The Champion

“Then you never play football again,” Froese said. “I’ll know you’re a danger to my league, and I will kick your ass on down the road.”

  Quentin studied the commissioner but didn’t have to do it for long — Froese meant every word.

  “The CMR,” Quentin said. “That’s why I called in that favor and had you tell Yolanda you met with Richfield.”

  Quentin quickly told Froese about the CoQB’s numbers, Sandoval’s blackmail attempt and the schism ploy.

  Froese sighed and shook his head. “You should have come to me sooner. I could have done something. But you didn’t, and now—”

  “And now Coach is dead,” Quentin said. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

  Quentin had studied the commissioner. Now the commissioner studied him.

  “I’ve talked to the CMR since Yolanda’s story, and they are fully convinced your church is no longer a threat,” Froese said. “They didn’t order Sandoval to attack you. That means someone else wants you dead in a bad way. Do you know who, and do you know why?”

  He did know. The Abernessia had corrupted the Guild. They had given Procknow and Sandoval an insane amount of money to take Quentin out. Quentin had inadvertently told Procknow about Petra, and Procknow had told the Guild. How the Guild knew to hire Sandoval, Quentin didn’t know. That part didn’t really matter at the moment. What mattered was an obvious and frightening fact: Petra wasn’t the only one who thought Quentin could stop the invaders — the invaders did, too.

  He’d been stupid to mention Petra’s visit in front of Procknow and Kimberlin. Procknow was dead; Kimberlin was not. Mike was still a suspect in all of this. But, this nightmare started because Quentin hadn’t thought about what he said — or who he was saying it too — before he spoke. He wasn’t about to make that same mistake again.

  “I don’t know who would want to kill me. Sandoval didn’t say, neither did Procknow.”

  The commissioner eyed him, trying to gauge the truth, but Quentin had hid his emotions from better players than Froese.

  “Whoever paid them is still out there,” Quentin said. “You better make sure I’m protected, that we’re all protected, both while the Galaxy Bowl is postponed and during the game itself.”

  “I’m not postponing anything,” Froese said instantly. “I’ve already informed your team owner, but that’s part of why I came down here, to tell you in person. The Galaxy Bowl is in two days, as scheduled.”

  Quentin couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Two of our players died. Our coach was murdered, our team bus bombed, our starting outside linebacker shot — twice — and our starting quarterback with a ...” Quentin almost said dead arm, but caught himself. “All beat to hell. You have to postpone the game, Froese.”

  “What I have to do is preserve the integrity of this league.”

  “The league? Integrity? You’re just as much a controlling thug as the gangsters you constantly whine about. You bully, you manipulate — you’re not the commissioner of the GFL, you are its dictator. What you say goes, so just say the word postponed. Are you that disrespectful to Hokor, to the entire damn sport?”

  Froese had seemed sympathetic; any shred of that sentiment faded away.

  “Never question my commitment to football,” he said. “Never. When the city of Bord was in revolt, civilians and players alike dead from the violence, I didn’t postpone anything. Thousands of civilians died in Coranadillana, battles raged through that system, and I didn’t change one damn thing about the Cloud Killers’ schedule for the Cloud Killers. Those were normal, regular-season games — this is the Galaxy Bowl. This will be the most watched event in the history of civilization. Do you understand that, Barnes? This sport reaches across all species and all cultures, the only positive thing that does that. If I do anything that lets sentients think attacking the league will draw attention to whatever shucking cause they believe in, then everyone in the league becomes more of a target. I can’t let that happen. As long as I can guarantee the safety of the players in that stadium, the game goes on.”

  “We have three sentients dead, Froese. Good job guaranteeing safety.”

  Froese aimed a stubby finger at Quentin’s face.

  “Those deaths are on you, Barnes. You could have come to me, but you didn’t. After the game, you and I are going to have a long talk and all of this is going to come out, but not now. There are three Creterakian cruisers nearby, in addition to the Regulator. A Creterakian carrier is en route. A company of Creterakian soldiers is in the stadium, and a division of Union marines is patrolling Red Storm City. The Galaxy Bowl will be safe, and it will be Sunday.”

  “If you won’t postpone the game, we won’t play,” Quentin said. “I’ll tell Gredok we should protest.”

  The little Human nodded. “Gredok said the same thing, so I’ll tell you what I told him. Come the scheduled kickoff time, if Ionath isn’t on that field, Ionath forfeits. Sunday, one way or another, a champion gets crowned.”

  A memory flashed of Sandoval kicking Hokor so hard the Leader flew, and Quentin suddenly wanted to do the same to Froese.

  “We worked too hard for this,” Quentin said. “We sacrificed too much. We can’t play Sunday ... it’s not fair.”

  “No, it’s not,” Froese said. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

  Doc Patah fluttered back in. “Your requested time is up, Commissioner. Are you finished harassing my patients?”

  Froese gave the edge of Quentin’s rejuve tank a quick double-tap.

  “I am, Doctor. Barnes, Virak, good luck on Sunday. May the best team win.”

  The commissioner and Leiba walked out.

  Virak finally spoke.

  “We have to win. For Coach.”

  Quentin closed his eyes. He felt the same way. Froese wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t compromise. There was a way to win. Had to be.

  “I’ll play,” Quentin said. “I can make it work.”

  “No, you can’t,” Doc Patah said. “I am telling you, young Quentin, that if you play quarterback, you will guarantee an Ionath loss. You can’t throw, and if you carry the ball, you will fumble.”

  Patah treasured the championship as much as anyone in the organization — he wouldn’t exaggerate about such a thing.

  “You have Montagne,” the Harrah said. “She started at quarterback and we won. Play her.”

  Quentin huffed. “With Nancy out and Kopor dead? We’re out of fullbacks. We can’t run the offense without a fullback, not with only one day to make adjustments.”

  “We will use Haney,” Virak said. “He is not a good quarterback, but at least we will have a chance. Montagne will give him protection.”

  Was that worth a try? Becca was better than Trevor, and she’d already led the team to a win. The Krakens needed Becca behind center — that meant they needed someone at fullback who knew the offense, someone big, someone strong, who could hit ... like Yassoud, maybe?

  Or ... maybe there was another player who could fill that role.

  “Doc, go get Becca, John and Ju,” Quentin said. “Bring them here.”

  “Right away, young Quentin.” The Harrah shot out of the room.

  Quentin saw the field in his head, saw the lines of power.

  Hokor was gone; he couldn’t count on Coach’s guidance anymore.

  Gredok had bailed.

  All leadership fell to Quentin.

  There was an answer: whatever it was, he would find it.

  Live feed from

  UBS GameDay holo-cast coverage

  “Hello, football fans, and welcome to UBS Sports coverage of Galaxy Bowl Twenty-Eight. I’m Masara the Observant, and with me, as always, is Chick McGee.”

  “Hello, Masara, hello, folks at home.”

  “Chick, what a matchup we have tonight for the championship of the Galactic Football League.”

  “Right you are, Masara. A rematch of Galaxy Bowl Twenty-Seven, and a rematch of two quarterbacks that are both already promised permanent places in the his
tory books. The living legend Don Pine leading his Jupiter Jacks up against the young gun Quentin Barnes and his defending GFL champion Ionath Krakens.”

  “Chick, Barnes actually survived a bombing onboard the Touchback only two days ago, a bombing that took the lives of fullback Kopor the Climber and coach Hokor the Hookchest.”

  “Masara, a sadder moment the league has never known. UBS Sports has prepared a piece covering the career of Hokor, from his start with the Harlon Headhunters right up through his Galaxy Bowl title with the Krakens. Let’s take a look.”

  • • •

  THE VISITING LOCKER ROOM of Rolling Rock Stadium.

  Quentin stood in the central area, looking at his hard-faced teammates. The holoboard was off. They’d gone over pregame prep, done all they could to get ready for the battle to come. He knew what he was going to say — speaking those four words wouldn’t take long.

  Black armor, black jerseys. Ironic that they wore home jerseys when playing on Jupiter’s field, but the Galaxy Bowl was normally in a neutral site and the “home” team was the one with the best regular-season record. The Krakens had gone undefeated, so that honor fell to them.

  The players held their helmets in their hands or tentacles. The black jerseys were the same as they had been all season, with two exceptions. One, Messal’s crew had sewn a “Galaxy Bowl XXVIII” patch on the left shoulder. On the right shoulder, they had sewn a small orange rectangle with the letters “HH/KC” in white.

  HH/KC: Hokor the Hookchest, and Kopor the Climber.

  George Starcher had painted his face yellow with black stripes: a tribute to Coach Hokor. It might have looked ridiculous at any other time, but this day, it was perfection.

  The Warriors carapaces bore fresh engravings of the Quyth-language names of both Kopor and Hokor. Choto, Pishor, Shayat and Tara had all lost fellow players on the field, but to lose a Leader? That was far more difficult for all of them to take.

  Quentin’s gaze lingered on Kimberlin. Other than in practice, he hadn’t spoken to the man since the bombing. Was Kimberlin friend, or enemy? Quentin didn’t know. What he did know was that, to have any chance of winning, the team needed Kimberlin on that offensive line — good or bad, right or wrong, that trumped turning the man in.

  Were there things more important than football? Yes, but not today.

  Quentin turned in place. He looked at each of his teammates, one at a time, saying nothing. Aside from Nancy — who wouldn’t play that day—Josh Athanas, Trevor Haney and backup safety Dimitrovgrad, the players had all done this dance a year earlier: the veterans knew was at stake.

  He raised his right fist, careful to tuck his left close to his body. The players moved in, pressed around him, reached up to his hand, elite athletes unified in purpose and spirit.

  Quentin waited until everyone joined, until the soft clacking of pads and armor faded out.

  “For Kopor,” he said. “For Coach.”

  There wasn’t a sound of agreement as much as there was a vibration, a collective buzz that even though this was the Galaxy Bowl, more was on the line than ever before. It wasn’t about a perfect season anymore. It wasn’t even really about the championship, at least not for themselves. Death dulled the game’s sheen, but not its edge: this win mattered.

  “John, Ju,” Quentin said, “take them out.”

  Quentin caught John’s eye, gave a slight tip of the chin. John nodded. He understood. The Tweedy brothers walked to the tunnel, the rest of the players following along, a column of orange and black marching to battle.

  Only one remained.

  Becca sat on a bench next to the wall, as if she might hide there, shrink away until no one could see her. She stared at the floor.

  Quentin waited for the locker room to empty, then stood in front of her. Becca saw his armored feet. She looked up; he saw fear in her eyes.

  “Hey, Q. Come to give me a pep talk?”

  He shook his head. “Too late for that. At this point in the season, you’re either ready or you’re not — you’re ready.”

  She extended her fingers, stared at them. Her hands were shaking.

  “Becca, I don’t know what you’re worried about. You are undefeated as a starter, after all.”

  He’d hoped she might laugh, but she didn’t.

  “This isn’t the regular season,” she said. “This isn’t a game that doesn’t really matter because we’ve already qualified for the playoffs. This is the Galaxy Bowl. This is it. Everyone on the team is counting on me. What if I can’t handle the pressure? What if I screw up?”

  Quentin thought about telling her what she wanted to hear, that she would excel, that everything would come natural. He wanted to tell her that after the first hit, it would be just another game. He wanted to tell her that she was a Valkyrie, that she had been born for this moment. He wanted to tell her a hundred other things that would have sounded nice and showed his confidence in her.

  Instead, he told her the truth.

  “You will screw up,” he said. “You’re starting at quarterback on only one day’s practice before the biggest game of the year, before the game that makes legends. You’ll screw up, and when you do, we’ll correct it on the sidelines, just like Hokor used to do with me.”

  She hadn’t expected him to be blunt. She’d expected sugar, but Quentin was all out.

  “What if I can’t correct it?”

  Quentin shrugged. “Then I sit your ass down and I put Haney in. Someone is going to win me that Galaxy Bowl, Becca.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Remember when you told me I suck at pep talks? Well, you’re worse.”

  “This is reality,” he said. “You want to hear more of it? You’re slow. You don’t have the strongest arm. Your accuracy isn’t what it needs to be to cut it in Tier One. On paper, Becca, you’re a terrible quarterback. But we don’t play on paper. You are one of the nicest people I have ever met in my life, and you are so good to me, but when you step on that field, you know what you are?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re mean” Quentin said. “You are a nasty, dirty, brutal, mean player. Just like me. That’s what matters tonight. History doesn’t remember that you won ugly — history only remembers that you won. If I didn’t think you could do this, you’d be lining up at fullback. Go out there and shock the galaxy. Tonight, this is your team.”

  The last of the fear faded from her eyes. If he had told her she would play a flawless game, she wouldn’t have believed him.

  “Mean” she said. She stood up. That killer look was back in her eyes. “You know what? I don’t care how we got here. Tonight, I couldn’t give a damn why I’m starting in the Galaxy Bowl. I want that ring. And if anyone gets in my way, I’m going to make them hurt.”

  Quentin’s heart hammered, his pulse raced. Was this what it felt like when he swaggered his way in front of the team and told them they would find a way to win? If so, he now understood why people followed him, because as surprising as it was, he wanted to follow the Wrecka.

  “For Coach,” she said.

  Quentin nodded. “For Coach. John held everyone at the tunnel for you. Go lead your team onto the field.”

  JUST INSIDE THE MOUTH of the tunnel, Quentin Barnes stood alone. He heard the crowd burbling, waiting for the game to begin. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, taking in the scents of the night.

  He wore his helmet, knowing it might be the final time he did that, the final time he wore the Orange and the Black of his beloved Krakens.

  Not just his Krakens ... any football uniform.

  This was his last game.

  On Saturday, the day before the game, he’d spoken with the league docs. Doctor Ganagati had reinforced Patah’s diagnosis: Quentin was done as a quarterback. Maybe he could prove them wrong, maybe not, but if they were right, it meant he had one chance — one chance only — to help his team to another league tide.

  But if the docs were wrong, if there was any opportunity of
beating the odds and lining up at quarterback again, going out on that field tonight, taking damage tonight, would probably end that chance forever. So, he faced a truly impossible choice: protect himself or do what was best for the team.

  Quentin chose team.

  He’d joined the Micovi Raiders at the age of fifteen. Four seasons there, during which Quentin won twenty-three games, lost four, and brought home two PNFL titles. He remembered each and every contest. He remembered every play, the smell of the grass on every field.

  Then the glory of going to Tier Two, of being signed to the Ionath Krakens. That amazing rookie season when he’d helped his team earn promotion.

  His second year with Ionath, when he became a starter — a starter — in Tier One. His childhood dream writ large: seeing the galaxy, being paid to play football, building a team that could someday compete for a title.

  His third year, coming to accept just how good he was, how good his team could be. The late-season run that put the Krakens in the playoffs. A first-round loss, sure, but he’d learned much from it, as had his teammates; they grew closer, a band of soldiers melding together in the heat of battle.

  Then last season, when all his fantasies came true and they were all beyond his wildest expectations. Another late-season run, but this time a first-round playoff win, a second-round playoff win. Facing Don Pine and the Jacks in the Galaxy Bowl.

  And winning it.

  Four seasons for the Raiders.

  Five in the Orange and the Black.

  The wins, the losses, the injuries, the deaths. Good friends gone forever. That sense of team, that knowledge that when you stepped on that field, you were not alone.

  All of that... about to end.

  But not yet.

  One more game.

  One last game.

  He couldn’t throw. He couldn’t carry the ball, couldn’t catch it, either. But he knew the offense better than anyone, knew the duties of every player at every position on every play.

  He was big.

  He was strong.

  And, he could hit.

  The rage he’d carried through his life, born of oppressive conditions and a daily fight to survive, that hadn’t gone away. He’d pushed it down, locked it up, forced it into submission.