Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Season 11, Episode 1
"Brice Colton, quarterback, Purdue."

…

The door opened and the bag hit the floor.

Brice stood there for a beat, the late afternoon light cutting across the entryway in a long rectangle. He could hear the ocean, not loud, not close, but there, a low and steady pull behind everything else. He looked down at the gym bag slumped against the door frame, the zipper half-open, a strap of tape curling out.

He picked it up and carried it inside.

The house was quiet. Three bedrooms, one story, furnished in beige and blue, portraits on the wall he was still getting used to. He walked through the living room, past the couch, down the short hallway to the laundry closet. He unzipped the bag and pulled out the damp clothes, dropping them into the washing machine, added detergent from the bottle on the shelf, turned the dial to cold. His thumb hovered over the start button. He pulled his hand back and closed the lid.

He checked the time on the microwave and opened the fridge. Not much was in there. He grabbed one of the apples, rinsed it under the tap, and ate it standing at the counter. The crunch was loud in the empty kitchen. He tossed the core in the trash and headed for the bathroom.

He turned and let the water hit his right shoulder. The heat was soothing, loosening the tightness and soreness that had built up in his shoulder. He stood there longer than he meant to, the water running down his back, his palm pressed flat against the tile.

He shut it off, dried himself with the towel hanging on the hook and pulled on a pair of sweats.

The couch was a sectional, the kind with too many cushions. He dropped onto the middle section and let his head fall back against the top rail. The ceiling was white. The fan was off. Through the window he could hear a car pass on the street, then nothing, then the ocean again, that same low pull.

He closed his eyes.

The sound came from the front door, metal on metal, a key finding the lock, missing, trying again. Someone fumbling.

Brice opened his eyes and looked toward the entryway.

…

Liz set her keys on the hook by the door and stopped.

Tom was at the sink, his back to her, sleeves rolled to the elbows, scrubbing a pan. The kitchen smelled like garlic and butter. Sophie was at the table with a plate of pasta in front of her, fork halfway to her mouth, earbuds in one ear.

"Hey," Liz said.

Tom turned. "Hey."

Sophie pulled the earbud out. "Mom."

Liz hung her coat on the back of the kitchen chair and set her purse on the counter. She opened the fridge and took out a water bottle, cracked the seal, drank. Tom rinsed the pan and set it on the drying rack. He dried his hands on the towel hanging from the oven handle and put the clean dishes away in the cabinet, one at a time, not rushing.

He walked over to Sophie and kissed the top of her head. "Night, Soph."

"Night, Dad."

He grabbed his keys off the counter and turned toward the door.

"I'll walk you out," Liz said.

She followed him through the living room and out the front door. The evening air was cool. She glanced back through the kitchen window. Sophie was carrying her plate to the sink, then heading toward the stairs, phone in hand, already scrolling.

Tom stood by his truck, keys dangling from his fingers.

"You can't keep showing up like this," Liz said.

"Like what?"

"Like this."

He scoffed. "I asked her if she’d eaten yet. She said she hadn’t and was thinking of ordering something. I figured I'd stop by, cook her something. That's all it was."

"If this is going to work, you need to respect the boundaries we talked about."

Tom opened his mouth. Then he closed it. He nodded.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine."

He nodded again. The half-smile came and went.

"Have a good night, Liz."

…

The key scraped against the lock, missed, scraped again. Connie shifted the strap of her backpack higher on her shoulder and tried the next key on the ring. The third one turned. She pushed the door open and stepped into the apartment.

The overhead light in the living room was on. So was the television.

"Finally," Reese called from the kitchen. "We were about to send a search party."

Connie dropped her bag by the door and kicked off her shoes. Her feet ached. She'd been standing for most of the tutoring session, leaning over the table with the second-grader who kept trying to use his pencil as a sword.

"Sorry," she said. "One of the parents were late at pickup."

Maya was at the table with a bowl of mac and cheese, fork paused mid-air. Reese was standing at the stove, spooning more onto a plate.

"Sit," Reese said. "We’ve got another one of Reese’s specials tonight."

Connie pulled out the chair across from Maya and sat down. Reese set the plate in front of her. Box mac and cheese, a pile of chicken bites, the kind from the freezer section, golden brown and weirdly shaped. Connie picked up her fork.

"Thank you," she said. "Seriously."

Reese sat down with her own plate.

"So," Maya said, setting her fork down. "We were just talking about the mixer next Friday."

"Mm." Connie kept eating.

"You should come," Reese said.

"I don’t know, I still have to finish this paper."

"You can write it Saturday."

"You said that last weekend."

Maya leaned forward. "So I’m consistent."

Connie took another bite.

"Have you given any more thought to pledging?" Reese asked. "Rush starts in two weeks."

"I told you guys. My schedule—"

"We know your schedule," Maya said. "We barely see you these days. That’s why you need this. That’s why this would be good for you."

"It's just not—"

"Look, forget I said that. Okay, you don't have to pledge," Reese said. "Just come to the mixer. Hang out. Meet people. I don’t know, I’ll think you’ll like it."

Maya tilted her head, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. "Xander will be there."

Connie kept her eyes on her plate. She speared a chicken bite and brought it to her mouth, chewed slowly, deliberately. She finally turned towards Maya.

"I hate you. That was said in drunken confidence."

They all erupted in laughter.

…

Serena set the plate of salmon in the center of the table and sat down across from him. The rice was still steaming. She'd arranged the vegetables in a neat pile on the side of her own plate, asparagus and bell peppers.

"How was it today?" she asked, picking up her fork.

Brice cut into the salmon. It flaked clean. "It was alright. It’s a lot of the same shit over and over again. How was your day?"

"I went for a walk this morning. Down that street behind the house, the one that curves toward the shore," She pushed a piece of asparagus to the side of her plate. "We're closer to the beach than I thought. Like, literally right there."

Brice shook his head. "I hate the beach."

"You’re from Indiana."

"So? I’ve gone to the beach."

"Yeah, like Porter Beach or some shit. You can’t compare that to this."

"Beach is a beach. Sand gets everywhere. You spend half the time making sure no one is stealing your shit. Fuck that. Give me a pool. Every single time."

Serena set her fork down. "A pool."

"A pool."

"You're telling me you'd rather sit in a rectangle of chlorinated water than the ocean, the quite literal life foce of the world.”

"Alright, Ghandi."

"I’m just saying," she shook her head, "You’re sitting in piss water."

"There’s shit in the ocean."

"No, there isn’t."

"Yes, there is. You don’t think fish and whales and sharks take a shit?"

"You’re a fucking idiot," she shook her head again, smiling this time.

"I'm being logical." He took another bite of salmon. "Name one thing the beach does better than a pool."

"The view."

"The view of what? Water? I can see water in a pool."

"The horizon. The sunset. The…" she waved her hand in front of her face. "The vastness of it. The feeling of being small next to something that big."

He chewed, considering. "Who the fuck wants to feel small?"

"That’s like so on brand for you it’s not even funny."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," the smile hadn’t left her face. "Just eat your food. Your salmon. From the shitty ocean."

He ate his salmon. The ocean was there, behind everything, that same low pull. He could hear it through the window over the sink.

"Pool clears," he said.

"Sure it does."

[Captain Canada]

So what poor franchise pitted its future on this motherfucker?

[redsox907]

Well if there’s a beach and ocean, I’m guessing Miami

[Caesar]

If we're assuming Brice is already at the team's location, the answer is Seattle.

Serena committing to being his—

[Soapy]

So what poor franchise pitted its future on this motherfucker?

Well if there’s a beach and ocean, I’m guessing Miami

If we're assuming Brice is already at the team's location, the answer is Seattle.

Serena committing to being his—

It's been a while so I'll give you guys a pass and won't deduct #nooticer points

The first sentence is in italics like other season openers where it denotes that its from the "future"

Last season ended with Serena checking out temporary homes for Brice while he trains for the draft in California

[Soapy]

Season 11, Episode 2
Brice’s cleats caught on the turf and he stumbled, just slightly, on the third step of his drop.

“Reset.”

Slade stood ten yards behind him, arms crossed, the iPad tucked under his left arm.

Brice walked back to the imaginary line of scrimmage. The salt air came in off the water, faint but there, mixing with the rubber smell of the turf. He wiped his right hand on his shorts and set his feet.

He dropped. One, two, three, four, five. Planted. Eyes right. Elbow up. The ball left his hand and sailed toward the BYU receiver, TJ, who caught it on a slant and kept going into the end zone.

“Better,” Slade said. "Elbow a little low."

Brice nodded.

The field was empty except for them. The bleachers sat gray and vacant under the late morning sun, the press box dark, the scoreboard reading zeroes in every column. A maintenance truck was parked near the gate, nobody in it. Beyond the fence, the hills rolled green toward the ocean.

Cole stood off to the side, arms crossed the same way his father crossed them. Brice could feel it without looking, the kid’s eyes tracking every throw, every drop, every time Brice’s elbow dipped, or his footwork got rushed.

It was flattering, in a way. Annoying in another. Mostly flattering.

“Again,” Slade said.

Brice dropped. Five steps. Eyes right. Elbow up. Nick, the receiver from Oregon, tucked it and jogged back.

“Good,” Slade said. “Now the same thing, but I want you to hold your eyes on the safety for a beat before you come to the hash. Make him think post.”

Brice set his feet.

He did it. Held the safety, came to the hash, threw.

“Reset.”

He walked back. His shoulder was starting to ache, that deep burn that lived in the joint after two hours of throwing. He’d felt it yesterday too, and the day before. He’d feel it tomorrow.

“Go.”

He dropped. Held the safety. Came to the hash. Threw.

“Reset. Your back foot. You’re drifting again."

Brice walked back. He set his feet. He dropped. He held. He threw.

“Better,” Slade said. “Again.”

They ran the same play seven more times. On the eighth, Slade finally moved on.

The session went like that for another forty minutes. Five-step drops. Seven-step drops. Play-action. Bootlegs. Every rep stopped, dissected, reset. Footwork. Eye placement. Elbow height. The angle of his hips at the top of the drop. The rotation of his shoulders on the release. Slade stood there with his arms crossed and his voice level and he found every flaw, and Brice stood there and took it, nodding, listening, doing it again.

The receivers were starting to drag. TJ was bent over with his hands on his knees between reps. Nick was stretching his hamstring. Even the high school kids, Cole’s receivers, were beginning to tire out.

“Last one,” Slade said. “Post. Backside."

Brice set his feet. He dropped. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Planted. Eyes left. The post route was developing, the receiver cutting inside, and Brice let it go at the top, the ball arcing high and dropping into the receiver’s hands thirty yards downfield.

“Good,” Slade said. “That’s it for today."

The receivers dispersed. TJ and Nick walked off together. The high school kids grabbed their bags and headed for the parking lot. Cole lingered for a moment, then followed them, glancing back once over his shoulder.

Slade picked up the iPad from where he’d set it on the turf. He tapped the screen a few times, then looked at Brice.

“Let’s go through the film.”

Brice pulled his helmet off. His hair was soaked. He wiped his face with the back of his arm and followed Slade to the sideline where they took a seat on the bleachers.

The screen showed the field from the angle of the camera Slade had mounted on a tripod behind the line of scrimmage. Every throw was there, time-stamped, organized by drill.

Slade pressed play.

Brice took a deep breath. The first throw appeared on the screen: a five-step drop from two hours ago, his elbow clearly too low, his back foot drifting. Slade paused it.

“See that?”

…

Tom set his keys on the kitchen counter and pulled the bottle of whiskey from the cabinet above the sink. He poured one finger into the glass, looked at it, poured another. Held the bottle there for a beat, then let a third pour in. Neat. He took a sip and set the glass down.

The house was quiet. He opened the fridge and pulled out the chicken, the onions, the peppers. Set them on the cutting board. He found the knife in the drawer, the one with the wooden handle Britney kept sharpened, and started slicing.

He pulled his phone from his back pocket. Two threads. He typed something into both, set the phone face-down on the counter, and went back to the cutting board. The onions went into the pan first, then the peppers, then the chicken. He stirred it with the spatula and took another sip of whiskey.

The phone buzzed. He picked it up.

Two responses. He typed back to the first one: Alright, let me know when you get in. Sent. To the second: How was school today? Sent. He set the phone down and stirred the pan.

It buzzed again. He checked it. Smiled. Typed: Free this weekend? Sent. He slid the phone into his back pocket and turned the heat down on the stove.

The chicken was done. He turned off the burner and stood over the pan with a fork, eating directly from it. The whiskey was half gone. The house was still quiet.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out.

I’ll ask Mom and see what she says.

He set the phone on the counter. He knew what she’d say. He finished the whiskey in one swallow and poured another. Three fingers this time. He stood at the counter with the glass in his hand and looked out the window at the dark backyard. The fence needed painting.

He took a sip and didn’t move.

…

Brice slid himself into the driver seat, tossing his gym back towards the back. He pulled his phone out of the glove compartment box. The screen showed a missed call from forty minutes ago. Wayne Marks. He unlocked the phone and called back.

It rang twice.

“Mr. Colton.”

“Wayne. What’s up?”

“I tried you earlier.”

“I was in a session. Look, if it’s about my dad, just send whatever it to Spence. He’ll handle it."

“It’s not about your father.”

Brice sat up.

“Tom’s account is settled. The last check you sent cleared, everything’s in good standing."

“Then what is it about?”

A pause on the line. Brice could hear papers shifting, the sound of a chair creaking.

“It’s about the Hayes.”

…

The key turned in the lock and the door opened. Liz stepped inside and closed it behind her, the click soft in the dark house.

She stood in the entryway for a moment, letting her eyes adjust. The living room was dim, the only light coming from the streetlamp through the front window.

She bent down and slipped off her heels, one at a time, setting them side by side against the wall. She reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. The earrings came next, small silver studs, and she set them on the kitchen counter, the metal ticking against the granite.

Her thumb moved to her left ring finger. There was nothing there. She pressed the pad of her thumb against the bare skin, held it there for a beat, then dropped her hand.

She walked to the refrigerator and opened it. The light spilled across the kitchen floor, bright and cold. She found the jar of olives on the second shelf, behind the milk. She twisted the lid off and set it on the counter, pulled out an olive with her fingers and ate it. The brine was sharp. She ate another.

Footsteps on the stairs. Sophie appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot, wearing an oversized Purdue sweatshirt and shorts. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.

“Hey,” Sophie said.

“Hey.”

Sophie crossed to the counter and took an olive from the jar. She ate it standing next to her mother, looking at the refrigerator door, at nothing in particular. Liz held the jar out and Sophie took another.

“James went down easy,” Sophie said.

“Thanks.”

Sophie nodded. She picked up the jar and carried it into the living room. Liz followed. Sophie dropped onto the couch and pulled the throw blanket over her legs. Liz sat at the other end, leaving the middle cushion between them.

Sophie picked up the remote and turned on the television. The screen lit up blue, then the menu for the streaming service. She navigated to Love Island, found the most recent episode, and pressed play.

[redsox907]

Brice already buying people off eh?

Sounds like ol Britt and Tom flamed out already?

[Captain Canada]

Everybody already eating off Brice huh? Because that always ends well.

[Caesar]

They forgot to run the Brice Colton special—the 27-step drop

Liz making Sophie help with the bastard because she’s getting a divorce is diabolical.

[Soapy]

Brice already buying people off eh?

Sounds like ol Britt and Tom flamed out already?

Buying who off?

Britney is a state senator now, she won the race two seasons ago. She's in session so she's living in Indy which is who he was texting, besides Sophie. He's in Britney's home.

Again, I'll give y'all grace. It was a long break.

Everybody already eating off Brice huh? Because that always ends well.

They forgot to run the Brice Colton special—the 27-step drop

Liz making Sophie help with the bastard because she’s getting a divorce is diabolical.

That's harsh lmao

She can't babysit her nephew from time to time?