"Because there wasn't anything you could do about it, not until after the league comes out with their decision," Keith said. "And you needed to focus on healing your ankle. They aren't your biggest endorsement deals, but the trend is going right now. Brutus Townsend's a bit of a toxic name, so even the ones that don't suspend you are going to be back benching your stuff unless you do some major PR rehab."
Brutus nodded in understanding. "And I don't have a ton of time to rehab that image."
"You've been the so called raging bad boy of the Bluecats defense for nine years," Keith pointed out. "Sells a fuck ton of jerseys, but it's cost you millions in endorsements too. Now you're in prime age for cashing in on your image, and you've got this to deal with. So here's what I say. Go with that last option. Eat crow for the Army, and I'll work with them to make sure whatever you say or do won't embarrass you too much. You'll still eat humble pie some, but nothing too bad. Serve your suspension in the preseason, and come week one of the regular season, your ass is out there on the field getting cheers."
Brutus nodded, imagining it in his mind. "And the shrink? You know I've been seeing head docs my whole life."
"Yeah, but those were sports psychologists," Keith pointed out. "Those guys just give a damn about your on field performance. Hell, maybe talking to a shrink will help you. You can't go through the rest of your life not dealing with that temper of yours."
Brutus inhaled deeply, knowing he was tempted to snap back at Keith and tell him exactly why he had that temper... but resisted.
"Fine."
Turning, he walked back into McMahon's office, where he and Coach Pugh were exchanging small talk.
"Deal. Let's go with that third option. But I've got one condition myself."
"What's that?" Coach Pugh asked. "I don't think you've got a lot of wiggle room here, Brutus."
"I know. But I want to actually do something with the Army," he said. "Whatever it is, I want to do something meaningful, not just some corporate ass kissing session. Think the league can set that up?"
It was McMahon's turn to smile, and he pointed to a picture on the wall. "See the guy third from the left in that pic, Brutus?"
Brutus looked over, seeing a picture of McMahon along with four other guys, all of them about the same age as him. "Crew cut dude, the one without a pot belly?"
"That's my old college fraternity brother. He's now a two star general in the Pentagon, in fact he was with me in the owner's box that last game," McMahon ignored the pot belly comment. Mainly because it was true. "Let me give him a call, see what we can arrange. If he's got a good idea, I'm sure the league will sign off on it. We have a deal?"
Brutus nodded, and stuck out a hand. "Deal. Let's do this right, and move on to next season."
"Careful what you wish for, Brutus." McMahon shook his hand. "My friend, the general? After the game he was pretty hot, said that you needed to learn respect by spending some time with real troops."
"Okay."
"So you may not like what the program entails," McMahon warned him. "Might get dirty and sweaty."
Brutus nodded, smiling a little. "Like every football practice I've done since I was five years old hasn't been? I'm a linebacker. I may wear a different uniform, and I may not actually kill anyone. But I'm a warrior too."
3
LINDA
"So how was the weekend?" First Lieutenant Tristan Parker, Linda's platoon leader, asked as the platoon gathered in the shaded picnic tables by the company offices. "Everyone refreshed and rested? First Squad?"
"We're good to go, sir," Orkin replied, looking around the table. "What's up?"
Linda didn't mind the unusual post-lunch gathering. Most Mondays were spent all day in the motor pool, doing maintenance on various pieces of company equipment to make sure that training the rest of the week went according to plan. And while they'd done that this morning, doing maintenance checks on all the trucks in the platoon, after lunch they were gathered here instead.
Lieutenant Parker glanced at Sergeant First Class Jackson Lincoln, the Third Platoon Sergeant, lifting an eyebrow.
"You didn't spill any beans there, Sergeant Lincoln?"
"Figured you'd enjoy the announcement more, sir," Linc said.
Off duty, Linc wasn't a bad guy. He took mentoring seriously, but approached it more like a seasoned player guiding the rookies. He'd roll up his sleeves and get his hands dirty, proving he could still run the plays alongside them.
Parker was more... buttoned-up. He came from a long line of Army officers – mother, siblings, the whole nine yards. Some days, it felt like he bled green, which could be a pain. But he wasn't all bad like Linc, loyalty within the platoon was paramount.
"Why thank you Sergeant, I shall do my best to enjoy it then," Parker replied, giving a sarcastic little wave of his hand. Looking at the rest of the platoon, he shared his news. "This morning we got a unique assignment from Major Kirk. As you know, we need someone to fill in for Hollywood."
