4

Showdown vs. The North Pole Neutrons

GAME DAY.

Every time the Miners battled the Neutrons, it was an explosive game of smashmouth, ground-pounding Ultraball. It was impossible to ever be confident against a team like the Neutrons, but Strike was feeling good. He’d come up with a perfect way to cover up his secret for one more week. A passing game focusing on short throws—ones he could easily complete—would make for a killer surprise strategy against the Neutrons. It had taken a while for everyone to get on board with it, but Strike had the team convinced that it was going to pay off. Even he was starting to believe it.

On their way to North Pole Colony, the Miners sat together inside an Ultraball tram zooming through the Tunnel Ring, listening to Rock go over the game plan. Jasmine sat next to Rock as his makeshift assistant, feeding him papers filled with detailed gameplay notes. “We’ll have to be careful of the Neutrons’ Nuclear Fallout defensive scheme,” he said. “It’s a big improvement on their Nuclear Waste defense.” He swayed as the tram jolted and slowed as they came to their next stop. “The Neutrons will drop Meltdown into Ion Storm’s crackback slot whenever we look to be setting up any formation similar to a . . . to a . . .” He trailed off, looking out the window.

“To a slingshot V,” Jasmine said, completing Rock’s sentence. “Right?”

Strike nodded. He’d been skeptical of having Jasmine work for them as a gofer, but she’d proven quick on the uptake. Maybe it won’t be so bad having her around, he thought.

The tram halted, making its automated stop at Moon Dock station. Rock focused even harder on something in the distance, his neck craned forward. “That’s odd. Very odd.”

“What’s odd?” Strike asked.

“Besides Rock, you mean?” Pickaxe said. He laughed, but no one joined him. “What? It was funny.” He pointed to Rock’s notebook. “Aren’t you going to write that down in your list of jokes?”

“Uh-huh,” Rock said, his attention unwavering from whatever it was he was studying. Leaning into the side of the tram, he got so close his nose smooshed against the glass window. The door slid open and he poked his head out.

“I’ll write it down for him,” Jasmine said. “Should that go under ‘Witty Humor’ or ‘Self-Deprecating One-Liners’?”

“Never mind that.” Strike peered over Rock’s shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

“The airlock door,” Rock said.

“What about it?” Strike focused on the massive impactanium door in the distance, involuntarily shuddering at the endless expanse of black death on the other side of it. This empty station had been rendered useless after Earthfall, since no one had any reason to use the lone airlock separating the United Moon Colonies from outer space. But the Council of Governors had mandated that all trams stopped here, to remind people of the horrors the Earthfall Eight had unleashed upon humanity.

“Why isn’t it dusty?” Rock asked, his brow furrowed in concentration. “This station doesn’t have daily maintenance. The Cryptomare engineers have their hands full keeping the other stations running.”

“How could you possibly notice dust on a door?” Jasmine asked.

“He notices everything,” Nugget said. “He noticed when Pickaxe didn’t poop for four straight days last month.”

Pickaxe flushed red. “I’ll poop on you,” he muttered.

Nugget snickered. “Except that you couldn’t, you were so stopped up!”

Rock pulled out his notebook. “I’ll be right back.”

“What are you doing?” Strike asked, catching the back of Rock’s jumpsuit. “We have a lot more game planning to go over.”

“Aw, let him do it,” Nugget said. “Five hardtack bars says he makes it there and back before the doors close.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Pickaxe said. “Easiest five hardtack bars ever.”

“Everyone, focus on the North Pole Neutrons,” Strike said. “Rock is not going to run—”

“I’ll do it!” Jasmine said. She sprinted out the doors, taking off like a shot.

“She’ll never make it . . .” Pickaxe trailed off as the girl accelerated, her legs blurs of motion. “You know what? She might actually make it.”

Jasmine put on a crazy burst of speed, jumping over benches, hurtling around lampposts. She stopped momentarily to look at the huge airlock door, and then sprinted back toward the tram.

A series of beeps sounded, signifying that the tram was preparing to leave the station. Strike nudged Rock. “Bet you ten hardtack bars that she doesn’t make it.”

Rock studied the little girl zipping back. He made a quick calculation in his notebook. “Let’s make it twenty.”

Strike peered nervously at all the numbers in the notebook. “How about we keep it at ten? Or maybe let’s just call it off.”

“Too late. I agree to the original bet,” Rock said.

“She’s huffing and puffing,” Strike said. “Bet you didn’t factor fatigue into your calculations.”

“Ha,” Pickaxe said, jabbing his brother with an elbow.

“Actually, I did,” Rock said. “She’s not slowing down as much as I thought she would.” He beamed at Strike and Pickaxe, pointing as Jasmine deftly hurdled a set of benches.

“Ha!” Nugget said. He stood up, wiggling his butt at his brother.

Pickaxe quickly punched it, making Nugget shriek.

The final beeps sounded, and the tram doors started to close. With a final burst, Jasmine sped through just before the doors slid shut, her momentum nearly causing her to slam into the opposite wall. She plopped into her seat, catching her breath. “You were right, Rock,” Jasmine said. “Very little dust on the doors. I’m impressed. You notice everything.”

“You owe me five hardtack bars, booger brains,” Nugget said to his brother.

“I’ll give you five boogers,” Pickaxe grumbled. He pressed a finger over one nostril and tipped his head up, aiming to shoot a nose rocket at Nugget.

Rock rolled his eyes as the brothers wrestled each other to the floor. “Just as I thought,” he said. “Now, how many specks of dust per square centimeter were there?”

Jasmine raised pleading eyebrows to Strike. “Is he joking?” she asked.

Strike burst out laughing. “Welcome to my world.”

“What’s so funny?” Rock asked. “Or is that a sad sort of laugh based on the fact that you owe me ten more hardtack bars?”

“We never shook on it.”

Rock flipped through his notebook to a page marked “Hardtack Bars Strike Owes Me,” and changed the number to thirty-two. The next page was a list titled “Ways of Tricking Yourself into Believing that Hardtack Bars Aren’t Disgusting.”

The rest of that page was blank.

The tram shuddered and then picked up speed, moving down the tracks. Rock studied the sweaty little girl, who had already caught her breath. “How’d you get to be so fast?”

Jasmine scrunched her mouth into a crinkled line. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why?” Rock asked. “It’s incredible. You’re faster than Strike. Maybe even TNT. Perhaps whoever trained you could train— Ow!”

Strike jabbed Rock with another elbow. “Her trainer was probably Torch,” he whispered.

“Ah,” Rock said. “Right.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Let’s get back to game day preparations, then.”

Jasmine looked down, shuffling through Rock’s stack of gameplay notes. Not meeting anyone’s eyes, she quietly sniffled and wiped away tears as she handed the next sheet to Rock.

The Miners stared at each other in silence. Rock tried to start up the strategy session once more, but he kept on petering out at the sound of Jasmine’s weeping. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Maybe we’ve gone over enough for now. Let’s take a break.”

Strike’s mind turned to Torch and the curse he had supposedly brought onto his old team. An eerie shiver went up his spine as he watched Jasmine out of the corner of his eye, wondering if the Torch’s Curse had latched on to the Miners, its shadow following them into today’s game.

When the Miners ran out of the tunnel into Neutron Stadium, the thunderous boos crashed down like a massive cave-in. Strike had played here many times over his four-year career, but the raw hatred was something he never got used to. Fans in the front rows pelted the Miners with trash, hardtack bars, even rocks. This was technically illegal and could get a fan ejected, but the Blackguard security officers weren’t doing anything to stop it. One guy in a black jumpsuit even joined in, hurling a stone right at Strike’s head. It was a good thing that they did no damage to the impervious Ultrabot suits, but the barrage constantly triggered warning lights inside the helmets’ heads-up displays, making the salvos hard to ignore.

The two teams met at the fifty-meter line. It took a full five minutes for the armored refs to quiet the fans down enough to go through their pregame routine. The head referee, decked out in full body armor and a stainless steel helmet, signaled for the clear impactanium barriers to go up, protecting the crowd from the action on the field. He motioned everyone in. “You all know the rules,” he said, screaming to make himself heard over the crowd noise. “I want a clean game, no penalties. Score often, and score a lot.”

Strike stuck out a closed fist for White Lightning to tap, the traditional way for captains to start a game. But the Neutron in Fusion’s old number 9 suit barely looked up. White Lightning raised a fist and gave the barest of taps before quickly shuffling away. Strike stared at White Lightning’s back, wondering why he wouldn’t even meet Strike’s gaze.

It was almost as if he was hiding something.

Someone punched Strike’s chest plate, making him flinch. “Hey,” TNT said over the Miners’ helmet comm. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Strike said. “Let’s go.”

The crowd’s roar ratcheted back up as the Neutrons lined up to receive the kickoff. Neutron Nation was in full effect today, almost everyone in the stands decked out in the bright red of North Pole Colony. Strike raced forward toward the Ultraball, swinging his leg with all the might his suit could provide, the steel ball rocketing off his boot like it had been shot from a missile launcher. The ball soared, looking like it might even hit the roof of the cavern, a hundred meters above. A perfect kick, leaving plenty of time for the Miners to sprint down the field.

TNT led the Miners, three steps ahead of everyone else. He threw himself into one of Neutron Stadium’s slingshot zones, accelerating to hyperspeed before blasting out the other side. His aim dead-on, TNT exploded into one of the defenders like a supercharged tank, blasting the Neutron backward.

Strike let out a scream as he smashed into the Neutrons’ crackback 2, Ion Storm, with a metallic clang so loud it reverberated throughout the stadium. But Ion Storm was better than Strike had remembered, staying on his feet to hold his ground as they wrestled for position.

The Neutron ball carrier, hiding behind Ion Storm, jab-stepped left. In the split second that Strike had taken to process the guy’s move, Ion Storm shifted his weight and threw Strike off balance. With a burst of speed, the ball carrier crashed into both of them, trying to muscle his way through. Miners and Neutrons came crashing in, piling up in a scrum.

Directly on top of Strike, Ion Storm flipped his visor to clear, his lips pulled back in a menacing growl. He drew back a gloved fist and punched Strike’s left shoulder so hard that Strike could almost feel it through the indestructible armor. “Deathstrike!” he yelled. He slammed another punch into Strike’s shoulder. And then another. And another.

Deathstrike? The word stabbed fear into Strike’s chest as he tried to wriggle out from under the pile. As more players slammed in, fighting each other for the ball, another Neutron pushed in to pin Strike’s arms down. Ion Storm whaled away at Strike’s shoulders, each blow faster and harder than the one before. Panic mounted in Strike as everything closed in on him, conjuring terrifying images of a coffin slamming shut over his face. Then his frenzy turned to shock when he realized where Ion Storm was targeting every single one of his punches.

Does he know my secret?

When the refs finally came in to break things up, Ion Storm grabbed Strike and stared at him through his clear visor, his mouth twisted into an evil grin. He gave Strike a hard shove before walking to his huddle.

The Neutrons went four and out on their first series, turning it over to the Miners on the fifty-meter line. The first play out of scrimmage, the Miners lined it up in a slingshot V formation, with TNT far backfield, ready to be accelerated into rocket speed by Rock and Pickaxe. Strike took a long glance at a slingshot zone—hopefully enough to make the Neutrons think a long bomb was coming. “Mercury eighty-six!” he yelled. “Mercury eighty-six fireball!” The audible was a fake, but two of the Neutrons seemed to bite, shifting toward the slingshot zone.

Rock dropped back to where TNT was, and both of them sprinted toward the line, Rock leading the charge as TNT’s blocker. Nugget hiked the ball to Strike just before Rock crossed the line of scrimmage, cannonballing into one of the Neutron defenders with a metallic crunch.

TNT hurdled over everyone and streaked toward the slingshot zone. His defender was with him every step, both of them bumping and shoving for position. TNT hit the slingshot zone first and boomed out the other side, hurtling into the sky. The defender hit the zone only a split second later, but with the burst of slingshot speed, TNT was already meters ahead. “I’m open!” he yelled into the helmet comm.

Safely in the pocket behind Nugget and Pickaxe, Strike wound up for the big throw. His heads-up display targeted onto TNT, flashing green. Every cell in his body screamed to let it fly, just like the old days. But he pulled the ball down, juked left, and spun under an oncoming defender. Rock had crept into the midfield, and Strike dumped it to him.

The Neutrons converged on the Miners’ rocketback 2, quickly corralling him. Meltdown rammed his shoulder into Rock’s chest plate, knocking him backward. Radioactive smashed in next, slamming both Rock and Meltdown to the turf.

The play was over, with a short gain just like the Miners had planned. Strike jogged forward toward the pile. But someone cracked into him from the side, lifting him off his feet. The defender held him high in a bear hug and then threw him to the turf.

Disoriented, Strike looked up to see Ion Storm’s sly grin right above him. Another Neutron shielded them from the ref’s view. I’m gonna bury you, Ion Storm mouthed before slamming a punch into Strike’s shoulder. “Deathstrike!”

TNT came barreling in, knocking Ion Storm clean off him. Flipping his visor to clear, TNT offered Strike a hand. “You okay?”

Breathing hard, it took Strike several long moments to respond. There it was again—the word “Deathstrike.” It had to be a stupid scare tactic, but it sure was accomplishing its goal.

“Fine. Just got surprised, that’s all.” As the Miners walked back to the huddle, Strike closed his eyes, trying to tamp down his panic.

The Miners’ surprise short-passing game mostly worked, allowing Strike to dump the ball off to TNT, Rock, or even one of his crackbacks, constantly chipping away with unpredictable plays for fifteen meters here, twenty meters there. Even when they didn’t score within four downs, that forced the Neutrons to start their drives from deep in their own territory. Slowly, the Miners built up a lead, holding on to it even as momentum switched from team to team.

The Neutrons, especially Ion Storm, never let up on Strike. They began to jam the line, double- or even triple-teaming him, which allowed the Miners to score if Strike was able to get the ball off quickly enough. But when he didn’t, he got sacked, the Neutron crackbacks both piling on top of him, smashing gloved fists into his shoulders. The cheap shots came fast and furious, rabbit punches and haymakers and kill shots, all aimed at his shoulders.

In the past, Strike had gotten used to the Neutrons’ physical playing style and was able to tune out the intimidation. But his panic kept creeping up on him, mounting with each play. Twice, he threw desperation passes into slingshot zones so that they’d accelerate through, blasting all the way downfield to a streaking TNT. But both passes were intercepted and returned all the way back for touchdowns. After each pick-seven, the Neutron crackbacks made a beeline for Strike, viciously tackling him, Fuel Rod holding Strike down as Ion Storm whaled away at Strike’s shoulders.

When the whistle blew to end the first half, the Miners jogged off the field toward their locker room, the impactanium barriers separating the stands from the playing field lowered for halftime. A rock the size of a fist clanged off Strike’s helmet, sending warning lights flashing in his heads-up visor.

Strike had endured a punishing half of Ultraball. His brain raging into a red fury, he roared. He grabbed the small rock someone had thrown at him and cocked back his arm, ignoring the pain of his suit pinching at his shoulders. With a monstrous bellow, he heaved his arm forward with all the might of his Ultrabot suit behind it.

The fans screamed in terror. Spectators jumped out of their seats, scrambling over each other to scatter under benches and into aisles.

At the last moment, TNT smacked Strike’s gloved hand, knocking the stone out, sending it to the turf. “What the frak are you doing?” TNT asked. He flipped his visor to clear, his eyes wild with anger and confusion.

Strike seemed to observe himself from somewhere near the roof, floating way above the turf. It was as if someone had taken over his body and willed it to do the unthinkable. He had been aiming the throw at the far back wall of the stadium, so the stone wouldn’t have hit anyone. But the mass panic might have caused a stampede. People could have gotten trampled. And the Miners would have been disqualified, putting them in a serious hole against the rival Neutrons.

The other Miners swarmed Strike, rushing him toward the tunnel leading to the locker room. More and more trash and rocks pelted them. The boos came raining down even harder, the quaking rumbles vibrating all the way through Strike’s Ultrabot suit.

The Miners finally got into the tunnel. The door slid shut behind them. The Miners clicked out of their Ultrabot suits, Strike quicker than everyone else in his desperation to escape his claustrophobic coffin.

TNT grabbed Strike’s jumpsuit, yanking him around so they were face-to-face. “What is with you today?”

It was all Strike could do to not to reach for his left shoulder, aching with a mix of real and phantom pain. “I hate the Neutrons,” he finally said. “I hate them so frakkin’ much.”

“The best way to get back at them is to beat them,” TNT said. “Let’s add some long bombs into the plan.”

“The short game has been working surprisingly well,” Rock said. “We are up by seven.”

“Yeah. But if I get open, jam it into me,” TNT said. “Let it fly and I’ll go up and get it. Just like the old days.” He sat forward, expectantly awaiting Strike’s answer.

Strike could hardly look at his teammates. He had let everyone down in such a big way. He was supposed to be their quarterback, their coach, the general manager. He was failing in every role. “I’m sorry,” he said in a whisper.

“Don’t be sorry,” TNT said. “Be mad. Gather up that anger and turn it loose against the Neutrons.”

“That is one area in which they’re handily beating us,” Rock said. “They’re punishing you during each play, even if it means that they give up extra meters. I thought it made no sense at first.” He cocked his head. “But now I realize how smart that strategy is.”

“Rock has a point,” Pickaxe said. He smacked a fist into his open palm. “We have to hit White Lightning, hard. Like Boom did last year.” He nudged his brother. “Turn us loose, Coach. We’ll pile-drive White Lightning’s head straight into the turf. Bury him, like the Neutrons have been doing to you.”

“Let me and Pickaxe whale away at everyone,” Nugget said. “We’re your enforcers. We gotta make them pay for what they’ve been doing to you.”

“We all want part of that,” TNT said. “We have to show the Neutrons that if they pull that stuff on you, the Miners will torture them.”

Pickaxe punched a locker. “Payback.”

Even after all the punishment he’d taken, a nagging sensation ate away at Strike. White Lightning had suffered so much, the butt of the moon after his humiliation at the hands of Boom. No one deserved to be beaten down even further than that. And now that Strike thought about it, White Lightning was the sole Neutron who hadn’t thrown a single cheap shot at him.

But Ultraball was war. He couldn’t afford to be soft. He slowly nodded.

“All right,” Pickaxe said, slapping a high five with his brother. “Down in the trenches, we’re gonna get rough. Ugly.”

“Blitz three, mob swarm?” Rock suggested.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Nugget said.

TNT raised his fists, swinging away. “Let’s go smack the Neutrons in their frakkin’ faces.”

And they did. The first play of the second half, the Miners sent in an atomic wave blitz, hitting White Lightning from three different directions, smashing him to the turf. The Miners turned up the heat on the Neutrons’ quarterback, always having at least two players chase him relentlessly. He did make some plays, but he also made mistakes. The Neutrons ended their first three possessions with a White Lightning fumble, a White Lightning touchdown throw, and a turnover on downs when Pickaxe and Nugget timed the count perfectly on fourth down, Nugget whipping Pickaxe over the defenders to smash into White Lightning just as he picked up the ball.

Forced to use their one and only time-out of the game, the Neutrons made adjustments to give White Lightning more protection. But the Miners kept up the furious pace, doubling down on their single-minded focus of torturing White Lightning. For a while, he kept his composure, but every time the Miners batted down one of his passes, forced him into throwing an interception, or stripped the ball out of his hands, White Lightning got more flustered. As the game went on, White Lightning’s play faltered.

With just twenty seconds to go, the game was tied, 77–77, and the Miners had the ball on the fifty-meter line, fourth down. Inside the huddle, TNT slapped Strike’s chest plate. “Now we push in the dagger,” he said through the helmet comm. “Check this out.” He stood up and pointed high into the stands with two fingers extended on each hand. “Play of the century, part two!” Turning to White Lightning, he smacked his butt at the Neutron in red.

The stadium announcer caught on right away, his voice booming across the arena. “TNT is signaling for a repeat of the play that ended White Lightning’s career with the Saladin Shock in the most embarrassing way possible. What do you think, folks? One-on-one, Strike versus White Lightning?”

A chant started up throughout the stands. “One-on-one! One-on-one!” Everyone was on their feet, screaming, out for blood.

Strike ran over to TNT, pulling his arms down. “Stop. We don’t have to embarrass White Lightning. Let’s just play.”

“What is the frakkin’ matter with you?” TNT said. “We have a chance for a kill shot. You can beat White Lightning one-on-one with your eyes closed. It’d be a sure thing.”

“TNT has a point,” Rock said. “A normal play might or might not be successful. But if you could make White Lightning go one-on-one, you’d almost surely beat him for a score.”

“Yeah, but . . .” White Lightning might be a hated Neutron now, but he was the only Neutron who hadn’t thrown a single dirty shot at Strike the entire game. He could have easily joined in, but he hadn’t stooped to his teammates’ level.

White Lightning had been the laughingstock of the entire league last year, cut by the Shock after he had been beaten one-on-one by Boom and cried afterward. No one deserved to live through that humiliation again.

“No,” Strike said. “Everyone line it up, slant fifty-six red.”

“A frakkin’ slant?” TNT said. “Not another short pass. We might get stuffed way short of the end zone. Air it out long. We’ll catch them totally off guard. I’ll rocket out of a slingshot zone and go up and get it.”

“Slant fifty-six red,” Strike repeated. “You’ll have all sorts of room to dodge and juke on your way to a score. And at least one slingshot zone should be wide open for you to launch yourself through.”

The announcer kept up his chatter. “Can you believe this? Just over one year ago, White Lightning experienced the worst embarrassment of his life, at the hands of Boom. Will history repeat itself, this time with White Lightning punished by Strike?”

“I like TNT’s thinking,” Rock said. “A one-on-one play, you versus White Lightning, is sure to result in a touchdown. A short pass might, especially if the Neutrons leave the slingshot zones unguarded, but—”

“No,” Strike said. “Now line it up.”

“Going one-on-one is the smart thing to do.”

“I said, line it up!” Strike stomped his way back to the ball, waving his Miners into position. He stood a few steps away from the line of scrimmage, waiting impatiently as Nugget slowly took his spot over the Ultraball. The crowd was against him. His teammates were against him. But they’d win this game without embarrassing White Lightning again.

TNT took his spot by Strike’s side, shaking his head. Even though his visor was flipped to reflective mode, Strike knew there was annoyance all over his face.

Focusing on Nugget and the Ultraball, Strike put up his hands. “Hut. Hut!” The ball whipped into his hands. Strike backpedaled just three steps before lasering the ball to TNT, who was racing forward into the slot. It clanged into TNT’s gloved hands a split second before a Neutron crashed into him, sending him careening toward Strike.

TNT had almost broken the tackle when another Neutron hurdled over Pickaxe and smashed in. As TNT went down, he flipped the ball in desperation toward Strike.

The Ultraball flew high, to Strike’s left. He leapt up, twisting as he desperately stretched to the max. His shoulders screamed in pain. The ball seemed to float over his fingertips, but then it snapped into place, his glove electromagnets sucking it in. Kicking off someone’s head, Strike jumped over two defenders and landed back to the turf. A slingshot zone was ten meters in front of him. He charged ahead, accelerating to top speed.

The Neutrons came in hot. Meltdown raced toward Strike on an intercept course and threw himself into the air. The two of them hit the slingshot zone at the same time, blasting out the other side, locked together as one. Meltdown slammed fist after fist into Strike’s gloves and helmet, but Strike curled up into the fetal position to protect the ball. They slammed to the ground at the twenty-meter line and bounced as they slid toward the end zone. Meltdown tried to wrap Strike up to end the play, but Strike crunched an elbow into the Neutron’s visor to break free. He popped to his feet and raced forward, leaping for the goal line.

But he nearly whipped into the turf when Meltdown snagged his ankle. Meltdown heaved backward with a massive pull. Crawling, fighting, punching, Strike fought for every last centimeter. Just as another defender barreled in, Strike collapsed over the goal line, slamming the ball into the end zone.

As the thousands of Neutrons fans in red groaned and swore, the other Miners raced in, jubilantly chest-bumping and high-fiving Strike. “Way to make it interesting,” TNT said. He flipped his visor to clear, a grin on his face. “Sorry I didn’t trust you. I should have known you wanted to make the big play yourself.”

“Yeah,” Strike said with a dumb smile. “Just like I planned.” He fought back the claustrophobia pressing in all around him and punched a fist into the air. He bellowed out a primal roar. They’d done it. They’d beaten the hated Neutrons. His teammates launched into a series of sky-high, double-twisting backflips, and he joined in with them, not caring one bit about the fans showering them with boos.

TNT flipped him the Ultraball, pointing up at the giant Meltdown Gun etched into the center of the high ceiling—the Neutrons’ team logo. “Smash the gun.”

Strike laughed maniacally, trying to hide the fact that he no longer had the confidence to make a throw as long as that, not with any accuracy. He drop-kicked the Ultraball, sending it cracking into the impactanium barrier separating the field from the fans, and then turbo butt-slapped a surprised TNT.

After the Miners’ touchdown celebration, the two teams lined it up for the customary postgame fist bumps. White Lightning was in the front of the line, and he slowly approached Strike, looking down at the turf. “Thanks for not making me go one-on-one,” he mumbled. “I owe you big-time.”

Strike nodded. “Thanks for not throwing any cheap shots at me today.”

White Lightning turned to leave. Strike almost put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, to try to console him. Everyone was exhausted after an Ultraball game, but White Lightning looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. The bags under his eyes were heavy and dark. His face was pale. Like death.

As White Lightning trudged away, Strike tried to harden himself against the pathetic sight. Ultraball is war, he thought. But pity kept on nagging away at him.

He startled when a big guy in a red jumpsuit tapped his shoulder. “This is from Mr. Zuna,” the guy said. He handed over a piece of paper folded in half, then stepped away to wait.

Strike looked to the others, pausing before he opened the note. It read:

Your Ultrabot suit is getting tight. You’ll be forced to retire soon. I have a solution.

Keep this under wraps and come alone, or the deal is off.

Frozen, Strike remained stone-still in a mixture of shock and horror.

Raiden Zuna knew his secret.

“You okay?” TNT asked him. “What does Zuna want?”

Strike stared dumbly at the ground. He reached for his left shoulder, unable to tell if the aching pains were real, or just in his imagination. He could still play in top form. Or near it, at least. But how long would that last?

“Strike?” Rock and the others crowded around their quarterback, their coach, their leader. Rock’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Is it about Boom?” He patted his side, where his prized possession was safely hidden: the phone Boom had given him last year, just in case of absolute emergencies. “Should I call her?”

“No,” Strike hissed, snapping out of his trance. “Stop looking for excuses.”

“I know,” Rock said. “I just . . .” He swallowed down a lump. “I’d give up anything to see her again. Even an Ultrabowl title.”

Ultrabowl title, Strike thought. His teammates’ entire futures rode on his shoulders.

If he failed . . .

He shook his head. I have to get back to playing in top form.

Even though he knew that it might be the stupidest decision he would ever make, Strike looked at the big guy in red and nodded.