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brUTUS

T he roar of the January crowd was deafening, familiar.

For eight years, Brutus had lived for this, the annual playoff grind.

This year, though, the weight of expectation felt heavier than ever, a leaden pressure in his chest. The game he was about to play could change everything. If they lost, what would he do then?

One year, they'd tasted victory. That championship run, with the Bluecats hoisting the trophy, remained the highlight of his career. He clung to the memory like a lifeline, something that helped keep him from remembering other, more painful things.

But this year was different. The defense still had bite, but the offense was struggling. The new quarterback, a gamble that had backfired spectacularly, was costing them games. Brutus felt the weight of it all on his shoulders.

Now, as the Bluecats took the field for the second half, their playoff hopes hung by a thread.

"Well," Brutus told Johnson, their strong safety as they stretched, "at least we're not in New England."

"Or Buggalo," Johnson replied, intentionally mispronouncing the city. He'd never forgiven that team since their general manager had passed him over. "Think they'll be able to keep it up?"

Brutus didn't know. All season, the offense had faltered, leaving the defense exposed. Even his own record-breaking performance felt hollow. What good were personal accolades when they weren't winning?

The defense had kept them in the game, barely clinging to a two-point lead.

"We win this," Brutus said, the words a low growl. "We shut them down."

Brutus glanced up, the first flakes of snow already swirling. The game, already a battle, was about to become a blizzard. Like his life, the weather was changing dramatically. The snow had been forecast for after the game, but it arrived early, quickly turning the field into treacherous terrain.

The weather was a great equalizer. But as a defense, they were ready to handle anything.

"Let's end this here," Brutus barked in the huddle, feeling the energy of his teammates around him.

The Corsairs were backed up against their own goal line, desperate. Brutus crouched, muscles coiled, the quarterback his target. This was it. One play to change everything.

He exploded off the line, ignoring the ache in his bones, the years of battles fought and won. He was in his element. He reached the quarterback just as he released the ball, his hands wrapping around his waist as he drove him hard to the ground.

Brutus sprang up, ready to celebrate, but a flag lay on the ground.

"Come on, Davey!" he yelled, frustration boiling.

The modern rules made it impossible to just play hard, to get to the quarterback.

"Chill," Johnson pulled him back to the huddle. "You know how it is."

Brutus nodded, attempting to contain his anger. He understood protecting players. He might have been an aggressive player, but he wasn't trying to actually hurt anyone.

For a moment, relief washed over Brutus as the Corsairs punted. Then, disaster struck. A fumble gave them the ball back, deep in Bluecat territory.

"Defense! Let's fucking go!" Brutus shouted, glancing at the clock. Two minutes, twenty-seven seconds left in the game.

It was all or nothing. The Corsairs were within striking distance. Brutus rallied the defense. "We hold them here. We win this."

As the teams lined up, Brutus's ankle twisted beneath him as the ball snapped. A searing pain shot up his leg. Frank Bradshaw, the Corsairs' massive tackle, slammed into him, driving him into the ground. Helpless, Brutus watched as the running back slipped past.

He pushed himself up, ignoring the white-hot pain.

"I can do my job," he snarled when Johnson asked if he needed to come out, though a part of him wondered if he really could.

Doubt gnawed at him as he lined up again, fire flaring through his leg with each heartbeat.

He saw the confidence in Frank Bradshaw's eyes.

The ball snapped. Brutus charged, but this time, there was no power behind it.

Frank met him head-on, a wall of muscle.

He felt himself lifted, slammed to the turf, his ankle twisting again.

Helpless, he watched the tight end catch the winning pass.

It was over. They weren't going to the playoffs.

He sat on the sidelines, the trainers poking and prodding his ankle. Each failed play by the offense twisted the knife in his heart. The clock ticked down to zero, and Brutus, blind with rage and disappointment, limped off the field.

"Brutal! You fucking blew it!” A voice cut through the cacophony of boos. Brutus's head shot up.

A man in military uniform, his face twisted with disgust, pointed at him. "You had your fifteen minutes. Washed up!"

Normally, Brutus would have ignored it, but something inside him snapped. He'd given everything to this team, to this city. Now, they were turning on him. A wave of shame washed over him, hotter than the pain in his ankle.

"You know what? Come down here and say that to my face!" Brutus yelled back, suddenly not caring about the consequences.

"You're done, football star," the soldier called back, each word laced with contempt. "Some warrior you turned out to be."

As beer rained down on his head, Brutus lunged towards the stands.

“Know what, how about you get your ass down here, motherfucker!” Brutus yelled, waving the man down onto the field. “See who’s a bitch? Fuck you and fuck the Army!”

The pain in his leg and the quick hands of security personnel stopped him from reaching the railing. His fingers brushed it before they pulled him back.

"Let me go!" he shouted, but they dragged him toward the tunnel, a chorus of boos following him.

Later, as a trainer examined his swollen ankle, the General Manager stormed in, his face red with anger.

"Do you know the mess you've made?" Hank McMahon demanded, standing over Brutus with his arms crossed.

"Hank, it's the end of the goddamn season," Brutus replied, hissing as the trainer slowly moved his ankle. "Can you please not yell at me right now?"

"Can you please not start fights with military personnel who are here at the team's invitation?" the GM countered. "This Bad Boy of Football routine needs to stop, Brutus."

Brutus winced, the label stinging almost as much as his ankle. It wasn't like he'd asked to be called that. Sure, he picked up his share of penalties, but he wasn't dirty. And he'd been clean off the field since college.

"Or what?" he challenged, though he already knew the answer.

"Ask the league," McMahon said, turning to leave. "I've already got my phone blowing up with texts asking what happened. Trust me, Brutus, there will be consequences for that outburst."

He left, and Brutus laid back on the table, letting out a frustrated groan.

"Goddammit," he whispered, covering his eyes with sweaty his arm. “Just the cherry to put on top of the shit sundae of not making the playoffs.”