Deonte Martin was the only player not plugged in when CK returned to the equipment locker. The offensive KIPs were housed in the southern locker while the defensive units were in the northern one. For the Aztecs that meant the southern locker room housed twenty five pads for its twenty five offensive players. Costa and Diesel believed in carrying a few extra defensive players on the fifty-three man roster.
CK sat across from Deonte and tugged his shoes off. Deonte was being tended to by a trainer, probably for a hangnail.
“Captain Kumbaya, how’s it hanging.”
“Low and lazy. You?” CK pulled his shirt off over his head.
“I hear you went and got yourself a coin. Dat true?”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“Damz, the first of the season. You must of done something fierce to piss the old badger off.”
CK didn’t mind the locker room banter. In the right mood, he could dish it out with the best of them. But currently, he was fifteen minutes late for positions walk through and he still needed to study the scouting report on the Cowboy’s quarterback so he’d be ready to lead the scout team against the a-teamers. “Apparently he didn’t like the way I comb my hair.”
“You comb your hair? That briar patch? I thought with the whole Mirkwood thing going on up there you been praying to Sauron for inspiration or something.”
“You a Tolkie, huh?”
“Hell yeah, who isn’t?”
CK fetched his trons and shimmied them on one at a time. He really didn’t want to get into some nutty debate on whether balrogs have wings. Instead he nodded toward the trainer at Deonte’s feet. “You getting a pedicure?”
“Na, man. I got your sister for that.”
CK rolled his eyes as he adjusted the fit of his cooling gloves. On day one he had informed everyone in the southern locker room that his mother had died five years ago, and he wouldn’t find any humor in jokes based on her or her memory. So far, everyone had respected that. Besides, CK had three younger sisters for people to target.
“Funny thing,” Deonte continued unbidden, “these machines supposed to eliminate all our dents and dings. I never had trouble number one with bad knees or busted ribs. My enemy always been the hammy.” He slapped the back of his leg. “For all the newfangled tech in the world, they ain’t got nothing to keep a brother from straining his hamstring.”
“Sorry to hear that, DM. See you on the inside.”
“For Chri—”
CK activated his KIP and let the EM field erase the stream of Deonte’s swearing. The star receiver hated being called DM worse than anything. CK wasn’t sure why. Perhaps too much Dungeons and Dragons? Or maybe it sounded too much like BM. As the field of the Alamodome materialized around him, CK centered his focus.
Currently, he was supposed to be walking through the Cowboy’s game plan with the quarterback and offensive line personnel. After he oriented himself, he jogged onto the field to join them. Everyone was in shirts and shells for the walk through—helmets but no pads. Coach Swisher and Lucas Henderson ignored him. A few of the lineman nodded a silent greeting. He’d played against Haas, the left guard, in college. Since they were both on opposing offensive units, they’d never really spoken.
The offensive line coach was in the middle of explaining something. “For this play to work, we’ve gotta double the tempo. No more missteps on the handoff. And for the love of God, Haas, get your hooves out of the way before the tailback hits the hole.
Coach lined up against Haas to demonstrate the technique. “Fire off with your hands here. Boom. First contact and your gone. Dip your shoulder, slip between the center and the quarterback, mark your man and hoe the row. Got it?”
Haas nodded.
Coach scanned the faces around him. “Got it?”
“Yes, Coach!”
“Show me!”
Jumping into action, Henderson lined up his men and took his place under center. He asked for the ball on a quick count. Everyone fired off well. Haas showed improved bend and flex at the hips.
“Square off, square off!” Coach shouted and danced as the tailback squirted through the hole in the virtual defensive line. “Boom! Nice. Good hips, Haas.”
Everyone gathered up and Coach continued to the next play on the call sheet. It was another running play. CK did his best to engage with the team the entire walk through. Mentally, he was playing back every snap of the Cowboy’s offense he could remember from two years ago.
Luckily, he’d grown up watching the Boys. He knew the organization as well as any fan could. Their new quarterback had been in the league for two years. He had started for all but his first six games, and he was legit. Not as tall as CK, but just as strong and possibly more dangerous outside the pocket.
During the next practice session, it would be CK’s job to immolate the Cowboy threat for the sake of the Aztec defense. While he was doing that, Henderson and the starting offense would be running through the call sheet at game speed—full pads.
With the implementation of the KIPs, the league and the players union had renegotiated the amount of practice time players could participate in full contact. CK would have to catch up with the offensive side of things on his own time. It sucked, but it was the life of a backup QB.
“CK!”
“Yes, Coach!”
“You keeping up with all this?” Coach Swisher slapped the top of his helmet. “God forbid, but we might need you this Sunday.”
“I’m good, Coach. Aztec willing, always.”
“Good. Run the base plays for first and second downs.”
“Yes, Coach.” CK remembered the first six plays off the top of his head. That’s probably all they’d have time for. As he orchestrated the offensive line and waived the tailback over a half step, he noticed Coach Swisher taking Henderson aside. No time to wonder what they were talking about, no time to worry about his KIP electrocuting him again—CK banished every thought except that of making the most of every opportunity, starting with this one.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
