Page 22

brUTUS

T he big film room at the Bluecat practice complex was as familiar to Brutus as his own living room.

In fact, for roughly six months out of the year, he spent more time in one of the fold-down movie theater type seats than he did his own living room.

He even had 'his' seat, the leftmost seat on the second row.

From there, he'd dissected hundreds of offenses, and broke down blocking schemes and quarterbacks.

He'd watch and rewatch films on these men, learning the way they moved, the way they positioned their bodies, the way they fought on the football field.

By the end of each week, he felt he knew the men better than their own wives and children.

But as the film rolled by on the screen that morning, replaying clips from last year, he was distracted and he knew it. If Coach Pugh had called on him to even say what game of the year the film was from, he couldn't have told him.

He was distracted because of Linda. He'd gotten three texts from her the day before, two at around lunch time saying she had a mission and replying to his text, and a final one at around eight o'clock saying she was going to be out of touch for a few days, and might need to e-mail instead of text.

That was it.

No location where she was going, no mission, no information about how long she might be gone.

Just three texts. There was no update this morning, and now as he sat watching clips go by on the screen in front of him, he didn't know what to think. His thumb hovered over his phone, checking for notifications every few minutes, even though he knew there wouldn't be any.

"Brutus… hey, Brutus!" Coach Pugh called, jerking Brutus back into the moment. There was a point to all of this film right now, and Brutus had been called into the film room for a specific purpose. "You with us?"

"Yeah Coach." Brutus focused on the film.

It was last year's game against Chicago, one of his better performances despite having zero sacks. The defense had hemmed in Chicago's dual threat quarterback, and Grapefruit had returned a fumble all the way to the Chicago two yard line.

Even the Bluecat offense couldn't be stopped with that much of a gimmie.

"Good, because I've heard from the coaching staff and the bean counters upstairs," Coach Pugh said.

"Now, Coach Huffman says that we need to hold off on drafting anything on the defensive side until at least the third round.

He says that we're strong enough on defense, and we need to use every dollar we can under the cap to improve our offense. What do you say?"

Brutus considered what he knew of the upcoming draft, and the players currently available in free agency.

"We could use more strength in the middle," Brutus said. "Coach, what's the name of that kid out of Colorado, Richert or something?"

"Riker," Coach Huffman, who was the Bluecat defensive coordinator, said. "You think he'd help?"

"He's exactly what our defense needs," Brutus said. "Jerome's solid, but quarterbacks know they can take their time in the pocket against him. Riker would change that completely."

"The guy's only six-two," Huffman, who was a former defensive lineman himself, said. "Not going to be blocking many passes from someone like Horne."

"Having a strong presence in the middle changes everything," Brutus explained. "It makes every position on our defense more effective. Quarterbacks get nervous, receivers run sloppy routes, and our outside guys face fewer double teams."

"We'll see," Coach Pugh said. "Next up, I talked with John Mathers this morning. He wants a trade."

"What?" Brutus growled, sitting up.

He wasn't best of friends with John Mathers, the man was a flashy blowhard in the third year of his rookie contract. But he was a good cornerback, who was able to play both slot receivers and tight ends well.

"Why?"

"He thinks he's worth ten million a year, and wants to ink a long term deal ASAP," Coach Pugh said. "When I told him no nickel in the league was getting ten million a year, he said he wanted to be traded."

"Damn," Brutus grumbled, cracking his knuckles together.

Mathers was a blowhard, but he wasn't usually this stupid. Something must have been up with him to make him try to jump and bite on a long term contract now.

"Let me go talk to him, Coach. He's still on his rookie contract, right?"

"Yeah. We could franchise him after next season if we want to, but?—"

"If I can't talk some sense into him, I'd rather get what we can in a trade for him," Brutus said. "This team's about loyalty. We need guys who want to be here, who understand what we're building."

"He's right, Coach," Grapefruit, who was there to represent the defensive backs, said. "The way the rules are now, we need pressure up front. Our secondary can only cover for so long before flags start flying."

"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. "