Season 3, Episode 8
The night had started to blend into one long, repeating sequence for Brice: opening the door for guests, offering them a drink, taking a shot with them, then migrating back toward Brooke. She had been a bit reserved at first—understandably so—showing up with just her and her friend, whose name Brice struggled to remember. Hell, he had to look at his phone a few times to remember Brooke’s.
But as the party flowed and so did the alcohol, the once-quiet blonde was now fully lubricated, engaging in conversation with anyone who would give her the time—which were plenty. There was nothing striking or remarkable about her, respectfully, but she was petite and blonde with an easy smile, which was half the battle.
Brice kept an eye on her initially, both out of a sense of obligation since he had invited her, and partially for his own selfish plans. The latter slowly started to fade the drunker she got which, in turn, the louder she also got. The other women in attendance began to garner his attention instead, and no matter how conniving he was or his disdain for Kendall, he could only serve one god.
"I don’t know… I like the long hair," said a brunette—whose name was escaping Brice—as she ran her fingers through his hair. "I can’t really see you with a buzzcut or something."
"Nah, my boy would get a fade or something," Artie chimed in as he leaned back into the couch. Elle, who he had met during the spring and who never left his side since, rested on his chest, explicitly marking her territory. "My boy get a buzzcut and I’m gonna start asking where he was at on January 6th!"
"Never that," Brice slowly shook his head with a smile. "You know I stand with my kinfolk."
"This nigga really think he Black!" Artie laughed.
"What can I say? Black people love me and I love Black people," Brice shrugged with a smirk.
"I didn’t peg you for being into Black girls," Elle said as she sat up, drawing a dirty look from the brunette, who was definitely not Black.
"Oh yeah," Brice wasted no time answering. "Nothing like the warm bosom of the Black queen. Ain’t that right, Artie?"
"Nigga, didn’t you have an Asian girlfriend in high school?" Abdul quipped.
"See, that’s the problem with teammates like these," Brice playfully shook his head. "You don’t even need an opponent."
"My fault, gang," Abdul said, holding his hands up.
They continued to engage in pointless banter—the sort that carried nights like these—as music played in the background and the party settled into a groove with no more knocks at the door and the night beginning to merge with the early morning hours.
Brice’s gaze would wander toward Brooke every so often, whose friend had disappeared—perhaps one of Brice’s teammates had gotten lucky. Another teammate, a second-year linebacker who Brice hadn’t bothered to learn the name of since he wasn’t on the two-deep, had cozied up next to her, making sure her cup was never empty. At first, he didn’t pay it much mind. The brunette—with her constant touching and caressing—was in the bag, and he wasn’t a greedy man. At least not tonight. Whatever his plans were for him and Brooke, they would have to wait.
Brice’s interest was only piqued when the drinks kept coming, followed by more shots, and soon after, Brooke was practically slumped over on the linebacker’s shoulder as he slowly nursed his drink. Like a safety creeping up toward the line of scrimmage, Brice could see the play. The constant looking toward the bathroom, monitoring who was around and who wasn’t. As soon as the linebacker stood up, grabbing Brooke’s hand and helping her to her feet, Brice rose as well.
"Can you get something to drink?" the brunette asked. Brice nodded, barely paying attention as he kept an eye on the two as they moved toward the bathroom. The linebacker was only a few feet away when Brice firmly placed a hand on his chest.
"The fuck you doing?" Brice asked.
"What do you mean what I’m doing?" the linebacker scoffed, swatting Brice’s hand down. "We’re just going to use the bathroom."
"Do I look fucking dumb to you, bro?" Brice tilted his head before looking at Brooke. "You good?"
"Yeah, she’s good," the linebacker answered for her as Brooke remained quiet, slowly blinking as she tried to steady herself.
The standoff had drawn the attention of other partygoers, including Walter, who had been nursing a soda water in the corner all night.
"We’re good here, guys?" Walter stepped in, keeping his tone light in an attempt to diffuse the situation.
"Brice is being a fucking dick, as always," the linebacker snapped, sucking his teeth. "What, you mad that she’s fucking me instead?"
Brice let out a wry laugh, looking to the side before snapping back and shoving his palm into the guy’s face, causing him to stumble back. Before the linebacker could counter, he was quickly engulfed by Abdul, who outweighed him by nearly sixty pounds.
"Don’t do it," Abdul warned as he pinned him against the wall. "This ain’t gonna go how you want it to go."
The linebacker let out an exasperated sigh as Abdul, along with a few other linemen, guided him out of the apartment.
"Nigga, did you just use your right fucking hand?" Artie teased, approaching Brice and bringing levity back to the room as people slowly looked away.
"Only reason I didn’t sock his ass," Brice smirked before looking at Brooke, who still seemed out of it. "You good?"
"Yeah… yeah," she whispered, though it was clear she wasn’t.
"Where’s your friend?"
Brooke only shrugged before leaning dangerously, Walter stepping in to stop her from collapsing. "Easy there."
"Fuck," Brice muttered.
…
"I need at least ten targets at the next practice," Walter shook his head as they balanced Brooke’s body between them while entering her dorm. "You’ve got me carrying a passed out white woman at night in fucking West Lafayette, Indiana."
"This was your fucking idea," Brice laughed. "I was cool with letting her crash in my room."
"Of course you were," Walter rolled his eyes. "Must be great to be a white man."
"It sort of is," Brice teased as they reached the lobby and sat her on a lounge chair. "Hey, Brooke!"
He clapped his hands in front of her face, but she didn’t respond, only groaning as she slumped further until she was lying down. Brice let out a long sigh—tired from carrying her across campus and already feeling the first waves of his hangover. She had been conscious enough when they left the apartment to tell them her dorm building, but they hadn't thought to ask her room number. Now she was in no condition to answer.
"This is good, right?" Brice asked Walter, already knowing the answer.
"You want us to drop off a drunk, passed out girl in a fucking lobby?"
"I aspire to be the man you are one day," Brice said, shaking his head as he took out his phone. "Do you know where her friend went?"
"She slipped out, like, an hour before," Walter said. "One of the walk-ons was with her. I think Jace."
"This bitch out here fucking walk-ons," Brice laughed. "She don’t know what she’s doing. This bitch just giving it out."
"What?"
"Nothing," Brice sighed.
The dorm door opened and a dark-skinned girl with braids walked in, holding a McDonald’s bag. Her face was familiar, though Brice couldn’t place it. Walter stiffened immediately.
She slowed as she approached the elevator across from them, eyes narrowing at the scene. Brice offered an awkward wave; Walter stayed silent, already imagining the school newspaper headline.
"Hey," Brice cleared his throat. "I know this is a weird ask—"
"It’s weird already," she said, still assessing. She looked at Brooke. "Brooke?"
"You know her?" Brice’s face lit up. "Fucking fantastic."
"Yeah…" She paused, then addressed Brooke. "You okay?"
"She was at our party and had too much to drink," Brice explained quickly. "Her friend—some friend she is—left early. We know she lives in this dorm, we just don’t know where."
The girl studied them with skepticism—but something in Brice’s softening face and Walter’s absolute terror nudged her toward believing them.
"Yeah," she said. "I know her room."
"Thank you," Brice said, pressing his hands together like he was praying. "You’re a lifesaver."
"Sounds like you guys were," she said with a small smile.
Damaged Petals.
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12505
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Last edited by Soapy on 25 Nov 2025, 15:42, edited 2 times in total.
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12611
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Brice bet not fuck up no Black woman’s life with his shit. We don’t need that in the community 
But kudos to Brice for gunning to take the ultimate RTG dickhead crown from Caesar Jenkins. This man remember like 3 people name in this whole chapter.
But kudos to Brice for gunning to take the ultimate RTG dickhead crown from Caesar Jenkins. This man remember like 3 people name in this whole chapter.
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redsox907
- Posts: 2645
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
but he played the hero
hey may be a narcissistic, womanizing, possible woman beater, but he'll be damned if someone else takes advantage of a girls poor decisions while he stands idly by
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 5568
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
I wasn't going to say nothing but he really giving Jenkins a run for his money
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12505
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
not on his watch
they NPCs broCaptain Canada wrote: ↑18 Nov 2025, 11:31I wasn't going to say nothing but he really giving Jenkins a run for his money
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12505
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 3, Episode 9
Brice had been talking for a while before he realized LaPenna hadn’t written anything down. Usually, the pen came out early, but today the therapist just sat back in his chair, hands loose on the armrests, listening.
“—so I got her out of there before anything happened,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Walked her back across campus, made sure she got to her room. Well, first her building and that was a whole other ordeal but yeah, made sure she got to her room and stuff."
He let the word settle like it was nothing. He didn’t mention Walter. Didn’t mention that he’d been ready to leave Brooke in the lobby. Didn’t mention the part where he didn’t just stop his teammate but physically assaulted him. The cleaner version sounded better. Felt better.
LaPenna finally lifted his chin, attentive.
“And why do you think you did that?” he asked gently.
Brice smirked. “Because I’m a good guy and now the monster everyone thinks I am?” he joked, leaning back, spreading his hands like he was waiting for applause. “I mean—come on. Anyone would’ve stepped in. I just… did the right thing.”
LaPenna didn’t bite. He kept his expression even, neutral.
“That’s one possibility,” he said. “Do you think that’s the only one?”
Brice blinked. “I don’t get it."
“What motivated you,” LaPenna clarified. “There’s what you did. And then there’s why.”
Brice’s jaw flexed once. He looked away, eyes tracing the framed Purdue diploma on the wall, the potted plant that never seemed to grow, the window where the summer light was too bright for this room. He told himself it was a stupid question. Obvious. Pointless.
“It was just the right thing,” he said again, firmer this time, as if repetition made it truer. “You see someone about to get taken advantage of, you step in. That’s…what I think everyone would do. Or should do, I would hope.”
LaPenna didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Just let the silence expand.
Brice hated that silence. It pressed against him, nudged at something he didn’t want touched. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them. A faint, annoyed breath slipped out.
“I don’t know, man,” he muttered. “What else is there to say?”
Another long pause. Brice felt it this time—felt himself sitting inside it, unable to outrun it. His knee bounced once. Then stopped. He swallowed, unsure why his chest felt tight.
Did I do it because it was right?
Or did I do it because I wanted people to see me as the kind of dude who would?
If it was so easy last night, why isn’t it easy all the time?
He didn’t say any of that. He couldn’t as he looked at the ground. When Brice finally glanced up, LaPenna was still looking at him the same way—calm, patient, waiting for him to follow his own thought. Brice didn’t. He couldn’t. Not out loud.
But the therapist didn’t chase it. Instead, he nodded once, slowly, and reached for his notepad. He looked down as he wrote, hiding—very deliberately—the hint of satisfaction that flickered over his face. Because for the first time since they’d started meeting, Brice was actually thinking.
…
Jimmy peeled himself off the gym floor and walked slowly toward the squat rack. He ducked under the bar, looking up toward the ceiling as if searching the rafters—or the heavens—for strength for his final set.
“Come on,” Tom clapped from behind him. “Last one, finish it out.”
Jimmy lifted the bar, settling all three hundred and fifteen pounds across his back before stepping out into the pit. He had come to loathe the pit—his dad’s word for the cramped lifting space—but he also appreciated the opportunities for greatness it offered, as his dad always reminded him.
He steadied himself, then lowered into the squat. At the bottom he drove upward, the weights rattling. Brice didn’t hit three plates for five reps until junior year, he reminded himself. He dropped again. And again. And again. The fifth rep loomed like a dare. He sank into the pit and tried to explode up, but the weight wouldn’t budge. It felt heavier now, impossibly heavy. He could feel his father’s presence behind him, his gaze lingering. Jimmy gave it one more desperate push before the bar rolled off his back and slammed into the spotter arms with a sharp, metallic bang.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, dropping to one knee, keeping his eyes glued to the floor, refusing—for now—to face his reflection in the mirror.
“Straight into lunges,” his father said as he began stripping plates from the bar. The command wasn’t harsh, but there was no pride in it either.
Jimmy pushed himself up and walked to the open area. He grabbed the dumbbells and started lunges, the failed fifth rep still gnawing at him.
Tom quietly cleaned up the makeshift garage gym as Jimmy powered through the lunges. The air inside was thick and unmoving, the oppressive summer heat choking the space. It was Jimmy’s second workout of the day—he trained with the team that morning—and Tom believed that two-a-days were the measure of a football player; they were the measure of Brice, and now Jimmy.
When the workout ended, Tom finally hit the button and the garage door rumbled open, letting in a welcome rush of cooler air. They sat on the wooden bench by the entrance, Jimmy chugging a Gatorade while Tom twisted open a whiskey bottle.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Tom said with a wink, extending the bottle toward Jimmy. Jimmy shook his head. “Good man. Couldn’t try that shit with Brice.”
Jimmy chuckled, though the fifth rep still lingered in his mind.
“What do you think about St. Frances?”
The question caught him off guard. They hadn’t talked about it since running into that coach a few weeks back at the 7-on-7 tournament. Jimmy had assumed his father either forgot about it or—more likely—didn’t like the idea.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged instinctively. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Well, think about it now,” Tom said.
Jimmy paused. He had thought about it. It was all he’d thought about since St. Frances first approached him. Their interest meant more than any of the scholarship offers stacked in his inbox. There was no angle, no package deal, no ulterior motive. They wanted him. Only him.
“They’ve already got a good quarterback,” he muttered. “So I don’t think I’d play there. At least not starting.”
“And is that what you want to play? Quarterback?”
“Not really,” Jimmy said honestly. “I don’t care. I just want to play. And I’m probably not gonna be a quarterback in college anyway. Might as well start learning whatever position I’ll actually end up at, right?”
Tom smirked. “Sounds like you have thought about it. And sounds like we should take that visit, right?”
…
Artie elbowed him as they reached the bottom step. “C’mon, man. You gotta at least walk around. Don’t be weird.”
“I’m not being weird,” Brice muttered, already feeling weird.
“You say that Black folks love you, right?” Abdul teased, "We’re about to find out for real, nigga."
“You good?” a tall guy with a patchy beard shouted over the music as he walked by Walter, giving him a knowing nod.
“Always,” Walter shot back, dapping him up.
Brice hung back near the wall, trying to blend into the shadows. Everywhere he looked, guys were talking, joking, sizing each other up with that athletic, competitive energy he recognized from locker rooms. But here it was different. Here he was the outlier and all of a sudden, the joke of him being a White guy at a mixer for a Black frat didn’t feel so funny anymore.
Artie and Abdul were already lost somewhere near the cues forming in the back corner while Walter was engaging in conversation with guys he’d known for years, guys that his own father had mentored. And Brice—well, Brice was doing exactly what he promised he wouldn’t do: hugging the wall like it owed him rent.
He lifted a cup of the mystery punch to his lips, trying to look occupied, when he heard a voice cut through the music.
“Aye! You’re that QB, right?"
Brice forced a tight, polite smile. “Uh—what’s up?”
The frat member stopped in front of him, looking him over—not in a disrespectful way, not mocking or suspicious. Just… curious. Intentional. Like someone actually seeing him for the first time.
“You thinking about crossing over?” he asked.
Brice blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.” The guy folded his arms, amused.
Brice’s ears burned.
“Uh—honestly? I’m just here with my roommates.”
The guy nodded slowly, like he expected that answer—but wasn’t accepting it. “Cool. But I didn’t ask them. I asked you.”
Brice swallowed. “I… I don’t know. This isn’t really for me.”
“Why not?” The frat member tilted his head. “You think we don’t recruit white boys? Or you think you wouldn’t fit?”
“I mean…” Brice scoffed, "I just never thought about it really. Not a frat guy."
The guy laughed—not unkindly, just knowingly. “And what exactly is a frat guy? Or, like what you probably really wanted to say, what’s a Black frat guy?"
Brice stared at him, caught between embarrassment and a growing annoyance at being challenged.
"I said what I meant," Brice cleared his throat, "I’ve just never really thought about joining a frat."
"I respect that," the guy nodded, satisfied. "I didn’t think I was a frat guy either but it ain’t always what you think it is, you know?"
Brice kept quiet, unsure if he was being welcomed or tested.
Maybe both.
The guy clapped him on the back. "Alright, well, nice to meet you, brother."
He walked off, leaving Brice standing there, cup in hand, pulse loud in his ears. Brice wasn’t sure what the hell this night was supposed to be—but whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t the joke he walked in expecting.
Brice had been talking for a while before he realized LaPenna hadn’t written anything down. Usually, the pen came out early, but today the therapist just sat back in his chair, hands loose on the armrests, listening.
“—so I got her out of there before anything happened,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Walked her back across campus, made sure she got to her room. Well, first her building and that was a whole other ordeal but yeah, made sure she got to her room and stuff."
He let the word settle like it was nothing. He didn’t mention Walter. Didn’t mention that he’d been ready to leave Brooke in the lobby. Didn’t mention the part where he didn’t just stop his teammate but physically assaulted him. The cleaner version sounded better. Felt better.
LaPenna finally lifted his chin, attentive.
“And why do you think you did that?” he asked gently.
Brice smirked. “Because I’m a good guy and now the monster everyone thinks I am?” he joked, leaning back, spreading his hands like he was waiting for applause. “I mean—come on. Anyone would’ve stepped in. I just… did the right thing.”
LaPenna didn’t bite. He kept his expression even, neutral.
“That’s one possibility,” he said. “Do you think that’s the only one?”
Brice blinked. “I don’t get it."
“What motivated you,” LaPenna clarified. “There’s what you did. And then there’s why.”
Brice’s jaw flexed once. He looked away, eyes tracing the framed Purdue diploma on the wall, the potted plant that never seemed to grow, the window where the summer light was too bright for this room. He told himself it was a stupid question. Obvious. Pointless.
“It was just the right thing,” he said again, firmer this time, as if repetition made it truer. “You see someone about to get taken advantage of, you step in. That’s…what I think everyone would do. Or should do, I would hope.”
LaPenna didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Just let the silence expand.
Brice hated that silence. It pressed against him, nudged at something he didn’t want touched. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them. A faint, annoyed breath slipped out.
“I don’t know, man,” he muttered. “What else is there to say?”
Another long pause. Brice felt it this time—felt himself sitting inside it, unable to outrun it. His knee bounced once. Then stopped. He swallowed, unsure why his chest felt tight.
Did I do it because it was right?
Or did I do it because I wanted people to see me as the kind of dude who would?
If it was so easy last night, why isn’t it easy all the time?
He didn’t say any of that. He couldn’t as he looked at the ground. When Brice finally glanced up, LaPenna was still looking at him the same way—calm, patient, waiting for him to follow his own thought. Brice didn’t. He couldn’t. Not out loud.
But the therapist didn’t chase it. Instead, he nodded once, slowly, and reached for his notepad. He looked down as he wrote, hiding—very deliberately—the hint of satisfaction that flickered over his face. Because for the first time since they’d started meeting, Brice was actually thinking.
…
Jimmy peeled himself off the gym floor and walked slowly toward the squat rack. He ducked under the bar, looking up toward the ceiling as if searching the rafters—or the heavens—for strength for his final set.
“Come on,” Tom clapped from behind him. “Last one, finish it out.”
Jimmy lifted the bar, settling all three hundred and fifteen pounds across his back before stepping out into the pit. He had come to loathe the pit—his dad’s word for the cramped lifting space—but he also appreciated the opportunities for greatness it offered, as his dad always reminded him.
He steadied himself, then lowered into the squat. At the bottom he drove upward, the weights rattling. Brice didn’t hit three plates for five reps until junior year, he reminded himself. He dropped again. And again. And again. The fifth rep loomed like a dare. He sank into the pit and tried to explode up, but the weight wouldn’t budge. It felt heavier now, impossibly heavy. He could feel his father’s presence behind him, his gaze lingering. Jimmy gave it one more desperate push before the bar rolled off his back and slammed into the spotter arms with a sharp, metallic bang.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, dropping to one knee, keeping his eyes glued to the floor, refusing—for now—to face his reflection in the mirror.
“Straight into lunges,” his father said as he began stripping plates from the bar. The command wasn’t harsh, but there was no pride in it either.
Jimmy pushed himself up and walked to the open area. He grabbed the dumbbells and started lunges, the failed fifth rep still gnawing at him.
Tom quietly cleaned up the makeshift garage gym as Jimmy powered through the lunges. The air inside was thick and unmoving, the oppressive summer heat choking the space. It was Jimmy’s second workout of the day—he trained with the team that morning—and Tom believed that two-a-days were the measure of a football player; they were the measure of Brice, and now Jimmy.
When the workout ended, Tom finally hit the button and the garage door rumbled open, letting in a welcome rush of cooler air. They sat on the wooden bench by the entrance, Jimmy chugging a Gatorade while Tom twisted open a whiskey bottle.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Tom said with a wink, extending the bottle toward Jimmy. Jimmy shook his head. “Good man. Couldn’t try that shit with Brice.”
Jimmy chuckled, though the fifth rep still lingered in his mind.
“What do you think about St. Frances?”
The question caught him off guard. They hadn’t talked about it since running into that coach a few weeks back at the 7-on-7 tournament. Jimmy had assumed his father either forgot about it or—more likely—didn’t like the idea.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged instinctively. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Well, think about it now,” Tom said.
Jimmy paused. He had thought about it. It was all he’d thought about since St. Frances first approached him. Their interest meant more than any of the scholarship offers stacked in his inbox. There was no angle, no package deal, no ulterior motive. They wanted him. Only him.
“They’ve already got a good quarterback,” he muttered. “So I don’t think I’d play there. At least not starting.”
“And is that what you want to play? Quarterback?”
“Not really,” Jimmy said honestly. “I don’t care. I just want to play. And I’m probably not gonna be a quarterback in college anyway. Might as well start learning whatever position I’ll actually end up at, right?”
Tom smirked. “Sounds like you have thought about it. And sounds like we should take that visit, right?”
…
Artie elbowed him as they reached the bottom step. “C’mon, man. You gotta at least walk around. Don’t be weird.”
“I’m not being weird,” Brice muttered, already feeling weird.
“You say that Black folks love you, right?” Abdul teased, "We’re about to find out for real, nigga."
“You good?” a tall guy with a patchy beard shouted over the music as he walked by Walter, giving him a knowing nod.
“Always,” Walter shot back, dapping him up.
Brice hung back near the wall, trying to blend into the shadows. Everywhere he looked, guys were talking, joking, sizing each other up with that athletic, competitive energy he recognized from locker rooms. But here it was different. Here he was the outlier and all of a sudden, the joke of him being a White guy at a mixer for a Black frat didn’t feel so funny anymore.
Artie and Abdul were already lost somewhere near the cues forming in the back corner while Walter was engaging in conversation with guys he’d known for years, guys that his own father had mentored. And Brice—well, Brice was doing exactly what he promised he wouldn’t do: hugging the wall like it owed him rent.
He lifted a cup of the mystery punch to his lips, trying to look occupied, when he heard a voice cut through the music.
“Aye! You’re that QB, right?"
Brice forced a tight, polite smile. “Uh—what’s up?”
The frat member stopped in front of him, looking him over—not in a disrespectful way, not mocking or suspicious. Just… curious. Intentional. Like someone actually seeing him for the first time.
“You thinking about crossing over?” he asked.
Brice blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.” The guy folded his arms, amused.
Brice’s ears burned.
“Uh—honestly? I’m just here with my roommates.”
The guy nodded slowly, like he expected that answer—but wasn’t accepting it. “Cool. But I didn’t ask them. I asked you.”
Brice swallowed. “I… I don’t know. This isn’t really for me.”
“Why not?” The frat member tilted his head. “You think we don’t recruit white boys? Or you think you wouldn’t fit?”
“I mean…” Brice scoffed, "I just never thought about it really. Not a frat guy."
The guy laughed—not unkindly, just knowingly. “And what exactly is a frat guy? Or, like what you probably really wanted to say, what’s a Black frat guy?"
Brice stared at him, caught between embarrassment and a growing annoyance at being challenged.
"I said what I meant," Brice cleared his throat, "I’ve just never really thought about joining a frat."
"I respect that," the guy nodded, satisfied. "I didn’t think I was a frat guy either but it ain’t always what you think it is, you know?"
Brice kept quiet, unsure if he was being welcomed or tested.
Maybe both.
The guy clapped him on the back. "Alright, well, nice to meet you, brother."
He walked off, leaving Brice standing there, cup in hand, pulse loud in his ears. Brice wasn’t sure what the hell this night was supposed to be—but whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t the joke he walked in expecting.
Last edited by Soapy on 25 Nov 2025, 15:42, edited 2 times in total.
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djp73
- Posts: 10380
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Damaged Petals.
Brice2Jimmy
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redsox907
- Posts: 2645
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
Brice so used to being the rich dick head he doesn't know who he really is
Tom finally giving Jimmy some love, but only after he sees him nearly topping Brice lmao
messy family stay messy
Tom finally giving Jimmy some love, but only after he sees him nearly topping Brice lmao
messy family stay messy
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12611
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12505
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
negative #nooticer points for this prediction
Good catch, thanks