"Don't I know it," Huffman grumbled. "Point taken. I don't know what we can find in the later rounds, but maybe Riker'll still be there."
The meeting continued, and as Brutus walked out he was glad that he and Grapefruit were the only defensive players in the room. Coach Pugh used these meetings to allow the captains to say what they needed to say bluntly, without any worries about players taking it personally.
Not that Brutus cared. He was there to be a professional, and if people were still butt-hurt about being criticized when they were getting paid a million dollars a year, then pro football wasn't for them.
The day continued, Brutus getting in a workout with the rest of the linemen and linebackers, going through what the strength and conditioning staff called 'flow training' to see how their joints were doing. It reminded him of some of the yoga poses Linda had sent him pictures of to flirt with him, and he quickly put his mind somewhere else before he became erect in his shorts. The image of her perfect form, stretching gracefully in warrior pose, stayed with him though, along with the worry about where she might be right now.
"Try to open that hip, Dequan," the instructor, a former MMA champ, said.
It was an upgrade over who the team had hired before. The sessions had previously been led by a hundred and ten pound woman who could twist herself into pretzels regularly. She'd been hypocritically tough, and some of the bigger guys hadn't taken her snide comments about their big bellies well.
But the new instructor had a dad bod himself, and as the guys moved through the various poses, Brutus moved easily. During a stretching break, he checked his phone again. Nothing from Linda. The knot of worry in his stomach tightened.
After drills were over, he had an appointment with the team trainers and doctors. Hopping up on the table, he gave Paula Steinman, the Bluecats head athletic trainer, a grin.
"Washed my feet and everything today Paula."
"Then I can skip the heavy duty gloves for something a bit lighter." Paula sat down on a stool at the end of the evaluation table. "How's it feeling?"
"Same as it's felt the past six years," Brutus said. "I run through all the exercises, take the glucosamine, the fish oil, and all that other stuff you tell me to try. Say, have you heard about stem cell therapy?"
"Of course," Paula said. "You think you want to give it a go?"
"Hey, if it helps rebuild these ankles and the league doesn't say boo, I'm tempted," Brutus said. "Think you can point me in the right direction?"
"Sure," Paula said. "Although it might require a quick flight down to South America or Europe, so we can't sit around on it. In the meantime let's go through the eval, see how you're doing."
Brutus went through the same evaluation of his foot and ankle mobility he'd done dozens of times before, and at the end Paula said the tests were good. But inside, Brutus knew the truth. His ankle felt like it was on fire, and the whole thing was being held together by determination and athletic tape.
Still, Paula cleared him for non-contact drills that afternoon, and as he stretched out with the rest of the team, he knew he'd do his best. The whole session went well, Coach Huffman hadn't changed anything in the defensive scheme yet, and as he walked off the field he felt like the day had gone well.
"Brutus!"
Brutus stopped, turning to see JT Smith, the Bluecats new linebackers coach, approaching. They'd been rivals for the first few years of Brutus's career, the old lion and the hot young upstart fighting to see who was going to be the most feared linebacker in pro football.
Now, JT was retired and in coaching, while Brutus was… about the same age JT was when he'd been a rookie. "Coach."
"Coach Pugh blew the whistle five minutes ago Brutal, you can cut the Coach shit with me," JT said, smirking. "Wanted to see how you feel."
"It was just a light day in minicamp, you know how it is," Brutus said. "Half these guys I was happy to see after six weeks… and the other half I could have gone a few more months without seeing."
JT laughed, his dark skin glistening in the afternoon sun. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Hey, after you shower and get dressed, you want to get a beer? Catch up a little?"
"Sure," Brutus said before heading for the locker room.
A half hour later, he and JT were seated at one of the more popular bars for Bluecats players, owned by a former team security guard who'd decided that it was more fun to watch the games on a big screen than trying to deal with the fans in the stands. They each had a longneck in front of them, and JT was laughing over an anecdote he was telling about his life just after retiring from the field.
"So there I was, standing in the back of the studio, and this girl comes up to apply makeup on the top of my head because apparently my skull was catching the lights and making a glare," JT said, rubbing his hand over his mostly shaved, partially naturally bald head. "It was right then and there that I decided I needed to get out of the broadcast game."
"So you went into coaching." Brutus chuckled. "Why? Why not just walk away and enjoy life? You made plenty of money in your career."
"Football man… it gets in your blood," JT said. "I mean, even today, watching you and the other guys go through those drills, there was a part of me that wanted to be out there too, cleats on my feet and four pounds of plastic and steel on my head. But I also know the truth. I even touch a helmet and Keisha would have words for me."
Brutus laughed softly. "When I heard you got married, I gotta admit I was surprised."
"Me too," JT admitted. "But it's good man, real good. Keisha knows the life, and she's been able to take care of the kids when I'm not there. They're the best part. My son's six now, and it feels good being able to play with him and not just lie on the couch unable to even change a diaper because I'm too beat up from Sunday."
"Or worse… Monday night." Brutus groaned. "I really, really hate short weeks."
