Season 10, Episode 1
The ceiling tiles had a water stain shaped like a state. Brice had been staring at it for the better part of twenty minutes, trying to decide which state it was.
Across the room, Shane's breathing had gone slow and even an hour ago. Lights out at nine. Brice had teased him about it the first time they roomed together back in September and Shane had just shrugged. No retort. No witty comeback.
Brice turned his head on the pillow. Shane’s phone was still on, the Netflix documentary playing at low volume, something about deep-sea creatures.
A year ago. Brice closed his eyes and let it come back.
A year ago he’d been in a room just like this one, with Justin and two girls they’d snuck past the front desk. Sort of but not really meeting Serena’s family. Was it her cousin? Back then he hadn't known where things stood with Serena. Hadn't known where things stood with Skylar either, not really, not in any way that mattered yet.
Justin was bouncing between practice squads now. Two teams, played about a quarter in the preseason, zero guaranteed money. Last Brice heard he was in Jacksonville, or maybe he'd already gotten cut from Jacksonville.
Serena was his girlfriend. Skylar was gone. And Brice was a father. A real one. Or at least trying to be one.
Brice opened his eyes. The ceiling was still there. Shane was still snoring softly, the anglerfish still glowing on his screen, jaws open wide.
Brice laid there doing the math on it, on how much had moved, how fast the ground had shifted under him without him really agreeing to any of it, and he found himself wondering, with something close to dread, what was going to be different a year from tonight. He didn't like where that thought went, so he stopped it.
He rolled onto his side and grabbed his phone off the nightstand, the screen lighting up his face in the dark.
The reply came faster than he expected.
He smiled at that.
His phone buzzed in his hand as the FaceTime ringer went off.
Brice glanced at Shane, dead to the world, and slid out of bed quiet as he could manage, padding across the carpet and easing the bathroom door shut behind him before he answered.
"Hey," Mel's voice came through.
…
"Grab that pepper for me."
Serena grabbed it, started seasoning the ribs next to her mother without being asked. Out back, through the kitchen window, she could see her father hunched over the grill, fighting with a bag of charcoal.
Her mother's house was small. She'd forgotten how small, somehow, in the months since she'd been home. The linoleum in the kitchen had a crack running from the fridge to the back door that her father had tried to fix with caulk twice and given up on both times. The cabinet above the stove was missing a handle.
"So," Daphne said, not looking up. "How's things with Brice?"
"Good. I think." Serena worked the seasoning into a rib, taking her time with the answer. "It's hard to ever really know with him. But good."
"Hard to know how?"
"I don't know. He doesn't really say things. You know how boys are."
"He ain’t a boy," Daphne made a sound, something between a laugh and a warning, and set down the chicken she was working on. "You can't go around your whole life waiting on a man to say something, baby. Sometimes you gotta nudge him. Remind him to shit or get off the pot."
She tilted her head toward the window, toward Devin and his charcoal. "I gave your father a deadline. Told him straight up, ring or I'm walking. Three years of waiting around and I wasn't doing a fourth."
"And that worked?"
"You’re here, ain’t you?" She turned another piece of chicken. "Magically. Two months later. Ring."
Serena laughed as she turned back to the ribs and pressed the rub in harder.
…
"It’s not everyday you share a meal with a state senator," Tom brought his mug to his mouth, pausing for a smile before taking a sip.
"Oh, please," Britney waved him off, "Y’all two were best buddies."
"It’s in the best interest of all small business owners to be acquainted with their representative," Tom shrugged, "I can safely say I ain’t never woke up next to one before though."
"I would hope so," Britney allowed herself a small smile before it faded, "Still feels weird, though. Not as much winning the race but having to leave. I don’t know, I guess I never really thought about that part. I’ve spent my whole life in that courtroom."
"Somebody else's problem soon."
"That's what everyone keeps telling me," she turned her cup slowly on the table, not drinking from it. "I don’t know, I still want to take care of it."
"The Hayes thing?"
Britney nodded.
Tom's face shifted slightly. "You worried about who’s on deck?"
She nodded again. "If I had some idea of who it could be, I’d feel better about it. I know it sounds like I’m being a control freak but this is an important case for this community. I don’t want to see someone fuck it up. In either direction."
"The letters will help though?" Tom asked.
"They’ll help," Britney sighed, "I don't know if they'll be enough to stop somebody hungry from swinging for the fence. You know that conviction is going to land very well for them, especially if its someone unproven. Thirty might not be enough. They might want life. Maybe even the death penalty."
Tom nodded. They went quiet for a bit.
"Thank you, though," Britney softly rubbed the top of Tom’s hand, "I know it wasn’t easy asking her."
"I don’t think anybody wants to see that girl on death row," Tom shook her head, "The whole shit is just sad."
They went quiet again.
…
The confetti was still coming down. Brice could feel it sticking to the sweat on his arms, his neck, the back of his jersey. Some of it was gold. Some of it was black. He couldn't stop grinning, even though his face hurt from it, even though his body ached all over.
Serena found him, cutting through a knot of staff and photographers. She got both hands on his jersey before he even saw her coming and kissed him.
It caught him off guard. He felt his own surprise before he felt anything else and then he kissed her back, one hand finding her waist, confetti sticking to both of them.
"You fucking did it," she said against his mouth, more breath than words.
His parents were standing a few feet back. Tom had his phone out, filming all around him. Liz stood next to him, her hand carefully placed by his side. Sophie had James bundled up against the night air, his little fists working at nothing.
Tom stuffed the phone into his pocket as Brice reached them, bringing him in for a hug, "Great fucking game, son."
"Thank you."
"Really good game."
Brice smiled before moving onto Liz. She got a kiss. Sophie got a side hug before he turned his attention to James "Your daddy’s a Big Ten champion!"
"Two time Big Ten Champion!" Tom was quick to correct. Serena laughed.
Brice reached out and James handed James over. Brice took him, bringing his lips to James’ forehead.
Tom had his hands in his pockets, the way he did when he was trying not to look impressed, and Liz was watching with that quiet half-smile she got, the one that meant she was taking the whole thing in and filing it away somewhere. Sophie was next to her, holding James against her chest, the baby's head tucked under her chin.
Behind them, the stage was being wheeled out. The patient SID was moving closer and closer.
"Come on," Serena said, touching his arm. "They're waiting for you."
"I’ll text you when I’m out," he kissed Serena on the cheek and then nodded towards his family.
Brice adjusted James against his chest, the baby's head tucked into the crook of his neck, and started walking toward the stage. Somebody handed him a championship hat and he put it on sideways and James reached up and pulled it further sideways and Brice laughed.
The stage lights hit him as he climbed the steps, and the crowd got louder, and Brice held his son up a little higher. "Let’s go get our fucking trophy."
…
"So," Mrs. Walsh said, folding her hands on the desk between them. "How was the mission work?"
Connie had rehearsed this on the walk over. She'd rehearsed it in the elevator. She'd rehearsed it sitting in the waiting area outside the office door.
"It was great. Really fulfilling. I'm grateful I got to do it," she paused, letting the smile settle. "But I'm ready to get back to work. I’m ready to get back to being on track to graduate."
Walsh nodded slowly. She had a mug on her desk that said WORLD'S OKAYEST ADVISOR and Connie had always liked her for that.
"Okay. So first thing, and I want you to hear me on this, Connie, I don't want you rushing yourself back in. I've seen a lot of students come back from a leave and feel like they need to catch up, and they load up on credits, and it's not sustainable. I'd really rather you ease in."
"I appreciate that."
"I'm thinking a regular load. Maybe even twelve credits to start, instead of your usual fifteen. That still keeps you in compliance with your scholarships and your grants. You'd be fine."
Connie kept the smile on.
"Thank you. I really appreciate you looking out for me." She shifted in the chair, crossing her ankles under the desk. "But I'm fine. I'd like to do eighteen in the spring, twelve over the summer, and then fifteen in the fall. That puts me back where I was."
Walsh looked at her for a beat. Connie held the smile.
Walsh turned to her laptop screen. Her fingers moved over the keyboard.
"Let's see what we can do," she said.
…
"It's just, all of it could be for nothing," Brice said, turning his pen over in his fingers. "Like, we've done all this. Undefeated. Conference champs. And if we go out in the first or second round of the playoff, it's like none of it mattered. The whole season just disappears."
The library was mostly quiet. Not quite time for the rush of students cramming for their final exams. It was the same usual suspects spread out on the fifth floor. Brice recognized most of the faces. They all recognized his.
Mel didn't look up from her laptop right away. She kept writing, copying notes from her laptop to her notebook, as Brice sat there. He didn’t have any course work. "The future can't change the past."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"It means those moments don't stop being real because of something that happens after them. You won the games you won," she explained, "It’s not like something is going to change that."
"That's not what I'm saying."
"That's exactly what you're saying."
"I'm saying it'll feel like it didn't matter."
"It didn’t matter," Mel repeated. She set the pen down and folded her hands on top of the notebook. "Somebody could come in here right now and tell you the season is over or whatever and none of that, whatever it is you experience when you go around on a football field and chase each other for an hour, would be any different."
Brice opened his mouth and then closed it.
"I’m not trying to be a bitch. I know what you mean," she sighed, "I felt that way. When my sister died."
She paused. Brice didn't say anything.
"For a while after that, I kept thinking about all the things we never got to experience. My graduation. Her getting married. Her having kids. Me getting married. Me having kids."
"Yeah, right," Brice laughed.
She laughed too.
"It took me a long time to dig out of that," she continued. "Years, honestly. And one of the things that helped was just those moments that we did get to share. They don't stop being real because of what comes after. The light doesn't stop being light just because it gets dark later. You know what I mean?"
"You sound," Brice said slowly, "Like a poster they hang up in an English class in high school."
Mel picked up her pen and threw it at him. He caught it.
"I'm being serious," she said.
"I know you are. That's what makes it worse."
"Shut up."
"You're literally sitting here telling me the light will always overshadow the darkness like you're Mr. Rogers or some shit."
"Of all the fucking shows and references you don’t get, Mr. fucking Rogers?"
"I’m cultured," Brice shrugged, "Wasn’t he like a pedophile or some shit?"
"You’re thinking of Pee-wee Herman," Mel rolled her eyes, "And he’s not a pedophile. You’re such a fucking idiot."
Season 10, Episode 2
The can of green beans was dented on the bottom. Connie turned it over in her hands, checking the seam, and set it aside with the other dented ones. The good ones went on the shelf. The dented ones went in the box for the front desk.
She’d been at it for about an hour. Her back ached from bending. Her knees ached from kneeling. She kept going.
The shelf in front of her was organized by category: vegetables, fruits, soups, proteins and within each category by expiration date. Oldest in front. Newest in back.
She reached for another can. Green beans again. Good seam. She slid it onto the shelf behind the row that was already there and reached for the next one.
Through the doorway, past the half-open stockroom door, she could see the front of the pantry. A woman in a puffy coat was standing at the counter, filling out a form on a clipboard.
Single mom. Probably working two jobs. She’s tired. You can see it in the way she holds her shoulders. She’s been tired for a long time. She probably drives one of those minivans with the check engine light on and she’s been ignoring it for months because she can’t afford the repair and she can’t afford to not have a car either, so she just drives it and hopes.
She caught herself. She set the can down.
Stop it.
She picked the can back up. Green beans. Good seam. She slid it onto the shelf. Reached for the next one. Corn. Good seam. Shelf.
The woman at the front desk handed the clipboard back to the volunteer and said something Connie couldn’t hear. The volunteer nodded and pointed toward the back of the pantry, where the shopping carts were lined up.
Connie kept working. Can after can. Shelf after shelf. Reach, check, place. Reach, check, place. The cardboard boxes stacked around her got emptier. The shelf got fuller.
A man came through the front door. Older, maybe sixty. He walked with a slight limp, favoring his right side. He didn’t have a bag with him. He went straight to the counter and started talking to the volunteer.
Construction worker. Hurt on the job. The limp’s recent. He’s still adjusting to it. His jacket’s been patched by hand, which means somebody cares about him, or he cares enough about himself to do it. He’s proud. You can tell by the way he’s standing, even with the limp, even in a food pantry. He doesn’t want to be here. He’d rather be anywhere else.
She closed her eyes. Took a breath. Opened them.
Reach. Check. Place.
She moved to the next box. Canned tomatoes this time. She started pulling them out one by one, checking the seams, checking the dates. The oldest one she found had an expiration date six months out. She put it in front. The newest one went in the back.
The man at the counter was filling out his form now.
Connie made herself look away.
Another box. Canned soup this time. Chicken noodle, tomato, vegetable beef. She worked through them methodically, building the rows, making sure the oldest dates were visible. Her back was really aching now. She straightened up for a second, pressing her hand into the small of her spine, and looked at what she’d done. Three full shelves of canned goods, organized, dated, ready. The dented box was about a quarter full. She’d gotten through maybe half of the pallet.
She bent back down and kept going.
…
“So the draft’s in New York, right?” Serena cut into her salmon burger with the side of her fork, holding the bun down with her thumb. “I was thinking we could stay at that hotel with the spinning rooftop restaurant."
Brice shook his head, working through a bite of steak. He swallowed and took a sip of water before answering. “Nah. It’s in Ohio this year. They move it around. Last year was Vegas. Year before was Cleveland, I think.”
“Of course,” she laughed to herself. "It would be in Ohio of all places this year. That sucks. I was looking forward to coming back here."
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know, I like New York,” she picked up a fry, broke it in half, ate one piece. "I know you said they’re like a bad team or whatever but living here would be nice."
Brice chewed slowly.
“I wouldn’t mind it,” he finally said. “Purdue was bad. Now they’re not."
"Oh, brother," Serena playfully rolled her.
"I’m just saying," Brice held his hands up, "I change franchises. I just hate the fucking taxes."
“It can’t be that bad."
“When you’re making a lot of money, it is that bad. And then you’ve still got federal,” he cut another piece of steak. “Plus, the facilities aren’t even in New York. They practice in Jersey so I’d be living in Jersey. We’d be living in Jersey. Unless I’m driving over the bridge every day, talking about how I woke up this morning and got myself a gun."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
Brice shook his head in disbelief. "The Sopranos’ theme song? Woke up this morning? Got myself a gun?"
Serena looked at him blankly. “The Sopranos?"
“Seriously?”
“What’s The Sopranos?”
Brice set his knife and fork down and leaned back in his chair.
“You’ve never seen The Sopranos.”
“Is it a show?”
"Is it a show she asks," Brice laughed. He picked his fork back up, shaking his head, "We need to watch it when we get back."
…
The buildings seemed to stretch for miles above them, lighting up the night sky. The billboards stacked on top of billboards, the screens wrapping around buildings, the people moving in every direction at once. It was loud in a way that didn’t feel like sound so much as pressure against his eardrums. He had James bundled against his chest, the baby’s face tucked into his jacket, and he kept one hand cupped over the back of his head, shielding him from the cold and the noise both.
His family moved around him. Tom was a half-step ahead. Liz was next to Sophie, their arms linked. Liz’s doing. Serena walked on Brice’s left, her hand resting lightly on his elbow, not steering, just there.
And then he saw it.
His own face. Forty feet tall. Maybe fifty. He was mid-throw, the ball leaving his hand, his body twisted in that familiar torque. He recognized it. Probably his best throw of the season. Michigan State. Stepped up in the pocket. Found Jesse across the middle. His name was underneath in clean white letters. BRICE COLTON. PURDUE. HEISMAN FINALIST.
Next to him, on the adjacent screen, Tavien St. Clair. Same size. Same kind of shot. Tavien was running, ball tucked, his eyes upfield. TAVIEN ST. CLAIR. BOISE STATE. HEISMAN FINALIST.
Brice stood there. Tom’s hand came down on his shoulder. Firm. Warm through the jacket.
"You don’t throw across the field," Tom grinned, "You got lucky on that one."
Brice laughed. He kept looking up. The billboard cycle to a different photo. Him holding the Big Ten trophy, James in his arms.
He could feel Serena watching him. Liz had pulled Sophie in closer. Sophie let it happen. She was looking up too, her face half-hidden against Liz’s coat, but her eyes were on the screen.
People moved around them. A group of people stopped and pointed. One of them pulled out a phone and started filming.
Brice took a breath. He looked down at James, still tucked against his chest, still sleeping through all of it, and he adjusted the blanket around the baby’s head.
Then he looked back up.
His face was still there. Still throwing. Still frozen in that moment of release.
“Not bad,” he said, quietly, more to himself than to anyone. “Not bad at all.”
He started walking again. The family moved with him. Tom’s hand fell away from his shoulder. Liz loosened her grip on Sophie. Serena’s hand found his elbow again.
…
The green room was smaller than Brice expected. A couple of couches, a coffee table with water bottles and sports drinks arranged in neat rows, a flat-screen on the wall muted to ESPN. Somebody had put out a plate of fruit that nobody was touching.
Tavien was already in there when Brice walked in. He was sitting on the far couch, phone in his lap, looking up when the door opened. He nodded. Brice nodded back.
Brice took the couch opposite. He set his phone on the cushion next to him and picked up a water bottle, cracked the seal, took a sip. Put it back down.
The TV was showing highlights from Kamario’s season. Tavien was watching too. Neither of them said anything.
The door stayed closed. Somewhere down the hall, Brice could hear the murmur of voices. Kamario was out there. Duane was probably out there too by now.
“So,” Brice said. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Idaho. How’s that?”
Tavien looked over. He had a quiet face. The kind that didn’t give much away. “Cold.”
The silence came back. Brice picked up the water bottle again, turned it in his hands. The label was peeling at one corner. He pressed it back down.
“Man,” he said. “Ohio State to Boise. It doesn’t get much more different than that."
“Yeah,” Tavien shrugged, "It worked out."
“Yeah, it sure as shit did,” Brice nodded. He let it sit for a beat. "It couldn’t have been easy, though. You made the best of it, though. That’s for sure."
Tavien looked at him.
“Appreciate that,” he said. He opened his mouth then closed it then opened it again. "We camped together, right? In high school?"
"Yeah," Brice nodded, "One of my high school teammates was looking at Ohio State, so I went to their camp my junior year. I think you were already committed."
"Yeah, I remember," Tavien let out a small smile, "Would have been a crazy quarterback room."
"Yup," Brice smiled too, "It worked out in the end."
"You did your thing. Especially at a place like Purdue."
Tavien paused.
"No offense."
Brice laughed, "Nah, you’re right. It ain’t Ohio State. That’s for sure."
Tavien leaned back against the couch. He set his phone down on the cushion. "Looks like we didn’t them after all."
"Fuck Ohio State," Brice found himself leaning back as well.
"Fuck Ohio State," Tavien let out a small chuckle.
On the TV, the highlights had shifted to Duane.
“Your receiver’s good,” Tavien said, following his gaze, "He’s a sophomore, right?"
Brice nodded. He picked up a water bottle of his own, took a sip. Set it back down. The silence that followed didn’t feel awkward anymore.
“You nervous?” Tavien asked.
Brice looked at him. “A little. You."
“Fuck yeah.”
They both laughed. Brice rubbed his palms together, then stopped himself. His foot had started moving again. He pressed his heel into the carpet to stop it.
The door opened. A woman with a headset poked her head in. “Brice, Tavien. You’re up in five.”
“Thanks,” Brice said.
The door closed. They sat there for another moment. Tavien picked up his phone, checked it, set it back down. Brice straightened his tie. Neither of them moved toward the door yet.
“Hey,” Brice said. “Good luck tonight."
Tavien looked at him. "Thanks, you too. It’s going to be one of us, isn’t it?"
"I think so," Brice grinned, "We might as well get used to it. Gonna be the same shit in a few months."
"You’re probably right," Tavien let out a chuckle, "Which one would you rather win?"
"Both," Brice laughed again with a shrug, "I’m not that damn humble."
…
Brice pressed his heel into the carpet. The heel stayed. The rest of his foot wanted to tap. He pressed harder. The presenter was up on the stage, talking about the history of the award, the tradition, the legacy. Brice had heard most of it before. He’d watched this ceremony every year since he was twelve.
Just being here was an honor. He knew that. He’d said it in every interview this week. Every kid dreams of winning the Heisman, but it’s not something you actually think will happen. You say it because it’s true, and because it sounds good, and because the alternative, sitting here thinking I deserve this, makes you sound like an asshole.
But he did deserve it.
They were undefeated. They were Big Ten champions. They were defending national champions. He’d thrown fifty-two touchdowns. Fifty-two. And after all the chatter about his interceptions, about not throwing with anticipation, about drifting in the pocket, he’d thrown eight picks all year. Eight. That was a 1.4 interception rate. That was good. That was really good.
Sure, Tavien had a 0.4 rate. Two interceptions. Two. But he played in the Mountain West. He played against San Jose State and Wyoming and New Mexico. Brice played against Ohio State and Notre Dame and Oregon. There was a difference. There was absolutely a difference.
The presenter kept talking. Brice’s foot started moving again. He pressed it down.
Tavien did have eighteen rushing touchdowns. Eighteen. That’s a great season for a running back, let alone a quarterback. He should have ran more this season. He could have put together another thousand-yard rushing year like last season. He’d held back. He’d been protecting his body. Getting ready for the draft. Being smart. And maybe that had been a mistake, because eighteen rushing touchdowns looked really good on a Heisman ballot, and a thousand-yard rushing season looked really good on a Heisman ballot, and he’d given that up.
He forced his mind to go quiet. The presenter’s voice was winding down. The cadence had changed. The thank-yous were starting. The winner was coming. Brice could feel it in the room, the way the air got tighter, the way the cameras shifted.
He looked to his right. Tavien was sitting there, hands folded in his lap, his face giving nothing away. He’d had a really good season. He deserved it. Brice could say that. He could mean it. He could go out there after this and talk to the documentary crew and say Tavien had a really good season and he deserved it and he couldn’t wait to compete with him at the next level. Humble yet competitive. That worked. That was the right note.
He looked to his left. Kamario Taylor. Three-year starter. Good numbers. Brice mentally shrugged. He couldn’t think of a concession speech for Kamario. There wasn’t one. He moved on.
At the end of the row, Duane. His teammate. His guy. An unknown at the start of the season. Now he had a hundred and forty-six catches for seventeen hundred yards. Brice smiled to himself. He hadn’t needed to go to Notre Dame. He hadn’t needed to go to USC. He’d stayed at Purdue and he’d made a star. Duane’s success was his success. A concession interview for your own teammate was easy. You just said you were proud of him. You meant it. You moved on.
He looked back toward the screen. The presenter was holding the envelope. Brice took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Opened them.
They practice in Jersey so I’d be living in Jersey. We’d be living in Jersey.
I don't know about the Giants but Florham Park's pretty nice as far as the Jets go. It actually fits Brice perfectly. Too expensive for the [redacted] to move in. /randomplacescaesarhasbeen
Game didn't give Brice the Heisman but Soapy changed it so he did get it in the narrative because he sees the writing on the wall in American Sun.
@ Serena and Nia
/randomplacescaesarhasbeen
