Hokor the Hookchest, I present to you the 2685 GFL championship trophy.”

Tiny Human hands lifted the trophy toward Gredok. He reached out, grabbed it, then held it high. The Ionath faithful in the stands screamed in joy as yet another round of confetti poured down.

Chick lifted a microphone to his mouth. “Gredok, the title is back in Ionath. How does this feel?”

He angled the microphone toward Gredok. The Leader moved the trophy to the side and leaned in.

“It feels long overdue,” Gredok said. “After our one-and-four start, everyone assumed we were finished. Ten wins later, the bitter taste of defeat coats their lying tongues, while we savor the delicious taste of victory.”

Quentin laughed and shook his head. That was about as gracious as Gredok could be.

Chick took the trophy from Gredok and handed it up to Hokor.

“Coach, you won the big one,” Chick said. “What does it say about this team that you overcame so many injuries to take the title?”

Hokor stared at the trophy for a moment. Quentin saw the golden reflection in Hokor’s big cornea. When Hokor spoke, Quentin wasn’t sure if he was talking to Chick or to the trophy itself.

“I am proud of our players,” the coach finally said. “They have all worked very hard to get here. I have to thank Gredok the Splithead for his brilliance at assembling such talent. That is all.”

Hokor handed the trophy down to Quentin, then slid off of Quentin’s shoulder and faded into the mass of sentients packed onto the podium.

Quentin stared. He held the Galaxy Bowl trophy in his hands. The stadium lights played off the metal and the carved facets, making the prize glimmer and vibrate as if it were a living thing.

We did it. We actually did it. We are immortal.

A thump on his shoulder. Quentin looked at Chick, who was smiling wide. “Quentin, are you with us?”

Quentin blinked, then laughed. “Yeah, sorry. What did you say?”

“I said, how does it feel to be the champion of the galaxy?”

There were no words to describe the feeling. No poet in all existence could frame the experience.

“I’m just … I’m just really proud of our team,” he said. “We overcame so much. No matter what happened, we found a way.”

His eyes scanned his teammates, then locked with John Tweedy’s.

Quentin held John’s gaze as he again leaned into the mic. “Things went wrong, and we worked together to get past them. At the end of the day, we play as a family, we win as a family.”

John blinked rapidly, then looked down and away.

Quentin hoped he could get through to John, but now was not the time for that. He held the trophy by its base and raised it high. His teammates jumped in place, they pumped fists, they waved tentacles, they banged arms against chests, they bellowed and screamed and hooted and squealed. He had led them here, to this moment, and together they had seized it.

“Quentin,” Chick said, “there’s just one more thing before we let you go celebrate with your team and your fans. Commissioner Froese was supposed to present the next award, but someone else asked if he could, and the commissioner graciously said why the shuck not?”

Froese reached out and tapped Chick on the shoulder. Chick turned, Froese said something in his ear, then the broadcaster again raised the mic to his lips.

“Sorry, Commissioner, sorry, folks at home, I meant to say that Froese graciously backed out. And now, the presentation.”

Chick took a step back, and there was Don Pine. Dirt and blood streaked his blue skin. His white hair stuck out in all directions. Frozen mud covered his metallic jersey, was caked on his armor and the once-white brace on his leg. Don had one hand behind his back.

Chick grinned white, hamming up the moment for the sentients present and the billions watching all across the galaxy.

“Sports fans, this is unusual,” he said. “Correction, it’s highly unusual to have someone from the opposing team on the victory podium. But don’t think of this man as a Jupiter Jack, think of him as a two-time GFL champion. Here to present the Galaxy Bowl MVP trophy is former league MVP Donald Pine.”

Chick handed Don the microphone, and the crowd cheered. Had Quentin heard that right? In all the commotion of the game and the championship ceremony, had he actually forgotten about the game’s Most Valuable Player award?

Don raised the microphone. “First, congratulations to the Ionath Krakens. I started the season with you guys. I know how hard everyone in the franchise works. To my friends in the Orange and the Black, I salute you.”

The Krakens players cheered loudly, their love for the man unchanged by a trade to Jupiter. Every one of them had broken bread with Don Pine, and every one held memories of his leadership, his teaching, his mentoring and his patience.

Quentin could barely breathe. Was this even possible? Could this really be happening?

Don turned to face Quentin. Finally, the blue face split into a wide smile. “Quentin Barnes, I remember the first day you arrived to play Upper Tier ball. I’m honored to have been your teammate. Knowing you has changed my life for the better. What you did on that field today was legendary. It is my great privilege to present you with the Galaxy Bowl Most Valuable Player Award.”

Don pulled the hand from behind his back. In it, he held the Galaxy Bowl MVP trophy. It was a silver, regulation-sized football mounted on a dark wooden base. A swoop under the trophy showed the home planets of the league’s original five races: Earth, Ki, Chachana, Quyth and Vosor 3. A black shield showed the words, the impossible words: GALAXY BOWL XVII, MOST VALUABLE PLAYER.

Quentin’s mostly numb right hand seemed to float, to reach out and gently take the trophy. Don slapped him on the shoulder pad, nodded, then turned and walked off the podium.

In his left hand, Quentin held the GFL championship trophy. In his right, the Galaxy Bowl MVP Award.

All of his dreams had come true.

He raised both trophies high over his head. The crowd and his teammates roared in joy, they roared for the title, but mostly, they roared for him.

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