Just Rules Read Free Page B

Mike.
    “Without who?”
    “Without you, Maggie,” responded the coach, after being interrupted by his wife who came to greet the newly arrived.
    “Ah, I already know that. Sorry you didn’t win, Tim. You guys played really well.”
    “Unfortunately, the Giants did too,” responded Tim, bending down to greet her with a kiss.
    “Well, what don't we enjoy the dinner and forget about the game for a while?” suggested the coach’s wife.
    “Sounds like a wonderful idea, Margaret, although I doubt you’ll be able to get them to stop talking about the game,” added Susan.
    “Where is Mac?” asked Mike, looking around.
    “He’ll be here any minute. He’s taking a shower.”
    “Mr. Stubborn didn’t want to get his eyebrow stitched up,” muttered Mike, remembering one of the arguments he’d had with the team captain during the game. “I’m sure he’ll use it as an excuse not to show up.”
    “He’ll come, you’ll see,” assured him Tim.
    “What did I tell you?” Susan smiled at Margaret, still looking at the two men.
    “You’re right, they’re a lost cause.” The woman linked arms with the journalist. “Come with me to get a glass of champagne and tell me when they plan on giving you your own program. The other day I saw you on T.V., and for the first time I understood what it meant to raise the debt ceiling.”

Chapter 2
    Second rule of American football:
    A quarterback can only do three things:
Run with the ball.
Directly place the ball in the hands of a running back.
Make a pass.
     
    Mac was the last one to leave the stadium, aside from security. The cut on his eyebrow had stopped bleeding, although he would certainly have another scar to add to the collection. And the horrible headache he had from temple to temple didn’t let him think, not to mention the two ribs that were crushing his chest because of getting rammed by one of the linebackers from the Giants.
    He had more than enough reasons not to go to that damn dinner, and no desire whatsoever, but he got dressed anyway. He put on a black suit, a shirt with cuff links, a tie, and dress shoes. The whole works.
    It was much more uncomfortable than the gear he would wear during games, or at least it seemed that way to him.
    Before leaving the locker room, he turned to the mirror one last time and pretended that he didn’t realize just how bruised, tired, and old he was. He sighed and ran his fingers through his black hair, and clenched his jaw just like he did before starting a game. Avoiding the inevitable wouldn’t do any good.
    He threw his bag over his right shoulder and went directly to the garage reserved for players, and when he got in his car it would be a lie if he said he wasn’t tempted to go home, but he drove towards L’Escalier.
    The traffic lights were not on his side. They were all green. Boston had no sympathy and the streets were wide open for him. With each second that passed, that damn dinner seemed more tortuous to him. He made the last turn and realized that there was no turning back. A squadron of journalists spotted him in the distance and the flashes began to go off. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel as he drove the last stretch.
    As soon as he stopped the black Jaguar, an employee from the restaurant opened the door for him and took his keys to park it, leaving Mac at the main entrance to L’Escalier, which was full of microphones and cell phones.
    “Mac, Mac!” shouted a reporter. “Are you thinking about retiring?”
    Bastard.
    “Is it true that you broke up with Kassandra?” asked another, referring to the Russian model that he had been seen with lately.
    “Have you resigned from the Patriots? It’s rumored that they aren’t going to renew your contract and that they’ve even found your replacement.”
    Damn it, he had also heard those rumors, but he thought he was the only one.
    Mac didn’t answer any of the questions. He learned his lesson years ago.
    When he was just starting out he