THE ROOKIE (GFL Book I)

BOOK TWO: Pre-Season

He waited for it.

Waited for the punch-out.

His pulse raced in a way it never did on the football field — a panicky way. He felt anxious, tried to control his breathing.

This is your fourteenth flight, everything went fine before.

The ship started to vibrate, just a little. A thin sheen of sweat covered his hands, which clutched tightly to his playbook messageboard. They were about to drop out of punch space and back into what people once called "reality."

This is the most statistically safe method of travel in the galaxy.

Statistics didn't stop newscasts, however, especially newscasts of passenger ships forever lost in punch space, or the horrific remains of a ship that met some stray piece of debris during the punch-out back to relativistic speeds. They called it the "reality wave," the feeling that washed over the ship when it dropped out of punch space and back into regular time.

You'll be fine, you'll be fine, you'll be –

His breath seized up and he squeezed his eyes shut as the shudder hit. That sickening feeling of splitting, or spreading. He knew

Oh High One oh High One oh no oh no ...

And then it was over. He forced himself to relax, forced open his tightly clenched teeth. He opened his eyes. The observation deck was still there. Quentin slowly let out a long-held breath. Everyone else on the deck looked relaxed. Everyone else always did. He liked to tell himself that they were just oblivious to the danger, rather than tell himself to stop being such a pansy.

Four seasons in the PNFL had taken him to every major city in the Purist Nation. He'd seen all four planets, Mason, Solomon, Allah and Stewart, as well as most of the colonies. Space travel was nothing new to Quentin, but this time it was different.

This was his first trip alone, without the familiarity of his teammates. But on this flight he certainly didn't suffer for lack of attention. On a ship full of Purist Nation businessmen, the league's MVP never went wanting for a drink or a dinner or some fat old fool looking to shake his hand.

One guy on the ship, Manny Sayed, followed him everywhere, trying to get Quentin to endorse his luxury yacht company. Quentin wasn't endorsing anything just yet — he didn't want to associate himself with one company before he signed with an advertising firm that could connect him to the hundreds of industries trying to cash in on the phenomenal marketing power of the GFL.

The distance of this trip also made it different. The Purist Nation was only twenty light years across at its widest: most flights took only half a day. This time, however, he was at the edge of the Galactic Core, at Creterak — the end of a three-day journey of some forty-five light years.

Quentin stared out the huge observation window, looking into space as the passenger liner gradually slowed to a halt some ways off the Creterakian orbital station Emperor Two. It was a huge construct, bigger than anything Quentin had ever seen. Hundreds of ships surrounded the station, all a respectful distance away. The tiny, flashing dots that were shuttles constantly flew back and forth

He heard the rhythmic clonk of a now familiar footstep. Quentin grimaced, waiting for the fat voice to speak.

"You think this is big, you should see Emperor One," said Manny Sayed. "It's almost twice as big." He bore the forehead tattoo and the blue robe of a confirmed church man — a big robe to cover his wide girth. He also brandished a half-dozen rings fashioned from the rare metals of the galaxy and a Whopol necklace suffused with a glowing silvery light. Manny's left leg was missing just below the knee, yet he managed to turn even his handicap into a show of wealth: his platinum, jewel-studded prosthetic leg announced his presence wherever he walked.