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It's off.

The thought - or, rather, the feeling - reverberated in Bobby Harris' head, even as the sound of the admittedly small crowd caromed off the walls of the stadium, penetrating to his cold ears through the thick polycarbonate shell of his helmet. Everyone had the option of taking the damned things off when they were on the sidelines, but he kept his on tonight. Any number of reasons offered themselves to him - superstition involving the last game of the season; the cold wind that was at least blunted by the smooth hard surface of the helmet; the hope that the defensive squad would quit half-assing about and put these interlopers in their place quickly, to let the offense get back onto the gridiron to move the ball downfield properly for a change...

Even that wasn't right. They were operating with a substitute for one of the defensive tackles (a bear called Sullivan), but the second-stringer (Jordan, a sophomore razorback who looked promising) was doing his best out there. More than his best, really, maybe feeling that he had something to prove to the rest of the line. But even with those best efforts, it was still a scoreless game halfway through the second quarter. Bobby couldn't figure out what was wrong. They had home field advantage (mostly a myth, but at least they hadn't had to travel, so they might have been fresher on their own turf), the crowd was still pretty good despite the frosty weather, and even though every series of downs seemed to end in a standoff, it wasn't a bad game. It just wasn't a good game, and that bothered the crap out of him. Something was off. He could feel it, whatever it was, even though he couldn't define it, even though he hadn't had much experience in listening to his feelings before...

A flash of a smile crossed the young lion's lips as the thought of his sweet tiger lover warmed him briefly from tip to tail (the tail also expressing itself with a quick, happy swish that went unnoticed). Glancing up into the stands, he thought briefly to look for Mal among the crowd. Not that big a crowd - this wasn't exactly the SuperBowl, after all - but nearly everyone was bundled up to keep warm, collars up and scarves wound tight. He was far enough away from the mass of furs to make it difficult to see any one face clearly, even the face he'd fallen in love with. They'd had little enough time together this week, with finals creeping up, some extra practice sessions for the team... Mal had given him a quote from some Chinese philosophy, along the lines of, "Pay as much attention to endings as to beginnings, and there will be no error." Han Solo said it more simply: "Don't get cocky."

The quarterback let loose a quick chortle at the pun.

Noise from the crowd. The opposition had screwed up their third down; they were bringing in the punter. About time to saddle up. Bobby glanced around at his teammates, all of the offensive squad knowing they were to be on the field in just a few moments. He noticed a few strange looks here and there; maybe the rest of the guys knew that something was off tonight. It was weird enough that Coach Carbajal wasn't alone on the sidelines tonight. Sure, he always had an assistant, and a few student hangers-on to do odd jobs, and the obligatory medicos were always on standby at every game, but that wasn't it. Stackhouse was here. The big Leonberger was too large to be overlooked, and he made no secret about his presence, slightly somber though it was. Bobby wondered if the head coach was keeping an eye on the JV coach, or maybe trying to spot weaknesses, in the plays, in the players... maybe looking to see if Bobby had the juice to make first string varsity...? Great. One more reason to feel off-kilter.

Even the visiting team's punter was off his game; the ball fell shorter than their side would have liked, and the defense ran it back a dozen meters before giving it up. The ball was at the opposition's 40-meter mark, and the goal would be easy to get to with one good forward pass. Carbajal clapped his forepaws together. "All right, furs, get out there and rack up some points! Harris!" The coach came over to him, his own muzzle nearly touching the quarterback's muzzle-guard so that he could be heard above the crowd. "Keep it in the air this round. Plenty of time, and you got the arm for the goal."

"You got it, Coach!" Bobby moved out with his squad, barely noting that Abram Holm, his center, held back as Stackhouse leaned in to say something to him. The quarterback got to midfield, a proper distance away from the other team's milling defense squad, formed up the huddle. Holm joined them a moment later, a look in his eyes ratcheting up that something's-off feeling one more notch. Bobby shook it off, looked his squad over quickly. "Velasquez." The cheetah looked at him, a grin on his muzzle. "Coach wants air this round. Twenty-Seven Right." The wide receiver nodded sharply. Bobby cast a fast eye over the rest of his team. "Knock 'em flat; keep the flies off me, right? BREAK!"

Eleven furs jumped up from the circle and took their positions. The lion squatted down on his haunches, digitigrade behind his jackrabbit center, his hindpaws ready to move, his forepaws ready for the snap. He called the cadence, and everything went like clockwork for about two seconds. As Harris backed up to roll right for the pass, he found himself looking down the double-barrel of two defensive linemen who had broken through the defense. He dodged, weaved, looked for an opening to run the ball himself if he had to, saw Velasquez just in time to hurl the ball clumsily toward him before being taken down hard. Ditching the ball just anywhere would be subject to a penalty; Bobby made it at least appear that he was trying to throw to his receiver. The game clock stopped as the two linesmen took their time getting up from the tackle. By the stink, the quarterback guessed a young stallion and a not-yet-developed bear, neither of whom would be featured in an armpit deodorant commercial anytime soon, more's the pity. After a moment of running a silent damage assessment on himself, he accepted a helping paw from Holm. "You okay?" the jackrabbit asked.

"Okay. Not happy, but okay.Huddle up!" The lion's voice cracked a whip nearly as sharp as Stackhouse himself. The circle gathered around quickly enough, although a few of the line seem to drag a little. The two tackles, a pair of big hefty panthers named Barnett and Shelton, had been lagging all week. Sullivan, the bear who had essentially just vanished over the weekend, had been a buddy of theirs. The quarterback didn't want to be a hard-ass about it, but this wasn't the time to let your muzzle droop over absent friends. "Heads in the game, furs," Bobby growled low. "That was a sucker punch. Where the hell's my blocking? C'mon, let's try to fake 'em by making a switch." He looked over at the lean sophomore ram halfback. "Bass, handoff, Fourteen Left."

One of the panthers piped up. "Thought you said Coach wanted it in the air..."

"That's why it's called a switch, Braniac. We're close enough to goal to go for the TD, so they're expecting air; let's rack up meters on the ground instead. Ten meters at a time -- we still win. You just put your head down and keep 'em off me, okay? Let's do it.BREAK!"

Nine of the furs jumped up enthusiastically enough, as the two panthers made their way to their positions with all of the gusto of bad boys being forced to go to Sunday school. The line of scrimmage was the same, no distance gained, clock had been stopped by the passing play. The referee signaled to start up the clock again; time on the line moved forward. Bobby shouted the cadence, Abe snapped the egg perfectly, and the quarterback shuffled back hard and fast looking for his halfback, but he never had the chance. In the split second before he was taken down, the lion saw the tough ram trying to block one of the attackers, but in the end, Bobby, clutching the ball tight, was hit hard enough to be thrown backward a full body-length before hitting the ground with a bone-crunching thud. Whistles went off as the wind was knocked out of him with such force that he wasn't entirely sure that he was going to be able to pull it back in again. When he did, he caught that whiff of overripe young bear again, along with something that made no sense to him, something like, fear, or anger, or...

No. Hatred. And not the socially-acceptable "sportsmanlike" hatred that modern teams whipped up as an excuse to hit hard, harder, hardest. This smelled personal, bitter, unforgiving.

The bear grinned nastily at him through his helmet's muzzle-guard. "Didja like that, fluffy?" He pushed himself up from his tackle more against Bobby's belly than the ground next to him. The lion had a split second to harden his abs to absorb most of the impact. Holm was there half a second later, and the quarterback had the odd realization that no one else was coming around to help him up.

On gaining his hindpaws, half-hearing the local auditorium announcer making some comment about the "brutal sacking," Bobby felt the center's forepaws on his shoulders. The jackrabbit leaned in close and spoke fast. "From Stackhouse: If you get sacked again, lay there, don't get up, don't even move, you got it?"

The lion felt totally confused. "What...?"

"If you get sacked,_do ... not ... get ... up._Got it?"

The rest of the team gathered round close enough to move backfield to huddle up again. The clock was running; it was a ground play, and time was short. "What the_fuck_ was that?" Bobby exploded, hard and furious, but not loud enough for a referee to catch the language. "Shelton, are you fucking_daydreaming?_ And Barnett, you can't take down a 70-kilo sophomore? You've got almost half again that much on him. Pull your heads out of your asses or I'll bench you both! In the air; Velasquez, buttonhook left and keep an eye out in case these ball-less excuses for felines can't do their goddamn jobs.BREAK!"

The line-up was almost slow enough to cause a penalty for delay of game. The jackrabbit's words rattled in the lion's head, and he had a sinking feeling in his gut that had nothing to do with just how hard he'd been hit a few moments ago. Third and 15. Miracle time. He called the cadence, caught movement to his left a split second_before_ the snap, and even as his forepaws grabbed the ball, he knew there was trouble. He sprang backward as fast as he could, not even trying for grace, just hoping to hold on to the ball and manage an end run, despite what he'd told Velasquez. His mind couldn't process it fast enough, but he was damned certain, when he thought about it later, of exactly what he'd seen. Instead of coming up from a three-point stance and hitting upward and forward, like they were supposed to, both Barnett and Shelton literally stood up and stepped aside, faking being struck down by not just two but four of the defensive players who had found a hole in the line as if they'd been given an engraved invitation.

Bobby's attempt to run was more than just admirable. At one moment, ball clutched tight in his right arm as if he'd never let go, his powerful legs lifted him off the ground high enough for the bull from the other team to eat a half-meter of dirt as he lunged too quickly to tackle him and slid muzzle-first across the field. He managed to land evenly on both hind paws, which saved him from twisting an ankle, but it couldn't save him from the remaining three players taking him down like feral hyenas in the wild. The lion bellowed an equally feral roar of outrage that shocked the crowd into near silence, and it ceased only when his wind was knocked out of him and he felt a fist take a jab at his belly. Another glanced across his muzzle-guarded chin hard enough to pull his head to one side; if he hadn't managed to deflect it slightly, the paw might have connected hard enough to break the plastic and fracture bone.

Vast amounts of raw noise penetrated his helmet. Whistles blowing, curses on the air, the crowd renewing its shouts and cries, stumbling comments from the announcer over the huge speakers above the field. He was only dimly aware of the commotion more immediately around him, the voices of Bass, Holm, Velasquez, shouting and hauling the defensive players off of him. Refs, officials, Carbajal, Stackhouse, pushing everyone else away from him. He felt himself struggling to take deep breaths. His chin, a victim of brotherly love in the form of roughhousing over the years, hurt, but that pain was at least familiar. His abdomen ached; the blow had caught him in the solar plexus, and his diaphragm was trying to knot itself up. A flash of rage made him want to struggle up, but he felt a huge forepaw flatten on his chest, pressing him down, not hard but firmly.

"Stay."

Stackhouse. The Leonberger bent over him making something of a show of it. Carbajal was shouting, refs were shouting, the other team was sent downfield, his own team... only a few there, what the hell, what the everloving_fuck..._ He felt the coach's other forepaw on his helmet, holding his head still. The Leo was shouting: "Bring the board and a C-brace. Don't move, Harris, you might have injuries we don't know about yet."

His eyes. The coach's eyes said something other than what his voice was saying. There was a mad combination of anger, sympathy, command, control. The medicos had gathered around, including the old beagle who looked after everyone. Three sets of forepaws went to work on him as the Leo backed off to let them do their job. Stackhouse's eyes never left his, and Bobby got the message loud and clear:Do nothing.

With great care, the team doctor and his assistants made sure that Bobby's head moved almost not at all as they took the helmet off of him. Cold wind and noise assaulted his ears: The announcer making some kind of statements about the "casualty on the play," clear swearing at unclear targets, boos and uproar from the stands, arguments being quelled by refs and officials, opposing team coaches screaming just to keep in practice. The lion's breathing was starting to become more normal, but he still looked to the coach for a signal.

The beagle raised his voice to be heard. "Harris, we're gonna put a neck brace on you. It may catch your mane a little; we'll do our best. Don't move, just let us move your head and neck for you, okay? If anything hurts or changes, holler out quick." The heavy, stiff brace was more uncomfortable than simply moving his head in any direction, but it wasn't because of any pain from his injuries. He kept quiet, waiting it out. "Just go limp, Harris; we'll shift you onto the board. On three -- one, two..."

Half-carried, half-slid, the lion felt himself placed on the board, carefully lifted, and taken off the field with a minimum of bumping and thumping. If he really had sustained a back or neck injury, these guys would have had everything under control. On the sidelines, Bobby lay still, trying to figure out what was going on. Bits of shouting came to him from nearby and far.

Carbajal: "Barnett, Shelton - bench. Stillson, Frackleton, go in."

Shelton: "Coach, what..."

Carbajal: "Shut up and sit on that bench before I forget what sort of show we're supposed to put on here. Wagner, you're in charge; show 'em how it's done. We're fourth and 26. Make it good."

Barnett: "But Coach, we gotta be out there, the scouts are--"

Stackhouse: "Sit down. Shut up. Don't move or even speak for the rest of the game, or I will personally hang your asses on my office wall -- stuffed, mounted, and for once in your life, free of shit.MOVE!"

Even though the threats weren't made toward him, Bobby's fur crawled. Stackhouse rarely let himself get that pissed off toward players. The doctor was back, shining a penlight into Bobby's eyes, asking about nausea, disorientation, loss of consciousness, numbness or tingling in the extremities... Bobby answered softly in the negative, hoping that was the right answer in each case.

"Let's get him out of the cold, in case shock sets in. Coach, can we get him into the field house, wait for the ambulance there?"

Ambulance...?

Stackhouse looked into the lion's eyes again. "Good idea. Let's keep him warm. Take him in through the coaches' side. Use one of the massage tables to set down the board. I'll be right behind you; I know where we've got blankets and hot packs. Carbajal, you got this?"

"You bet, boss." The black jaguar turned back to the rest of the team and started hollering instructions. Fourth down, back 26... punt play would be obvious, but fair attempt at a field goal, they were almost back to their own 40, but neither side was on the board yet. The lion wanted to chuckle. Can't be injured all that badly if he was still trying to call plays in his head.

Bobby felt himself picked up and carried, seeing the stadium from a whole new perspective. Faces in the stands, various furs actually leaning over the guardrails to get a glimpse of him, flashbulbs going off from different locations, eyes filled with concern, some females with paws to muzzles as if they were somehow personally connected to him. Perhaps, some few were, in another life... some other life... Mal, where was Mal, he wanted Mal... if the poor kit had been watching, he was probably in a panic...

What the fuck happened?

* * * * * * * * * *

Inside the field house, Bobby could once more actually hear himself think. The roar outside had picked up again as the game continued. The show, he thought oddly, must go on. He felt himself placed on some surface (massage table, he assumed, that's what they'd said), and the doc ushered out everyone but Stackhouse. The beagle medico stepped up to Bobby's field of vision again, eyeing him carefully. "Okay, Harris. How do you feel, really?"

"Like I got stomped, but I'm okay. Took a punch to the gut, had the wind knocked out of me." The coach appeared in his line of vision. "Is all this necessary, Coach? I'm fine, I promise."

"I know you are, Bobby. And yes, it's necessary, but not medically. I had to get you out of the game." The Leo held up a paw. "We'll explain. First, can you tell me what happened?" He looked at the doctor. "Harry, is it okay for him to be out of that thing?"

"Makes for great pictures in the paper," the old beagle grinned. "We can always put it back on, if we need to."

Bobby sighed with great relief when the neck brace was removed. The doctor insisted on one more palpation of the areas around the neck and shoulders, but he was satisfied and rolled his paw as if telling the quarterback to continue.

"I hope I'm wrong, Coach. Gods, I hope I'm wrong. It seemed to me that..." He drew a deep breath and said it. "I think Barnett and Shelton were deliberately letting me get sacked."

"They were less useful than a sheet on a clothesline," the coach said bluntly. "At least the sheet would have offered a small chance of getting the bastards tangled up."

Bobby stared. "You're serious...? They let me get..._why?_What the f..." He caught himself.

"Say it, Harris. I did. 'What the_fuck_were they thinking?' Or were they thinking?"

In spite of himself, the lion managed a chuckle. "Maybe they're on some mind-altering drug."

"Doubt it. Nothing there for the drug to work on." The great Leo managed a small smile. He glanced over his shoulder, seemed to be waving someone over. "I arranged a visitor for you."

He stepped back a little, and Bobby found Malcolm rushing up to him and wrapping his arms around him, barely holding back from crying.

"Mal!" The lion threw his arms around the young tiger and held him close. "It's okay, babe, I'm fine, it's okay..."

It was only then that the light began to dawn, that he realized what he was doing. He almost jerked away from Mal's embrace, feeling embarrassed, terrified... The tiger gripped only tighter, whispering, "It's okay, I promise, I'm gonna make it all okay..."

Still confused, Bobby looked past Malcolm's shoulder to see the coach smiling softly at him and nodding. "Yes, Harris. It's okay. Or it will be."

"I've called Mom," the younger feline said, holding back his sobs. "It wasn't her, I swear it wasn't. She never uploaded any of her pictures."

"Pictures... uploaded pictures, what pictures, what...?" The lion still couldn't quite process what was happening.

"From Thanksgiving. She promised you she wouldn't, and she didn't." Mal looked into the lion's eyes. "They didn't come from her."

"But who else was taking..."

Something clicked in his head, almost literally. Lisa's camera had a flash, but it took photos silently. That whirring sound... not a real motor, but a sound effect, the kind used by smartphones...

"Lindsey," the lion said in a sickly voice.

"Lindsey Little, if you want the rest of her name." The Leo nodded soberly. "Has quite the small following on Facebook... especially the members of her old sorority. The one Parker's old flame was part of."

He felt the tiger lean over and grip him more tightly, and he returned the gesture, not knowing what else to do. After a very long moment, he sensed more than saw the coach move a little closer to him, then felt the huge, tender paw to his head. He was just able to see that Stackhouse had placed his other paw on Mal's shoulder.

"Harris... I'm here to help. You've got friends here, friends in high places. Here's how this is going to go, at least first part of all this. We're keeping you out of this game due to injuries; your athletic record will be completely unblemished. Any scouts out there can easily see that you got badly sacked due to the incompetency of your own defensive line. Their reputations just got turned to shit, and it's their own fault. Dean Williamson is willing to go along as well, so there's no conflict with anything academic. We'll get your finals and classes sorted out easily enough. 'Medical testing' tonight and tomorrow morning will show no serious injuries, and you'll get whatever time you may need to get yourself back together; we'll arrange to shift your finals, if necessary. And there are some grateful alumni -- that's what we're calling them, anyway -- who want to make sure that you get yourself healed up properly, so we'll be moving you out of the jock dorm, at least temporarily. Got a nice comfortable place where you'll have room for someone to take care of you." At this, the coach patted Mal's shoulder gently. "I'm sure that'll help a lot."

"Sounds like you've been planning this..."

"Only in part. I spoke to Dean Williamson when I found out about the photos. We've been watching the papers for... other reasons." The coach's eyes darkened. "We had no way of knowing that this would happen, but... forgive an old dog his clichés, but I had a bad feeling about all this."

"What aren't you telling me?"

The Leo shook his head softly, his large pendant ears shifting, the expression on his muzzle relaxing a little. "You're not off the team, Harris, not at all. Your scholarship is fine, too, and you'll be playing next year. I'd already penciled you in as our starting quarterback. You've earned it."

"But how could I..."

"Listen to me, kit. I'd rather kick off half of the players in the squad than lose you over this... this goddamned prejudicial shit they're pulling." Stackhouse's words were more forceful than Bobby would have expected. "It's blowback from Parker, and from the crap that happened last week. I was afraid those double-cursed panthers would try some kind of stunt. Their friend Sullivan? He's the one who beat the crap out of Jerry Bunting."

"Jerry? Oh gods, that's right, he... what, Thanksgiving night? We found out after we got back..." The lion's brow knotted. "When did all this...?"

"The Facebook stuff cranked up after everyone returned from break. It started rumors through the campus, quiet at first, but noisier as the week went by." Stackhouse paused, his paw still resting tenderly on Bobby's mane. "You were waiting for the game to be over, weren't you?"

The lion only nodded. "Didn't want to upset the guys before..." He sighed. "Guess I screwed that up, huh?"

"No." The great Leo managed a smile that was almost fatherly. "It's not your fault. And for the rest of this weekend, your job is to stay out of sight, rest and recuperate, and get ready for your finals, starting Monday. No long-term decisions. Just stay quiet and let this blow over. Malcolm, if you want to, we'll arrange to have you stay with him. He's going to need some looking after."

Though an English major, the young tiger seemed at a loss for word, his shy smile relaying his thanks.

"Coach..." Bobby tried hard to keep his voice steady. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I'm not going to stand aside and let raw stupidity hurt a good fur. Two good furs." Stackhouse tousled Mal's headfur. "There's been enough pain over all this, and it's time that it stopped. Believe me, it's not your fault, Bobby." The Leo's voice was deep and soft. "Not your fault... but it's now your problem. I'm sorry, kit... ready or not, you've been outed."