Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

taking the path of least resistance

sounds like the easier route tbh

Brice isn't self destructive? The same dude that punched his coach in high school?

still not sure where you're going with keeping Nia around. Brice gonna smash her too and that's what finally makes him stop being destructive? Don't think so, but it'd be wild lmao

I think its debatable whether or not he currently is being self destructive (that's purposefully open for interpretation) but I would push back on him having a history of it. Prior to the blow up with Connie, Brice's image was pristine and that required a lot of manipulation on Brice's part and a level of self control to make sure that even at his worst, it never was public. Another important piece to remember is that during this period you're talking about with the coach, Brice is concussed

As far as Nia, CC pretty much hit the nail on the head a few weeks ago when he mentioned showing the different sides of grief. We have his family grieving (Liz, Brice, Tom, Sophie) and Nia is the friend and peer that is grieving his loss and the only one outside of Brice's orbit.

LaPenna with the worst read of a therapy patient in the history of therapy or reads. Brice might be the most self destructive person in Indiana.

Brian reads as like 38 years old and that makes those interactions feel pedophile-y I know he's not but still.

Brice trying to traumatize another woman of color while he cries on her shoulder with Mel.

Like I said to Sox, LaPenna is banking on Brice's previous history and behavior. Without giving it all away, LaPenna also ignored Brice's drunkenness during the session despite, in real time, knowing that he should have stopped the session...

This explosion will indeed be nuclear.

ye of little optimism (you're right)

[Soapy]

Season 5, Episode 7
"There’s nothing normal about showing up to therapy drunk, Brice."

Brice's jaw tightened. He kept his eyes fixed on the framed diplomas behind LaPenna's desk, focusing on the ornate lettering rather than the man sitting across from him.

"I wasn't drunk," he said, the lie falling flat even to his own ears. "College kid had a couple of beers. More at six."

The more LaPenna sat there, not saying anything, the more heat crawled up Brice's neck. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, then settled for placing his hands on his thighs.

"Look, it won’t happen again, alright?"

"That's what worries me, Brice. It will happen again because you're not addressing the actual problem."

"There is no problem," Brice insisted, his voice level despite the quickening of his pulse. "Like I said before, I'm a college kid. College kids drink. There’s no need for all of this analysis over a couple of beers."

"You know what I think?" LaPenna said, his tone sharper than usual. "I think you're lying to yourself. I think you're drowning, and instead of reaching for help, you're convincing yourself you know how to swim."

Brice forced a laugh, the sound hollow in the quiet room. "Wow, that's some deep shit, Doc. Did you get that from a fortune cookie?"

LaPenna didn't smile. "When was the last time you went twenty-four hours without a drink?"

Brice opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. The calendar in his mind flipped backward: parties, pre-games, nightcaps that turned into morning caps. He couldn't remember.

"That's what I thought," LaPenna said into the silence.

"Pick a fucking lane," Brice muttered, his calm facade beginning to crack. "What am I now, an alcoholic? That’s our theme for this year?"

"I didn't say you were. But you're using alcohol as a crutch. It's affecting your performance, your relationships, your health—"

"My performance is fine," Brice cut in, the edge in his voice sharpening.

LaPenna's expression didn't change. "And how long do you think that will last? The coaching staff—"

"You talking with the coaching staff about me?" Brice seized on the opportunity to flip things.

"I didn’t share anything on my end," LaPenna clarified. "But they’re concerned."

"They need to mind their own business," Brice snapped, the veneer of composure finally cracking. "I'm handling my shit. How about they handle their fucking end of things and get me a fucking offensive line or a tight end that’s not going to fumble the fucking game away."

"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're doing everything but handling it," LaPenna's voice remained steady, but his eyes bored into Brice with uncomfortable intensity that Brice wasn’t used to. "You're self-medicating. You're isolating. You're showing up to practice hungover. Those aren't the actions of someone who's handling anything."

Brice stood abruptly, the sudden movement sending a wave of dizziness through him, a reminder of the previous night's excesses. "I don't need this psychoanalysis bullshit."

LaPenna didn't rise to meet him. "Sit down, Brice."

"I'm fucking done, bro."

"Your brother is dead," LaPenna said, the words hanging in the air like a thunderclap. "And pretending you've processed that isn't going to bring him back."

Brice froze as the room seemed to tilt sideways for a moment, Jimmy's name echoing in his ears.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

"Sit down," LaPenna repeated, softer this time.

Brice remained standing, his fists clenched at his sides. "You think you fucking know everything?"

"I know grief when I see it," LaPenna said. "And I know avoidance. You're textbook, Brice. You think if you drink enough, party enough, fuck enough, you can outrun the pain. But it doesn't work that way."

"What do you want from me?" Brice's voice cracked. "You want me to cry? You want me to tell you how much it hurts? Will that make you feel better about your job? Feel like you’re actually accomplishing something besides cashing those checks?"

"This isn't about me. It's about you being honest with yourself."

"I am being honest," Brice insisted, sinking back into the chair. "I'm dealing with it my own way."

"By showing up drunk to therapy?"

"I told you, I wasn't…" Brice stopped himself. "Fine. I was drunk. So what? It was one time."

"It's not just one time, though, is it?" LaPenna pressed. "It's becoming a pattern. A dangerous one."

Brice stared at the floor, studying the swirls in the carpet. "Everyone drinks in college."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

LaPenna was quiet for a moment, studying Brice with an expression he couldn't quite read. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its edge. "Do you remember what you said to me the first time we met? After the funeral?"

Brice shrugged. Those days were a blur.

"You said, 'I just need to get through this season,'" LaPenna continued. "Like it was a game. Like if you could just make it to the final whistle, everything would be okay."

"So?"

"So, grief doesn't have a season, Brice. It's not something you power through for four quarters and then move on."

Brice's throat tightened. "I know that."

"Do you? Because everything you're doing tells me you're still trying to run out the clock."

Brice wanted to argue, to defend himself, but the words wouldn't come.

"I'm fine," he insisted.

"You're not fine," LaPenna said quietly. "And that's okay. You don't have to be fine."

Brice swallowed hard, fighting against the pressure building behind his eyes. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to stop lying. To me, to yourself. I want you to admit that you're struggling. I want you to acknowledge that drinking until you can't feel anything isn't a solution."

"It works better than this shit," Brice muttered.

"Does it? Because from where I'm sitting, you look exhausted. You look like you're barely holding it together."

Brice's anger flared again. "What do you know about it? Have you ever lost someone? Have you ever had to get up every morning knowing that your brother is dead because of a game you're still playing?"

"No," he admitted. "I haven't experienced exactly what you're going through. But I've sat where you're sitting. I've tried to drown my pain instead of facing it. And I know it doesn't work."

Something in LaPenna's voice, a quiet certainty, maybe, or a glimpse of shared understanding, cut through Brice's defenses. He felt suddenly tired, bone-deep exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with his hangover.

"I miss him," Brice said. "Every day. Every fucking minute. I’ll be fine and then I just think of him."

LaPenna nodded, saying nothing, waiting.

"And I don't know how to... how to exist in a world where he doesn't," Brice continued. "So yeah, I drink. I party. I do whatever it takes to not think about it for a few hours."

"And how's that working for you?"

"What do you think?" a humorless laugh escaped Brice. "But that’s the best I got right now."

"It doesn't have to be," LaPenna said. "There are other ways to cope. Healthier ways."

"Like what? Those grief groups you keep pushing? Sitting in a circle talking about my feelings with strangers?" Brice shook his head. "That's not me. Doing this shit is bad enough."

"Then find what is you," LaPenna challenged. "But whatever it is, it can't involve a bottle, it can’t just be escaping the feelings you’re having or it's just another form of self-destruction."

Brice didn't respond. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence, marking the passage of another minute in this new reality he was still learning to navigate.

"Our time is almost up," LaPenna said finally. "But I want you to think about something before our next session."

Brice raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"What would Jimmy want for you right now?"

The question hit Brice like a physical blow, images flashing through his mind.

"That's not fair," he hung his head.

"You should by now that life seldom is," LaPenna said. "This is about finding a reason to choose differently. To choose better."

…

"I still remember the look on Father Cavanaugh’s face," Britney said, laughing as she swirled her glass.

Tom let out a chuckle. "God, we were idiots."

The bar around them hummed with the gentle murmur of other conversations, classic rock playing just loud enough to fill the gaps without drowning them out. Tom couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like this, genuinely, without the weight of everything pressing down on him. Three drinks in, the bourbon had softened the edges of his grief, making space for memories that weren't tainted by loss.

"Those were good fucking times," Tom said, his gaze drifting to the collection of memorabilia on the wall behind Britney. "I really wish Brice got to experience it too."

The lightness in Britney's expression faltered. "Tom…"

"Don’t 'Tom' nothing," he continued, the alcohol loosening his tongue. "Come on, Brit, you fucked him over."

Britney set her glass down with deliberate care. "That's not fair and you know it."

"It’s not?" Tom leaned back in his chair, studying her.

"I was doing my job," Britney said, her voice cooling. "Those were legitimate accusations. What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to be objective," Tom countered.

Britney's eyes flashed. "Don't you dare suggest I pursued those claims because of what happened between us."

"Get the fuck out of here," Tom held her gaze. "You and I both know Brice never laid a hand on that girl."

"You keep forgetting that he wasn’t charged," Britney said. "Was I being objective then?"

The tension between them thickened, threatening to erase the easy camaraderie of moments before. Tom stared at his nearly empty glass, suddenly aware of how quickly they'd slipped back into old patterns.

"Who the fuck knows?" Tom finished off his glasses. "Maybe Notre Dame wasn’t in the cards for him anyway."

Britney's expression softened slightly. "I never wanted to hurt Brice. Or you."

Tom nodded, running his thumb along the rim of his glass. "I want to believe you but I don’t know, I feel like another round would get the job done. You know, make me see things more clearly."

The tension broke, like it always did between them. Britney's lips curved into a wide smile.

"Fair enough," she said, sliding out of her seat. "Neat?"

…

Brice slouched at the bar, watching the bartender pour another shot of whiskey. The place had cleared out an hour ago, his teammates long gone to parties or beds or wherever the hell they went and yet he remained, where he always remained.

"One more," he said, sliding his glass forward.

The bartender hesitated, eyes flicking to the clock above the liquor shelves. "Call it a night?"

"I'll let you know when I’m ready to call it a night," Brice said, pulling a twenty from his wallet and placing it on the bar. He added another for good measure.

The bartender's lips tightened, but he reached for the bottle. As he poured, a slender hand appeared from Brice's right, grabbing the glass before he could touch it.

"Thanks for drink," she said, downing the shot in one smooth motion.

Brice turned, surprise momentarily displacing the dull fog in his head. "The fuck?"

Mel winced as the whiskey hit, then set the empty glass down with a decisive click. "You get paid too much to still be drinking the cheap shit."

"How would you know?" he squinted at her, trying to figure out how long she'd been there.

"Everyone knows," she laughed, "Is this how you plan on spending it all?"

"It's my money to waste," Brice shrugged.

"It doesn’t make it any better," she told him.

Brice didn’t answer, not right away. Between the whiskey and his earlier battle with LaPenna, he contemplated it ignoring it. "Sitting around in a circle does?"

"Well, first of all," she scoffed, "It’s not a circle and you would know that if you didn’t keep pussying out."

"You’ve figured me out," he said with a sarcastic tone."

"For real, though," she pushed, "So what's the deal? Therapy not your thing?"

Brice stared at the bar top. "Therapy's bullshit. Just talking and talking and nothing changes."

"Maybe you're not saying the right things."

"Or maybe words don't fix shit," he countered.

Mel was quiet for a moment, studying him. "When my sister died, I tried everything. Nothing worked."

The sudden confession caught Brice off guard. "Sorry."

"Leukemia. I was sixteen, she was eighteen,” her voice was matter-of-fact, but Brice caught the slight tightening around her eyes. "It was tough, just watching her die, waste away. Wishing she just died and stopped suffering but selfishly not wanting her to be gone."

"Jesus," Brice muttered. "That's..."

"Fucked up?" Mel supplied. "Yeah. It was."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "Yeah, me too. But I get it, you know? The need to make it stop hurting."

"Does it?" the whiskey helped the words come out. "Stop hurting?"

"Not really," she offered. "But it changes. Becomes something you can carry instead of something that crushes you."

"Therapy do that for you?"

"Some," she admitted. "But I had to find my own way through it too. My family's pretty religious, not in the hellfire and brimstone way, more the 'everything happens according to a plan' way."

"And you believe that?" Brice couldn't keep the skepticism from his voice.

"Not at first. Seemed like bullshit, you know? What kind of plan includes my sister dying before she even got to college? Before she got to live her life?" Mel's fingers drummed lightly on the bar. "But eventually I found some comfort in it. Not the idea that God wanted her to die, but that maybe her life, short as it was, had meaning beyond what I could see."

Brice absorbed this, turning it over in his mind. "Church never made sense to me."

"Doesn't have to," Mel said. "That was my way, not yours. Point is, you have to find something that works for you. Something that isn't this."

She gestured to the empty shot glass in front of him.

They sat in silence for a while, the quiet between them more comfortable than it had any right to be.

"We should probably get out of here," Mel finally said, glancing at the bartender who was making no secret of his desire to close up. "You good to walk?"

Brice nodded, surprised to find it was true. The liquor's haze had receded, leaving him tired but clearer than he'd felt in weeks.

"Yeah," he said, sliding off the stool. "I'm good."

[djp73]

spoiler alert: he was not good to walk...

[redsox907]

I sweat to god if he avoided his feelings into Mel giving him a pity fuck

Told you, Tom running right back to the pussy that makes him feel happy. Liz's wrath when she finds out is gonna be generational

sophie ever having a normal life with Tom running thru old flames and Liz living at work now

Also, LaPenna seems to finally get thru to Brice and what does he do? Drown himself back in he bottle

[Caesar]

Sophie gonna end up swallowing a bottle of pills at this rate because damn. These people were fucked up with Jimmy alive. They even worse now.

LaPenna need to recommend that Brice get himself checked out for suitability for some intervention by medication. Some of that shit might mellow him out. Although, he’d probably abuse it so maybe not.

Here go Soapy Perry, putting a Black woman in a position to be terrorized by a colonizer.

Told yall Tom was going back to that old jawn.

[Soapy]

spoiler alert: he was not good to walk...

he in the bushes?

I sweat to god if he avoided his feelings into Mel giving him a pity fuck

Told you, Tom running right back to the pussy that makes him feel happy. Liz's wrath when she finds out is gonna be generational

sophie ever having a normal life with Tom running thru old flames and Liz living at work now

Also, LaPenna seems to finally get thru to Brice and what does he do? Drown himself back in he bottle

Get it out the mud, Sophie

Sophie gonna end up swallowing a bottle of pills at this rate because damn. These people were fucked up with Jimmy alive. They even worse now.

LaPenna need to recommend that Brice get himself checked out for suitability for some intervention by medication. Some of that shit might mellow him out. Although, he’d probably abuse it so maybe not.

Here go Soapy Perry, putting a Black woman in a position to be terrorized by a colonizer.

Told yall Tom was going back to that old jawn.

how she getting terrorized lmao

[Captain Canada]

Mel being Brice's salvation feels ... wrong.

[Soapy]

Mel being Brice's salvation feels ... wrong.

what happened to each one, teach one?

[Soapy]

bump

[Soapy]

djp