(Names obviously changed for obvious reasons.)

“Well, that complicates things somewhat, doesn't it?” Mr. G asks rhetorically, grimacing and leaning back in his chair.

“If we go with Sankey as number one, do we see less of Mr. A?” Mr. J looks as if bile has caught in his throat as he continues, “Or more?”

“Yes. Exactly. I'll have somebody find out for us.”

(Earlier.)

“Of course we understand your enthusiasm for Ben Sankey, Mr. A. Everyone with the Stamps is just as excited as you are.” Mr. G pauses to smile in a manner he hopes is winningly. His teeth are very white, and very square. “But we are quite serious when we say that we have been unable to choose between Sankey and Crandell. Unless one of the boys really distinguishes themselves – well, we like the idea of a quarterback tandem.”

Mr. J makes motions indicating his agreement. He whispers to Mr. G: “I didn't know Sankey had an agent.”

Mr. G simply nods. Mr. A has not introduced himself as Sankey's agent, but who else would he be? They'd been to the same university apparently, though Mr. G has no recollection of ever having seen him before. He sips his coffee, and setting it down, smiles again at Mr. A across the boardroom table.

Mr. A breathes in deeply, deep in thought, and begins to speak, punctuating nearly every word with a downward chop of his right hand: “The thing you gotta think about, is the fans.”

“Of course. And we feel that our fans are of the same mind as the Stamps' organization: Whoever plays well gets to play. And right now, Sankey and Crandell are both playing well. It's a win-win situation for our fans.” Mr. G grins broadly, silently congratulating himself on his answer.

Mr. A's face which appears to be naturally ruddy, has deepened in complexion. “The fans want someone they can cheer for. They deserve a hero. And it should be Sankey!" Mr. A is nearly shouting now, and punctuates his last sentence by bringing both flats of his hands down forcefully on the table.

“Of course, of course.” Mr. G's smile is beginning to fail him. “We…”

“Can you imagine McMahon Stadium full of fans shouting: 'Cran-dell!' 'Cran-dell!'” Spittle is flying from his mouth as he answers his own question and pushes his chair from the table: “Of course not!”

Mr. J's eyes widen as Mr. A pushes away from the table. He whispers to Mr. G: “Jesus. This guy's on coke. He's going to OD right here in front of us.” He leans towards Mr. G again: “If his mouth starts foaming, I am out that door.”

“Sankey! Now there's a name meant to be chanted!” Mr. A is yelling now, waving his arms about from a standing position at the end of the table.

“Now, Mr. A…”

“San-key! San-key! San-key!” Mr. A is shouting, presumably at top volume, oblivious to the occupants of the room, and the two people peeping through the window on the door. “San-key! San-key! San-key!” His arms alternate between a strange and abrupt swaying, and an even more violent fist pumping – both in time to his ear-splitting chanting. The spittle flying from his mouth has been replaced with full-blown spit and his face is a brilliant red.

Matthew Dorrell always goes for two, and never punts. Never.