Unless you’ve been living on Pluto for the past week, you’re probably aware that New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady recently began serving his monthlong NFL suspension.

Over the course of the next few weeks, the 39-year-old Super Bowl champion will be prohibited from attending practices, speaking with team personnel, even from playing catch with his own teammates — a ban that will render a noted workaholic, essentially, jobless.

With all that free time on his hands, it stands to reason that Tom will probably get pretty lonely. And so, even though I’ve got a lot of other stuff going on — and honestly don’t really have room in my life right now for a new friend — I’ve decided to become best friends with him.

It’s the least I can do for a guy who brings so much joy to so many people.

My plan is pretty simple. First, Tom and I will meet in some really fun, organic way. I hesitate to use the term “meet-cute,’’ but what else do you call a scenario in which he and I run into each other — quite literally! — at the local supermarket one Saturday morning, our carts colliding in the frozen food aisle?

“Nice boots,’’ Tom will say, nodding toward my feet.

“Thanks,’’ I’ll reply. “They’re Uggs.’’

“I know,’’ he’ll say, smiling as he points down to his own feet. “I’ve got the same pair.’’

At that point, we’ll high-five and become best friends.

Over the course of the next few weeks, we’ll pretty much be inseparable. If we’re not feeding the ducks in the Public Garden or taking Swan Boat rides, we’ll be shopping on Newbury Street or taking goofy selfies as we chug through the city on a duck boat. We’ll go for corndogs at Faneuil Hall and go trampoline-ing at Launch Trampoline Park in Watertown, and we’ll have — oh, I don’t know – about a MILLION inside jokes!

Tom will love how smart and hilarious I am, and over lunch, he’ll beg me to explain the intricacies of the Cover 2 defense, shaking his head in wonder at the depth of my football knowledge.

“All this time I thought I had a pretty good grasp of the game,’’ he’ll say. “And then I met you!’’

Since we’re both pretty sporty, we’ll probably spend a lot of time watching the Red Sox and playing pick-up football in the park in our Wrangler jeans. Afterward, we’ll retire to our favorite little diner, where our order will be the same every time: One milkshake, two straws.

Even our wives will become best friends, rolling their eyes on Saturday afternoons as Tom and I take turns doing cannonballs into the country club pool, like the coupla knuckleheads that we are.

On weekends, we’ll have sleepovers in Tom’s basement, spending the whole night building forts out of couch cushions and chugging Mountain Dew and pelting each other with Nerf guns.

“Are you guys rough-housing down there?’’ Gisele will call from upstairs, when things get a little rowdy.

“No!’’ we’ll yell back, doing our best to stifle giggles. “You’re probably just hearing things!’’

Then we’ll go right back to our Nerf battle, laughing so hard our stomachs hurt.

Of course, being best friends isn’t just about eating ice cream and doing armpit farts. It’s mostly about that, but it’s also about loyalty.

One day, Tom and I will be walking through the mall when a couple of wiseguys in Jets jerseys will strut by and make a crack about Tom’s butt chin. I’ll see the hurt in Tom’s eyes, and even though I can’t really relate, because I don’t have a butt chin and actually have a really good face, I’ll stand up for my friend.

“Why don’t you guys go fly a kite?!’’ I’ll say, raising my fist — and the wiseguys will hustle off, looking scared.

Afterward, Tom will be a little down, but I’ll give him a best-friend noogie and say, “Come on, Tom — let’s go get some ice cream!’’ And before you know it, that old Tom Brady smile will be back.

The sad reality, of course, is that — even though we’re absolute best friends who would do anything for each other — our union will be a temporary one.

By late September, Tom’s four-week suspension will be winding to a close, and despite all the fun we’ve had, I’ll know what I have to do.

“Listen, Tom. . .’’ I’ll say one night, as we sit in my apartment, eating Doritos and watching “Con Air.’’ “I don’t think we can be best friends anymore.’’

“Ha! Ha!’’ Tom will say, chuckling. “Good one, Dugan!’’

“Tom, I’m serious,’’ I’ll say. “I’ve got a lot of stuff coming up at work, and you’re going back to football soon. You won’t need me anymore. You’ll find a new best friend.’’

“But I don’t want a new best friend,’’ Tom will say, confused. “I want to be best friends with you.’’

“We can’t be best friends anymore!’’ I’ll say, a little too sharply, and as the tears well in Tom’s eyes, I’ll immediately regret it.

“Tom, wait. . .’’ I’ll say. But it’ll be too late.

He’ll gather his jacket and go, and I’ll watch from the window as he walks slowly to his car and pulls away, a pit in my stomach the size of a fully inflated football that hasn’t been tampered with.

The next few months will pass in a kind of hazy blur. Tom will go back to his other best friends, Bill and Rob and Julian, and I’ll bury myself in work, trying to forget. For the most part, things will return to normal, though every so often, I’ll come across my old Nerf gun and my eyes will get a little watery — but only because it’s allergy season and definitely not because of any other reason.

Sundays will be the hardest. That’s the day that Tom and I always spent at the park, tossing Frisbees and chasing squirrels.

One particularly dreary Sunday, in February, I’ll find myself sitting on the couch, channel-surfing and feeling extra down in the dumps, when something will catch my eye, stopping me in my tracks: On TV, the final moments of Super Bowl LI will be playing out in real-time.

As the clock ticks down on another Patriots championship, there, on the screen, will be Tom – hoisting the Lombardi Trophy as the confetti falls and the cameras flash and an army of reporters rushes to surround him.

“Tom! Tom!’’ the reporters will shout. “How were you able to keep the faith during your early-season suspension?’’

“Well,’’ Tom will say, “I had a little help from someone special.’’

“A friend?’’ the reporters will ask.

“No,’’ Tom will reply — and with this, he’ll turn to the camera and wink. “A best friend.’’

Dugan Arnett can be reached at dugan.arnett@globe.com. Follow him on Twitter @duganarnett.