The playing surface of the Alamodome materialized around CK—a digital 3D tapestry woven by the same computer processors behind the nanostructure fabrication process used on the nanos currently guarding his loins. He breathed deeply. As much as he hated to admit it, everything felt hyper real. Even the smells—beer and pretzel dough.
He struggled to imagine himself standing in the locker room before soaking up the majesty of the empty dome. He bent at the knees, felt the spring of the turf. This was his temple, and the sacred surroundings erased all lingering thoughts of Lonni Fasano.
He slapped his palm twice against his chest. In response to the command, a football launched toward him from beyond his peripheral vision. Without flexing any other part of his body, he stuck up his hand. The ball thwacked against the bare skin of his palm. He clutched the leather instinctively. So real.
The program always lined the stitches up perfectly beneath his fingers. “Game plan, September 23rd, accelerate 5%.” He’d started running the simulations faster than real time during camp. If this was what pro football had become, he’d adapt without further rehashing the hypocrisy that characterized his current life, biohacked implants and all.
He slapped his second hand against the ball. It disappeared. A split second later, the simulation for their game plan against Dallas that Sunday night launched into action. As it did so, the ball materialized beneath the hand of the Aztec’s starting center down lineman, Mohala Kaʻanāʻanā. His hairstyle had earned him the nickname Mohawk by the end of the first day of camp. The rest of the offensive lineman held their stances without flinching.
Mohawk growled like a Harley at a red light, even at plus 5%. CK eased his right hand under the 300 pound Islander’s crotch and progressed quickly through his calls. Right on cue, the slightly damp leather of the football contacted his hand. Instinct took over.
Churning his feet, CK dropped three steps and popped his stance while running his progression as fast as his mind could process what the defense showed—six man rush, linebacker blitz. Look for the hot route over the middle. Shoulder pads collided and ground against each other like scrap metal in a crusher.
CK bounced on his toes. He flicked his eyes left as he felt his right tackle collapsing the pocket. One more second. Don’t flush. Deonte, CK’s secondary target had beaten his man off the line. In another heartbeat, he’d break his seven yard slant route straight at the umpire, using the ump as a screen.
Gotcha. CK pumped hard toward the outside. A blitzing linebacker pulled up, biting on the fake. Deonte broke his route a step early. CK reloaded and fired directly at the umpire’s head. Before he could watch it into Deonte’s outstretched hands, a defender knocked him off his feet after canning his right tackle. But not until CK had gotten the ball off.
He rolled and popped up in time to see Deonte dusting himself off after the play. The freshman receiver, the Aztec’s first round pick, indicated first down. The side judges were already moving the chains. Too fast. CK couldn’t believe the Cowboys would blitz on the first play of the game. Then it hit him like a pipe to the forehead. The simulation had considered how the Cowboys would play a virgin QB in the national spotlight. They wanted to see if he could hold his water. Screw that.
CK broke from the script. Instead of huddling up, he hurried the team to the line and shouted his audible. He wanted his 265 pound 6’6” tight end down the seam. Let’s see how the Cowboys deal with a freight train down their throat.
CK scanned the defense. Both safeties were crowding the box, anticipating the run. Of course, running the ball would have been the smart play. Perfect. CK asked for the ball and got it. He faked the handoff to his tailback before dancing backward to buy time. The strong safety shot through the gap left by his tight end. Too fast. His tailback tried to chip the incoming assault but whiffed.
CK swore while scrambling out of the pocket to his right. But the Dallas safety wasn’t some lumbering lineman. This was a head hunter out to welcome CK to the league. He forced his eyes upfield. One more step. He pulled up best he could, clenched his cheeks and fired a bomb forty yards in the air.
The moment the leather left his fingers, the crown of the safety’s helmet collapsed the left side of his body. His vision shrank as the impact accordianed outward. The follow through of his throwing arm slammed his hand into the helmet of a second blitzer, one he hadn’t noticed until now.
He would have groaned, but there was no air left in his lungs. An impossibly long second later, the combined weight of the two Cowboy defenders planted him on his back and ground him into the unyielding artificial turf. A spiderweb of lightning accented his fading field of vision. The roar of the crowd vanished, replaced by an eery silence.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
