"Go ahead with what the league offered then."
"Option one. You don't say anything other than what you have," McMahon said. "Sit on that press release, keep your head down, and don't fuck up between now and the end of the situation. For that, you get a half million dollar fine and an eight game suspension."
"There's no way the union would allow that!" Keith exploded. "This is excessive! They can't just cave to public pressure like this!"
"They have to be more mindful of their collective bargaining agreement," McMahon said. "Such as the upcoming talks. The union does not want to go into those on bad footing. Defending Brutus won't be a good image."
Brutus nodded, unsurprised. "You said three options."
"Option two, same fine, four game suspension, but you have to go through a full-blown PR campaign, including public apologies and charitable donations. Basically, you get to wrap yourself in sackcloth and ashes, and they take four games off your suspension."
"The donations would be more money than sitting out the additional four games," Keith pointed out.
Brutus shook his head. He definitely didn't like that one.
"Which is why I talked with the league," Coach Pugh said. "As you know, the head of the player conduct committee and I have a connection."
"You coached him to one of his two league championship rings," Brutus pointed out.
Pugh closed his eyes to agree.
"So what did you two hash out?"
"Quarter million dollar fine," Pugh said, "and a three game suspension that can be served during the preseason. So no real suspension at all. But there's a couple of contingencies. One, you start seeing a shrink, on your dime, Brutus. Look, I've seen you carry the weight of that name and your father's legacy your whole life. This option gives you a chance to address that and get the help you need."
Brutus had to silently agree. He hated being treated like a dumb jock. "Go on."
"The second part is that you do a sort of outreach with the Army, not stuff that'll involve money but will involve a good chunk of time in your off season," Pugh said. "Including charity work the Army will approve of. Again, not so much money but time and lending your image and endorsement to Army approved causes."
"So, what kind of commitment are we talking about?" Keith asked. "A quick photo op, or something more involved?"
"That's up for the Army to decide after Brutus takes the offer," Pugh admits. "I know it's not great, but the Army will be flexible and take your team commitments into account with its requests. It's a generous offer, Brutus. And one that won't come again."
"Or option four," McMahon said quickly. He leaned forward. "Let's be clear, Brutus. We value you, but we can't carry a liability. We need you on the field, contributing, and that starts with making the right choice here. You're not getting any younger."
"Are you threatening to fire me, Hank?" Brutus asked, his jaw clenching. "Trust me, you do and I'll make the Bluecats regret it. I don't care if I sign with Miami, Los Angeles, or New York. I'll sign somewhere, and when I do, I'm going to make it my mission to make your life a living hell."
"After you serve your suspension," McMahon pointed out. "Because the league won't waive it if we cut you. Now, we want you on the team, Brutus. I'm not trying to insult you. I see this as a respect move, talking to you dead even like a man. So as a man, and as the GM, I'm saying I won't go into next year with a dead spot in the linebacker corps for half the season."
"Would you let me talk it over with Keith for a few minutes?" Brutus stood up. "You'll still be able to tell the league office what my decision is by the time the commissioner's morning blowjob's over."
Without waiting for an answer, Brutus walked out of McMahon's office and into the hallway, Keith right behind him. Leaving the Bluecat offices, he paced the hallway of the stadium, his feet slapping on the polished marble and sending flares of pain up his leg from his hurt ankle. The pain made the anger that much worse, and he knew he was dropping into the sort of on-field rage that often got him in trouble.
He didn't get penalties when he wasn't in pain.
"Fuck!" he growled, jamming his hands in his pockets. "Do you fucking believe them, Keith?"
"I do," Keith said quietly, shaking his head. "Fucking owners nowadays. They've got the league office in their back pocket, and you know how it is. They don't give a damn about championships except as a way to make more money. You know, what you get up to isn't shit compared to the old school players? When I was growing up, football was watching organized assault on a weekly basis. Some of those old school players straight up went out there to hurt their opponents. And don't even get me fucking started on what they did off the field."
"My dad's told me the stories."
Brutus went over to the railing. He leaned against it, looking through the gap in the concrete structure to look out at the field.
"He said that if guys my size and strength played under those old rules, there'd be legitimate fatalities every Sunday. Maybe the new rules are better in that way."
"Yeah, you might be able to walk when you're fifty," Keith admitted. "Look, I don't want to get into a diatribe here. We're not in my office, and I don't want to say things that'll be used against me later on. But I'm your numbers guy, right? Well here's the numbers. I've already had two of your endorsement deals contact me, saying they're going to at least temporarily suspend your contracts with them."
"Who?" Brutus asked. "And why the fuck didn't you tell me?"
