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"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?"

"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."