Somewhere in Rocket City, Alabama

He should have been asleep hours ago.

It was a late night Saturday and Baltasar’s face was lit by the dim blue glow from the computer screen.

The past few weeks had been a flurry. Public relations, promotions, sponsorships, talking to the team owner, manager, coach, drills and practice, flying across the continent... he couldn’t do this alone for much longer. He started by quietly looking up agents, and contacting a few agencies, testing the waters. Despite his efforts, word caught on that he was in the market looking for representation. And soon they were the ones contacting him by the dozen. His inbox, voicemail, even mailbox could be trusted to have at least one letter or company offering a contract.

In a way it feel damn good.

All these people vying for his attention, all of them eager to have him as a client, he hadn’t made quite the amount of waves some other players had during his rookie season but it felt… encouraging, to know his talent was recognized. At least, he hoped this was the case. Truthfully he, felt utterly overwhelmed and unprepared. What to do? Who to choose? Back home it had always been himself and his father managing the finances, but the FBA was a behemoth the giant tortoise could not tackle on his own. How could he know which ones were making good offers? Which ones were just lying through their teeth, suckering him into a less than ideal contract… what the heck even WAS an ideal contract?

And then one day he got a call.

He had long since stopped wondering how these people managed to get a hold of his phone number. When he answered, a crisp, clear, female voice spoke:

“Mr. Baltasar Torrealba y Toboso?”

It was rare enough to hear his own name nowadays. Everyone usually opting for “T-Balt” instead. So hearing his full name, and properly pronounced, was enough to make him not hang up the moment she mentioned she worked for a sports agent, who was on the line and wanted to speak with him.

“Could he not just call me himself?”

“Mr. Latour wanted to make sure you would be available, he’s waiting on the line. One moment please.”

Baltasar barely had time to ponder the name before the line picked up again, and Sedrick Latour’s unctuous voice rang out from the little speaker.

“Ah, Mr Torrealba y Toboso. Or do you prefer Baltasar?”

“Torrealba is fine, Mr… Latour”

“Torrealba it is! Glad to finally get a hold of you, my friend. How’s Huntsville been treating you? Adjusting to your new life in the pro sports world?”

“I have survived.”

“Excellent!” LaTour responded. The word on its way out of his mouth before T-Balt had even finished talking. “And you’ve been having quite the freshman season,” he said with a whistle. “All-star rookie, number three in rebounds, third in blocks, playing on the number one team in the league. Just… my GOODNESS. Talk about making a big splash, am I right? And no, that’s not a tortoise joke. But there’s one thing… I just… maybe you can help me with this one, my monolithic amigo.”

“...yes?”

“How on EARTH is it that you’ve made it thus far without a decent agent? Or were you just waiting for me to call?” he laughed.

“Should I have been?”

More laughter from the coati. “I’d say if it wasn’t intentional then you are damn lucky I got to you before you made the biggest mistake of your young career.”

“And what would that be?”

“Your name is being mispronounced by a whole lot of folks looking to get you in their stable, big guy. A player of your calibre, on the team you’re on, unrepresented? Jeez, Torrealba, you’re like seeing a Rolex in one of those claw machines. But, and this is a BIG butt, that means you’re gonna need to make sure you get the right agent.”

“And I assume you mean yourself?”

“Now you’re getting it!” the slick-talking agent said, a little too enthusiastically. “See, there are a lot of agents out there. I mean just a god-awful number of them, and most of those yahoos wouldn’t know a trade clause from Santa Claus. Now I’ve been in this game a while, and I know how to get a player the best possible contract, bar none. And, my friend, a player like you? Whew, the sky’s the limit.”

“This is a very big decision. I would have to give this some th-”

“I’m gonna have my secretary pass you my personal number, okay? This is just a work phone, don’t call here, you’ll get her again and we’ll end up playing phone tag. I’ll also have her give you my website address, just in case you were curious to see the kind of athletes that Sedrick LaTour represents. I only represent the best, Mr Torrealba, and I only deliver the best. I could sit here and talk your ear off for another hour, but I’m sure you have plenty to do yourself and I’d rather let my work stand on its own.”

And before Baltasar could fit in another word, the call was passed onto LaTour’s secretary who gave him a number and website, politely bade him a good day and hung up.

The tortoise stared at the quickly scrawled note on in his huge hand. Who the hell was Sedrick LaTour?

The tortoise had never heard of him, but the man talked big. Big clients, big contracts, big numbers... and there was an air of confidence backing them up. He had also been the only one to basically make T-Balt do the actual work in looking him up. He seemed unconcerned with what he would find, or perhaps, he was counting on it.

Interesting.

A quick Google search turned into an evening long research gathering endeavour. He even tried looking up other agents that had interested him. But LaTour stood out amongst all others. He looked up the man and soon found his website. Simple, well organized, stylish. Professional. And quite the repertoire of athletes. He hadn’t been exaggerating. It seemed like most, if not all of his clients were highly rated and valued. Yet baltasar had heard little about them. But not in the bad sense, here they were, quietly earning their millions. Nice and clean.

So why did he have an uneasy feeling about all this? By all intents this was the perfect deal landing on his lap. maybe that was it.

It was “too” perfect.

Or rather, Latour seemed too good to be true. Did he have ANY client that wasn't a star? Didnt seem so… there was Bali Mahi. He wasn't doing so hot. But it was a droplet in a pool. There HAD to be a catch. And the more time he sunk trying to find one the more suspicious he became.

After another half hour of fruitless searching he sighed and pushed away from the desk, heaving himself off the specially designed chair he’d had made and paced around the flat, trying to focus his thoughts.

Was he being stupid? After all, what ‘dirt’ could he possibly dig up using a Google search in the first place?

There was just something about that name… he -had- heard it before but where?

-bzzzt!-

The his phone sprang to life, clacking loudly on the glass coffee table and Almost making T-Balt jump. He had learned the hard way never to ignore the little device’s call however. Stoat or the coach sometimes organized surprise training sessions or strategy discussions, after missing two, it was made clear to him he was not allowed to go anywhere without one.

As soon as he turned on the screen however, he groaned. It was an FMZ tweet about him, putting him on a list of “players most likely to change teams”. Claiming he said he was sick at the lack of professionalism and excess of horny brats in the Mayors… yeah, that was something he needed to read right now.

He was about to flick the phone onto the sofa, when he stopped mid throw and looked again at the screen, focusing on the little red FMZ logo. “Hmm” he pressed it and navigated through the myriads of sensationalist nonsense till he found the one tweet he had been looking for:

“BREAKING: THE REF’S SKULL! @alfierat1818 fouls out in 1st half and goes BERZERK!! Story as it develops!!!”

Baltasar knew who Norwich was, of course. Heck he’d heard of him a few times back in Spain: The thuggish british rat, turned pro-athlete, involved in several high profile incidents, both on the court and off.

He remembered that day, but more importantly he remembered reading more on it after seeing the tweet.

Opting to use the larger computer instead of the tiny screen he sat himself down again and after only a quick few keystrokes he found it:

The article made wild speculations as to why Alphonse would have done such a foolish thing, ranging from drugs and speciesism, to a recent scandal about his gay brother… to difficulties with his new, non-rat agent: Sedrick LaTour.

Alphonse Norwich was LaTours client?!

Baltasar looked again at the many tabs he had open, all of them showing the many success stories that made up the coati’s “collection”. The rat stuck out like a sore thumb.

More interestingly, he was nowhere on LaTour’s webpage or the large news sites. Any mention he found about the two was in small obscure blogs that seemed to either idolize or despise the british rat.

What was a man like LaTour, with his shining, sparkling row of clients doing with a player like him? Yet LaTour had been very confident in telling him to look him up. Had he been expecting him to find this? Or was this a fluke? Why wasn't he on his official site?

If finding footage of LaTour’s other players had required few search terms on Google, Baltasar barely needed to start typing in the rat’s name before the search engine auto completed it for him. Most of it he had already seen or heard of, the usual ranting and raving. He was a media frenzy favourite. Snappy titles like “The heabutt heard across the world!” or “A bite in the Ass!”.

Baltasar rolled his eyes and almost closed the browser, when a video caught his eye. It was the promotional video Alphonse’s first agent had made for his draft back in 2013.

The video showed Alphonse playing against the Harvaardwak University team. The rat was almost all elbows and pure ferocity, there was a lack of proper technique to his style, but a great deal of energy.

Ignoring the rest of the flashy e-zine articles, he loaded up up old Hawaii games, studying the rat’s plays in more detail. Thinking Back baltasar remembered the only two encounters they’d had so far…

Where Baltasar was slow and deliberate, Alphonse was fast and brutal. Where he tried to be a wall and stop his opponent’s advance. Alphonse would ram through it. He didn't zigzag as much around the court. When he got the ball he would try and beeline towards the hoop, no matter who got in his way.

The rat was never seen afterwards however. While most players lingered on the court to bask in the cheer of the crowd and chat with the occasional reporter. Win or lose, Alphonse almost always made it straight for the locker rooms. He seemed out of his element, amidst the post game flashing lights and inquiring reporters.

A few more videos later Baltasar finally looked at his clock “Damn. I should have been asleep hours ago.” He finally mumbled, rubbing at his eyes and shutting off the computer. The last game of the season against Hawaii would be tomorrow. While Huntsville had mostly recovered from its disastrous series of stumbles after losing Hassan and Wendy, they had not managed to return to their steamroller opening early in the season. And last time they played against Hawaii, they had lost. This time the game was in Huntsville, Rocket City and Baltasar would take no chances...

March 15th Huntsville Arena

After so many games at the Explorer Arena, Baltasar had begun to notice he had developed a small routine: Wake up, get ready, drive over, warm up, pre-game strategy talk with the coach and captain, listen to Wendy rant, try to make out what Stoat just said, change into the nice showy jerseys with the Mayors logo and walk onto the court to a roar of people and a dazzle of lights.

There was a regularity to it he almost enjoyed. And the indistinct racket of the crowd turned into white noise, the glare of the lights soaking into his dull green shell and scales. Slowly, it all faded away. Like it always did. The agents, the scandals, the personalities, the contracts…

Baltasar lumbered to the center of the court, each step quieting the hundreds of voices until he was in near perfect silence.

There was Charles Burgh, Hawaii Center, strong offense, arrogant, sees rookies as hotshots. Use that. Their eyes lock. A referee walks between the two giants, holding an orange sphere. It flies upwards. A split second, so it T-Balt, reaching for it, nothing else exists.

It begins…

…

…and it ends.

The klaxon wailed, and he was back in the brightly lit arena, the cheers and boos of the crowd blending into a hopeless mess. The ball bounced a few times on the harwood before a referee caught it. He barely felt the pats on his shell his teammates gave him, except Wendy’s. They had won. A 6 point difference, with Stoat once more as Player of the Game. Not a bad match.

Just as Baltasar turned to look back at the Kahunas walking off the court, he saw a teal and white mohawk, crowning a burly brown rat. So he had come to the game...

Baltasar looked at the white and neon-pink Kahunas walk off the hardwood and clenched his beak. When else would be get a chance like this?

He walked past his teammates, not quite as receptive to the usual post-game Mayor’s banter. He needed to find him fast. Norwich didn’t seem like the type to hang around after games. Especially ones he didn’t play in.

The arena had areas for staff and players only, that let them move about without dealing with the fans, just as the reptile rounded a corner he saw the rat down a hallway heading towards an Exit. He had already changed into the getup he had seen him wear on television: The large boots, the black leather jacket, ratty shirt.

“Alphonse Norwich?" he called out.

But the rat didn’t stop, and kept moving towards the Exit sign.

“Hey, Norwich!” He called out, trotting towards him, still in his Mayors Jersey.

Alphonse finally turned and quickly locked eyes with him.

“...yeh? Th’ fuck ya want, turtle?” the rat said in his typical gruff fashion.

“...Tortoise,” T-Balt said, flatly. Rolling his eyes. Why did everyone get that wrong?

“Right,” the rat responded, with a tone to his voice that said he didn’t really care that he’d gotten the species wrong.

“You are represented by LaTour, no?”

Alfie rolled his eyes “S'what if I am, eh?”

“Got a phone call from him, offering me a contract”

“Wot, you want a pat on the back?”

“Tell me, is he a good agent?”

“Why the bloody ‘ell you asking me for?”

“Because -you- have no reason to lie”

Alphonse’s reputation for not being the most eager to talk with those he didn’t know, particularly non-rats, was as evident as ever on his face. There was a sneer pulling at his lip, but it oddly didn’t seem to be directed right at T-Balt, at least the tortoise didn’t feel it was. Alfie looked down at the ground briefly.

“Bloke knows what ‘e’s doin’,” the rat said with a measured nod. “Bit ‘f a ‘ard arse, not th’ type t’ jerk ya off, eh?” It was a clear moment of honesty from the Brit, with a lot less vulgarity than T-Balt expected, he was however, struggling to understand the rat’s accent.

“Jus’... long as ya work ‘ard, ‘e will too, eh? Ya know? Suppose if it wasn’t f’ ‘im, I’d be out on me arse.”

“Is that why you left your old agent then?”

Alfie’s face tightened at that, and T-Balt got the distinct impression he’d asked the wrong thing. It seemed like a prime moment for an Alphonse outburst, but the Brit simply shook his head.

“...not exactly, lad.”

There was a beat, and then another, and then another, before Alphonse spoke up again.

“...yeh, Sed’s a sharp one. Long as ya do what ya told, ‘e’ll put th’ bloody work in.”

Baltasar nodded. He had been full of questions but none others came to him. Another moment passed.

“...whuzzat it? Speak up if ya got more, I got fuckin’ places t’ be, mate.”

“I… guess it was”

Alfie nodded. “A’right then. Best o’ luck to ya.” He turned to leave.

“Thanks, mouse.” Baltasar said, a small crack of a grin on his beak.

Alphonse stopped instantly, and turned to bark back at T-Balt. “RAT.”

“...Right,” T-Balt replied.

Alfie looked as if he was ready to launch into a tirade about getting his species correct, but then he stopped, as if a light flicked on in his head. He snorted a laugh, shook his head, and went on his way.

Baltasar watched Alphonse’s tail disappear behind the swivel doors and turned around, walking slowly to his own locker room to pick up his gear. Lost in thought. Mercifully by the time he got there he found it mostly empty. The team was off to celebrate most likely.

He picked up his little phone again, leaving a short message to Julian Kiraly, asking him if he was still up for a few drinks before he left. He new of a nice quiet place, and by gods he needed a drink. A break from the buzz that was in his head whenever he wasn't on the court.

It was a bit later than usual when he finally made his way back to his Apartment. as he had to leave his car and take a cab. He let himself in and took off his clothes, pacing about the apartment in his shell, too exhausted to care, the buzzing dulled slightly thanks to the wine.

He found the little crumpled note on the table, and dialed in the numbers. This time, LaTour answered, not his aide.

“Good evening, Mr Torrealba! Little late for you to be calling up little old me, isn’t it?”

“Mr. LaTour” Baltasar said slowly.

“Yes?”

“I would like to consider your offer”