THE RIDER (Galactic Football League Novellas Book 4)

by Scott Sigler

  Even though Guestford’s prime was years past, she was still beautiful, drop-dead gorgeous and the obsession of many a rich man. Compared to Becca “The Wrecka” Montagne, however, Pete wouldn’t have given the commissioner a second glance — an actress was good and fine, but an athlete of Becca’s caliber? Now that was sexy on a level the commissioner couldn’t hope to reach.

  And of course, the Commissioner had glommed on to the football stars. They had come to see Pete and the riders, not Guestford, but she never missed a chance to let the paparazzi see her with anyone even remotely famous.

  But, no Quentin Barnes. Pete had heard Barnes was bringing Trench Warfare singer Somalia Midori as his date ... no sign of that beauty, either.

  Pete ran his fingers through his long ponytail, took a deep breath, and walked toward the table, a forced smile on his face.

  Guestford saw him first. “About damn time,” she said.

  Tweedy stood up in a rush, almost knocking the table over.

  “Pete!”

  The huge human bent slightly and offered his huge paw. Pete placed his tiny hand in Tweedy’s, half-afraid the football player would — in pure, overwhelming excitement — accidentally break every bone in Pete’s hand.

  The handshake was gentler than Pete expected.

  “You remembered,” he said.

  I SAID I WAS SORRY ABOUT THAT scrolled across John’s forehead, that strange, unnerving display of his full-body tattoo.

  The big linebacker laughed. “Can’t have the league MVP out of the picture before the playoffs hit, amiright?”

  When Pete had first met John Tweedy the season before, the linebackers’ over-exuberant handshake had sprained Pete’s wrist.

  “We don’t really have playoffs,” Pete said. “There’s only ten teams right now, so we have a championship tournament. The top four teams make it in.”

  John shrugged.

  “Tournament shmournament, playoffs shmayoffs,” he said. “Six of one, one and a half dozen of the other. What matters is that final single-elimination goodness, guano-a-guano until one team raises the belt.”

  Pete laughed. “Guano-a-guano? Do you mean mano-a-mano?”

  “Same difference,” John said.

  He looked at Pete’s jersey and his face lit up all over again. He patted his own shirt at the left chest, where it showed Pete’s #5.

  “Hey! I’m wearing your number, you’re wearing mine. We’re jersey buddies!”

  It still freaked Pete out a little — John Tweedy, star linebacker and one of the most well-known athletes in the galaxy, was excited to see him, like Pete was a real sports celebrity or something.

  Pete looked over at the block of a woman standing next to John.

  “Miss Montagne,” Pete said, then gave a flourishing bow. “I’m utterly delighted.”

  The black-haired HeavyG woman stood and reached out for a handshake. Pete took the hand, turned it, gently kissed the top of it.

  “You are truly a vision,” he said with a smile.

  Montagne’s face flushed.

  John laughed and clapped his hands.

  “Oh, watch out for Pete, Becca, he’s a real smoothy-smooth!”

  Guestford gestured to the table’s open chair.

  “Pete, why don’t you sit and we’ll all order dinner? I’m crashing your party a little bit, but I don’t think John minds. Do you, John?”

  “Oh, hell no,” the linebacker said. “I love to eat.”

  Judging by the size of the man, Pete wondered if he did anything but eat, besides play football.

  Guestford had a fake smile firmly planted on her face. She wanted to rip Pete’s head off, but wasn’t about to miss a chance for the biggest star in her league to sit down with two superstars of the GFL — who had come here to watch him play — and let everyone in the restaurant see it as well. Guestford undoubtedly had a photographer around somewhere; pictures of Pete hanging with Tweedy and Montaigne would soon be on all the sports sites. But that same smile said something else: eat and be a good boy, because we still have to settle up later.

  “Hey, Commissioner,” Pete said, knowing he should leave it alone but unable to stop himself. “Want to borrow my galaxy atlas?”

  Becca laughed, covered her mouth with her hands.

  Guestford’s lips pressed into a thin line and her face flushed red, at least as much as Pete could tell through all the makeup.

  “An atlas?” John said. He looked at Becca. “What’s Pete talking about?”

  “Before the match, Commissioner Guestford introduced the Ridgebacks as being from Rodina,” Becca said. “Instead of being from Wilson 6. It’s no big deal, John, just a slip of the tongue confusing the planet Rodina with the city of New Rodina.”

  John’s brow wrinkled as he tried to process the info.

  Guestford’s fake smile returned. “Yes, a slip of the tongue. A former actress should be able to memorize her lines — maybe the years are catching up with me.”

  John still hadn’t gotten it. Becca looked uncomfortable. Guestford just looked pissed.

  Pete climbed into the chair; so much for teasing the most powerful person in Dinolition.

  A Human waiter came over. John started ordering. When John ordered, it took awhile. After he’d picked out seven appetizers and was thinking over his third entree, Pete exchanged a glance with Becca.

  She smiled. “John gets a little hungry.”

  Pete nodded and winked. “So do I.”

  Rebecca blushed again and laughed, flattered by Pete’s subtle overture.

  “John warned me about you,” she said.

  John looked up from his ordering.

  IS PETE HITTING ON YOU ALREADY? scrolled across his forehead.

  Becca nodded. “Yep.”

  “Told ya,” John said, and went back to ordering.

  Becca smiled. Pete was entranced.

  “I’ve never watched a Dinolition match before,” she said. “You were awesome.”

  Now it was Pete’s turn to blush. Was the Wrecka, complimenting him?

  “We could have done better,” he said. “We lost a mount. We need to work on our fundamentals.”

  Something changed in Becca’s eyes. Pete knew he had just connected with her. With that one expression, he felt overwhelmed knowing that an athlete of her caliber had, for whatever reason, accepted him as an equal.

  “Fundamentals,” Becca said. “That’s what it’s all about. Awful sorry you lost a teammate.”

  A teammate. She didn’t refer to Tumult as a mount or a ride. Pete knew he had no shot with this woman, but that didn’t stop him from falling a little in love with her right then and there. He wondered if John had any idea how lucky he was to have her on his arm.

  John finally handed the menu back to the HeavyG server. The sentient took everyone else’s orders, bowed and headed for the kitchen.

  “That should do it,” John said as he finished his beer.

  Pete shook his head. “Um, John? You ordered almost as much beefalo as Ol’ Bess eats.”

  John slapped him on the back. “Yup. Watching you guys out there gave me one hell of an appetite!”

  They made small talk while waiting for the next round of drinks and the meal. Pete thought of making another overture at Becca, but that simple comment of hers — sorry about your teammate — had taken away any ability to see her as a romantic conquest. Becca Montagne was the kind of woman a man courted, not just hit on.

  The waiter returned with drinks and appetizers. A stout for Pete, gimlet for Guestford, and more beers for both GFL players. John dug into his bowl of Newton oysters, fresh in from the Net Colony. He offered one to Rebecca, who slurped the grey flesh into her mouth and smiled.

  “So, Pete, do you live here in Roughland?”

  “I have a home outside town,” Pete said. “Just a few kilometers from the team ranch.”

  “Please tell me Bess doesn’t live with you.”

  John laughed and slapped the table, a long shred of sautéed lem
pel ligament hanging out the side of his mouth. It dripped juice, most of which was caught by the napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt.

  Pete grinned. “No, Miss Montagne. Bess lives at the ranch.”

  “Becca,” she said. “My name is Becca.”

  Pete blushed. “Sure,” he said.

  Guestford sipped at her gimlet.

  “Pete’s place is nice,” she said, “but I’m sure if it was large enough Bess would come home with him every night.”

  “Of course she would,” Pete said. “She’s house-broken and everything. Or is it that she breaks houses? I always get those confused.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “What’s Bess like?” Rebecca asked. “I mean, when she’s not eating other riders, of course.”

  Pete smiled. “Bess is my girl. She’s the only living dinosaur of her kind. Sometimes I think she knows it. Regardless, as terrifying as she looks, she’s playful and careful. You could put a child in her pen and the child would be fine.”

  Becca shook her head. “Hard to believe something so big could be so docile. You really mean to tell me that they’re never dangerous?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Pete said. “Some dinos show extreme aggression. We want that on the pitch, obviously, but off of it that causes ... problems.”

  “I can imagine,” Becca said. “John told me the dinos were bred to be pets?”

  Guestford rolled her eyes. “Hardly. The tech was originally brought about to create watch-animals for the super-wealthy. That didn’t work out so well. While the dinos are manageable on a ranch and in the arena, they have to have an outlet for their natural aggression. When they weren’t given that outlet, they made one, often with tragic results. There were incidents. Some animals were destroyed, others were sold. Lawsuits forced Buckland De-Extinction Group — the company that created the tech and raised the first generation — out of business. I was part of an investor group that bought up their tech, their embryos and a few dozen animals. We contacted other races to see if they wanted to showcase some of their native, primitive species, and that’s how we started Dinolition.”

  Pete had been brought in shortly after that. To think that because Salton had once owned a failed traveling circus, that Pete was now wining and dining with two GFL players? It boggled the imagination.

  John stabbed a fork at the plate of one of his appetizers, came back with deep-fried bull testicle.

  “Pete’s got the only T-Rex in the league,” he said. “That’s why Pete is a bad-ass.”

  Guestford sipped from her glass. “Bess is the reason the Ridgebacks are the most popular team in Dinolition.”

  Pete feigned a hurt look. “And I thought it was my good looks.”

  Becca laughed, delighted.

  When the server brought the entrees, the table couldn’t hold them all. The waiter had to drag over a second table, which he set up near John. Four roasted beefalo legs sat atop large plates of sautéed sweetbreads, fried liver, Rodina haggis, grilled flank steak, succulent prime rib, and tender strip.

  John rubbed his hands together.

  “This will do for round one,” he said.

  Pete shook his head. It was going to be a long meal.

  • • •

  The large palm hit him on the back again. Pete tried not to flinch.

  “Man, when you hit the beast’s rider with your hammer? That was awesome! I mean, super-mega awesome!”

  The big Human was already on his fifth mag-can of beer and his third shot of tequila. Pete felt a little tipsy, but he was beginning to think that was due to a mild concussion from all of John’s friendly back-slapping.

  “Thanks, John,” Pete said and took another sip from his beer.

  After dinner, at John’s urging, they had left the restaurant and returned to the raucous environment of the bar proper. John pounded his huge fist on the bar top.

  “Barkeep! We need another round of shots!”

  He slapped Pete on the back again, hard enough that Pete wondered if Tumult wouldn’t be the only one that day with cracked vertebra.

  The local band, Reggie’s Roadkill Rockers, fired up their instruments. The building vibrated with the noise.

  The shots arrived. John slammed his, then roared in delight. He screamed often, intensely, and usually for no apparent reason.

  “Say, Petey,” John said. “You’re all famous and rich now. You told me you didn’t know who your parents were. You ever want to find out?”

  Pete shook his head. He didn’t know and didn’t want to know.

  “‘Cause I know a guy,” John said. “Bad-ass private investigator. He’s my friend. He finds lost parents and what-not. Although, you got to watch out for him a little, because he can read your thoughts which is really weird, and—”

  “John, I don’t give two squirts about my parents,” Pete said. “They sold me when I was a baby. If I ever meet them, I’ll probably kill them.”

  Rebecca’s eyebrows rose. Uncomfortable again, she scanned the bar, finding sudden interest in the various bottles of liquor on the wall.

  “Fred does that, too,” John said, then took a big pull of his beer.

  “Does what?” Pete said.

  “Kill people,” John said. “Or at least he used to. Not sure.”

  Pete sighed and drained his shot. It tasted like rotten apples mixed with turpentine.

  “John, I don’t want to find my parents, I don’t want to kill my parents. Thanks, but I’m good.”

  John suddenly leaned close, so close Pete could smell the beer on his breath. John’s face furrowed into an intense scowl. Pete almost hopped off the seat, but before he could John’s blinding speed had a giant hand clutched on Pete’s shoulder, fingers squeezing tight. Not tight enough to hurt, but close.

  Pete didn’t move.

  “I hear you, Peetie,” John said. “I do, but this guy? He’s good. He’s mega-awesome-super-good. If you ever need to find out anything about anyone, let me know. I can vouch for him. Need to know where someone is? He can do that. Need to make sure someone can’t be found?” John winked, a drunken, overly obvious thing that made his lip curl up and his head tilt comically to the side. “He’s the dude. And if what you need to find out the who-with and what-forth isn’t all that totally legal on the up and up and maybe a shade on the dark side? When it comes to Fred, if you play with fire, you get the horns.”

  John let go. The big smile returned. Pete sat very, very still. Maybe the linebacker had had one too many. Maybe five too many, but who was counting?

  The band finished a song and rolled right into another.

  Becca smiled, put her arm around John.

  “That’s a catchy tune. Don’t you think that’s a catchy tune, John?”

  John cocked his head to the other side, squinted, listened. Becca was distracting the big man from his private-investigator speech, and Pete wanted to kiss her for it.

  “You should dance,” Pete said and thumbed toward the floor behind them. Couples were already pairing up.

  Tweedy downed his sixth mag-can in a single gulp. He pointed at Pete. “You should dance with Becca!”

  Pete grinned and shrugged. “I’m afraid I barely make it to her waist. That would make dancing impossible.”

  Becca grabbed Tweedy’s hand. “Come on, John. Let’s see if a linebacker can shuffle.”

  John sighed and swiveled off the bar stool. The two football players made their way into the throng of dancers. They stood taller than those around them. Pete watched Rebecca place her hands on John’s shoulders as he took her around the waist. They began to dance.

  “Let’s talk, Pete.”

  The voice came from his right, from Rachel Guestford.

  Pete turned to look at her. Several beers in, he couldn’t remember why he thought she wasn’t in Becca’s league — Rachel Guestford was stunning: perfect hair, gorgeous eyes and that spectacular golden dress.

  “Sure, honey,” Pete said. “We’ll talk about whatever you want.” />
  Her brow furrowed, calling forth little wrinkles that would never have made it onto movie promotional shots.

  “Call me Commissioner,” she said. “You got it?”

  Pete blinked, shook his head. Had he just called the league commissioner honey? Time to stop drinking.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Sure, let’s talk.”

  “I’ve set up an interview for you, an important interview.”

  Pete rolled his eyes. “Another one? You know I have to train, right? I’m tired of talking to these third-tier regional reporters, Commissioner.”

  The left corner of Guestford’s mouth tucked back in a wry smile.

  “Then you should like this,” she said. “It’s Galaxy Sports Live.”

  Pete’s eyebrows rose. “I’m going to be interviewed by Rindel the Blue?”

  “He’s on vacation,” Guestford said. “The guest host is Yolanda Davenport.”

  Pete’s eyebrows rose even further. Yolanda Davenport, maybe the most-famous sports reporter there was. That brought a new level of legitimacy to Dinolition. It would also bump up Pete’s visibility, by a lot, and would make him more appealing to advertisers — a good interview would not only help the league, it might do amazing things for his wallet.

  “I’ll be ready,” Pete said. “I’ve got the company-speak down cold, Commissioner, you can count on me.”

  She nodded, sipped her champagne. “I don’t doubt that, Pete, but there’s more this time. Davenport is interested in the league, but my sources tell me she still thinks we’re a gimmick. She thinks you are the story, how you overcame your past.”

  Pete put both hands on the bar. He absently dragged the tip of his finger through a streak of water — or maybe beer — that had sloshed out of a glass.

  “My past is my business,” he said quietly. “I don’t like to talk about it to anyone, let alone the millions who’ll watch that interview.”

  “I don’t care what you like,” Guestford said, her words short and clipped. “This is a huge opportunity for us, Pete. Maybe she thinks the league is a joke, but like you said, millions will watch this. You just being on the set with her adds to our credibility. People want to know the stories of their heroes. The more you open up, the better it is for us.”

  Pete’s fingertip drew lines of moisture. Maybe he was drawing a bunny, or maybe Bess, he wasn’t sure.