CK tried to blink, but his eyes were stuck shut—his whole body unresponsive. Then a sound. A single beep. A muffled voice. Where was he? What had he been doing? Something important he had to get back to.
“The last implant’s ready.”
“Eight already?”
“Uh, this makes number nine.”
“Right, of course. Nine. Hand me the bone chisel, I’m not satisfied with the anchor for this one.”
Static flared, washing out the voices. Then came a throbbing. My heartbeat. CK’s eyes flickered open. He was alone in the equipment locker—the lights low. He croaked, “Hello?” His throat was dry. What time was it? It took several seconds to clear his blurry vision enough to focus on the time stamp in the corner of his eye. “7:04am? I’m late.”
He tried to sit up but racked his head on the bottom of a bench. Somehow he’d broken out of the EM field of his KIP and sprawled flat on his back. The moment of impact came painfully back to him. The seam route. He clutched his side as he stood. He half-expected to discover broken ribs. But of course he felt no injury—not even a bruise. He stretched his lungs to full capacity without a pinch of pain.
He’d never get used to the dissonance between psychologically experiencing the hit without suffering the physical effects. He tugged off his trons and palmed open his locker. Of all the days to be late, this was not a good one—the wednesday before the biggest game of the first season of Aztec football.
He wrestled on an Aztec t-shirt while swearing nonstop. Get it out of your system, Captain Kumbaya, before you run into the head of the familia and he busts you down to third string. Deciding to leave his shoes behind, he sprinted barefoot for the door. Then he stopped. He was already late. A few seconds more wouldn’t matter, and he had to know if he’d made the right decision.
He jogged to the playback console. “Voice activation, Christen Campbell.”
A pseudo-holographic screen sprang to life, covering an entire blank wall of the locker room.
“Playback the final play from my KIP, realtime, POV Randy Reed.” CK always watched his game tape from the perspective of his receivers. He wanted to see his game through their eyes.
A pseudo 3D image of The Alamodome flashed into focus before swooping into the POV of the Aztecs three-time pro bowl tight end. A Bronco’s cast off, Reed had been available in the expansion draft due to his age and bloated salary. As a 7th rounder from a division II school, he’d played eight seasons with a chip on his shoulder. If that chip had gotten any smaller over the years, it had increased twice over this season. He was a wrecking ball with the disposition of a geriatric badger and the flashpoint of a Jewish mother.
CK heard his audible in the background. A second later, Reed exploded off the line. He jammed the defensive end with both hands before bouncing off and leaving him to the left tackle. CK marveled as the tight end chewed up the field with the gait of a hurdler. Reed’s speed and grace were more impressive from his own perspective.
In his first several strides, Reed flew by the linebacker trying to cover him. CK tried to envision the ball leaving his hands without thinking about the hit afterwards. Reed continued to chew up field without the slightest peek over his shoulder.
In the corner of Reed’s perspective, a cornerback abandoned his assignment to take an angle on the mammoth tight end. Reed grunted, as if tasting blood in the water. The ball had to be in the air. Reed knew it was coming to him. He knew the Cowboy’s defense knew they were beat. He smelled their fear.
Finally the tight end turned his head to find the ball. CK laughed out loud. Gotcha.
The pass couldn’t have been better. Reed didn’t even adjust his stride. Watching the ball all the way over his shoulder, he cradled it and turned his attention toward the cornerback—the only contestant remaining between a hungry gorilla and a lifetime supply of bananas.
Reed probably could have made it to the end zone clean, but that wasn’t the way the tight end’s mind worked. He corrected his trajectory to ensure contact with the defender. To the corner’s credit, he didn’t back down.
With both arms around the ball, Reed decleated the smaller player who managed to keep hold of Reed’s ankle. It didn’t matter. Reed drug the guy the last five yards before lunging into the end zone for a touchdown.
The projection ended. The smile on CK’s face faded. He had made the right decision, but that didn’t explain what had happened to his KIP. And it wouldn’t fend off the butt chewing coach Diesel was going to give him for being late.
He could hear the coach’s thick, hill country accent now, chewing off his head like the sodden cigar butt constantly clenched in his teeth. Welcome to a real man’s work day, sleeping beauty. It’s not enough to have a prompt, mincing slow-witted backup. But you gotta be—for the love of Gideon’s fleece, boy, where the hell are your shoes?
On second thought, CK snatched his sneakers before palming the looker room door and bolting toward the strategy room.
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