LA Eagles quarterback.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the growing throng of male fans.
Brett nodded vigorously. His hands were suddenly drawn into clenched fists, his knuckles white, his jaw drawn tight, his brow lined.
The second hostess looked at a new text on her phone, glared at Mr Football, deliberately knocked her glass over on his table and made to leave the group.
As she walked away, fuming, the footballer shook his head, leant forward out of his chair and smacked her hard on the bottom with his right hand. The hostess shrieked and ran to the bar without looking back. Brett yelled after her.
“Yo, ho, get back here and wipe down my table. And bring me another bourbon while you’re at it.”
He shrugged to the group and picked up another drink. “Fucking skank. Sorry dude, you were saying something about Thommo?”
“Yeah buddy, like, with the two of you, united, we could not lose but, hey, since Thommo went on the injured list last season, things have not been as good as they should be.”
Brett was tense. Breathing deeply through flared nostrils, his face reddened even as he unclenched his fists, the footballer launched stiffly into what looked like a poorly rehearsed public relations routine.
“Don’t even mention Thommo.”
He paused, looked up, sighed and slowly emptied his glass. He slammed the empty vessel down on the table.
“Yeah, I just wish it had never happened. Like, that whole scenario just haunts me, you know.”
The group of men were hanging on the NFL star’s every word. He stole a glance at the exposed bottom of the first hostess who was now unloading a dishwasher further up the bar. When she looked up, he winked at her, opened his mouth and wriggled his tongue about.
The bar manager walked up to the dishwasher and tried to comfort Brett’s victim. He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently sought to persuade her not to call the police.
And Brett? Brett, as always, was thriving on being the centre of attention.
“Thommo’s knee is good to go again. We will be unbeatable again in Super Bowl 2009 if he and Coach Hemline can just find it in their hearts to forgive me.”
This was big news to the group of open-mouthed men who were, accordingly, very happy at this once in a lifetime opportunity to be NFL ‘insiders.’ Three of the group returned with trays of drinks. Uninvited, the footballer grabbed two glasses of bourbon off one of the trays.
“In fact, dudes, I’m certain that the 2009 Eagles are destined to be legends. I’m real sure we can be even better than the 2007 team because of what happened,” Brett said.
“That’s if Thommo can just forget about the issues of the past and focus on the glorious future of our football team?”
The footballer shared a cheesy grin with the group and patted the tall man on the back. “I’ll be, like, real happy to have him back for Super Bowl and calling some plays from the centre.”
“Hallelujah to that,” said the tall man. Brett smiled and having spotted both the hostesses angrily looking in his direction, he stood up, theatrically bowed to les miserable and noisily blew a kiss their way.
The group laughed. Two balding middle-aged men in suits, loitering by the nearby pool tables, applauded and wolf-whistled at the two unfortunate women.
“I’ve sure learnt a lot from what happened and the commentators agree that since 2007 I’ve become America’s greatest duel threat quarterback,” Brett continued.
His audience of slack-jawed fans nodded as one.
“If the commentators are right and I’m real sure they are right, it’s because I’ve, like, learnt to control my temper, and, yeah, you know, I have Thommo and Coach Hemline and the Eagles to thank for that.”
Brett winked at the hostesses.
“I’ve grown a whole lot as a footballer and as a man these past two years,” he claimed.
“Things can only get better for the Eagles,” Brett said humbly and smiled at his drinking buddies. “Things will get better, starting with our victory in Super Bowl 2009.”
“Hallelujah and amen to that. Can I buy you another drink brother?” the tall man asked.
“Yo, I’ll have two bourbon doubles, my man, and be sure to tell that ho that if she wants a tip she better get right over here and wipe down my … table,” Brett yelled over his shoulder in the direction of the bar.
The group hooted as the tall man headed for the bar. Brett slammed down someone else’s shot of bourbon just as Biggie Smalls’ Juicy blasted through the room. Half a dozen of his admirers moved closer to Mr Football.
One man pulled out an iPhone.
“Can we get some pictures with you buddy?” he asked hesitantly.
“For $1000 a picture you can,” Brett replied sarcastically. The group shrank back from him and he laughed.
“Hey, I was only joking guys. Take all the pictures you like.”
The groupies milled around Mr Football and, two and three at a time, they toasted as others used their phones to make sure they captured permanent bragging rights from the day they met their hero.
“We can all see how much you’ve learnt in every game this season, you’ve been totally awesome buddy. You are the greatest of them all and I mean that totally 100% sincerely,” said a fat bald man with a large unlit Cuban cigar in his mouth and a crème felt 10 gallon Texan hat in his right hand.
There was a group-high-fiving-scene that Brett joined in half-heartedly while reaching for another shot glass.
“Can I get your autograph?” asked the fat man. The NFL star looked blankly at him. “Sure, why not buddy,” he slurred in reply.
As the fat man placed his hat upon his head and reached into his jacket pocket for a pen, there was a colourful flicker of light around the bar area as someone changed the TV channel. The Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards coverage reappeared and Joanne’s smiling face immediately filled all the screens in Joe’s Bar.
A couple of patrons further down the bar hooted appreciatively. Brett stiffened, his practiced plastic smile disappeared from his face, the suddenly scowling hero pushed aside the fat man and other well-wishers and lurched toward the nearest screen. The hostess he’d humiliated took one horrified glance at the crazed look on the footballer’s face and, just in time, ducked down behind the bar.
The footballer issued a discordant yell and hurled a full whiskey glass at the image of his partner. The screen cracked, hissed and then disintegrated. Brett stood with his hands on his head, pulling at what was left of his hair.
A couple of members of the group of admirers coincidentally returning from the bathroom had to move quickly to avoid a violent shower of glass and electric sparks. Brett looked coldly through them like they just weren’t there.
Both hostesses retreated as far away from the angry footballer as they could get within the confines of their work environment. The victim was frightened. Her colleague rummaged in her bag, pulled out a mobile phone and, after pressing a couple of buttons, started filming the LA Eagles star’s bad behaviour. She carefully positioned her phone on the main shelf behind the bar.
Brett grasped his head with his hands. He head swayed from side to side. His eyes narrowed. His brow furrowed. His top lip curled. His head twitched and wobbled around.
The