Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Season 6, Episode 15
The Uber Eats bags were lined up on the kitchen counter, each one hastily ripped open. Brice sat at the head of the dining table, his phone face-down beside his plate. Shane was across from him, working through a burrito bowl. Abdul had claimed the chair to Brice's right, scrolling through his phone between bites. Justin sprawled in the chair at the other end, his legs stretched out, his plate already empty.

"I'm just saying," Shane said, pointing his fork at Abdul, "We could do it, we have plenty of time to make the trip worth it."

"Plenty of time to get our asses suspended," Abdul replied without looking up from his phone.

"For what? It ain’t no different than the guys going home for a few days."

"Maybe for Brice and Justin. We don’t get those luxuries."

Shane shook his head, stabbing at his bowl. "He doesn't need to find out."

Brice picked at his own food, half-listening. The conversation had been going in circles for the past twenty minutes. Cabo this, coaching staff that. He'd heard variations of this debate before, knew how it would end. Someone would get cold feet. Someone else would suggest something safer. They'd end up doing nothing.

"Bro, we could be on a beach," Shane continued, his voice rising slightly. "Drinking, chilling, meeting some Mexican tortas. Instead we're gonna sit here with our dicks in our hands?"

"I'd rather sit here doing nothing than doing rolls for the rest of the fucking season," Abdul said.

Justin laughed from the end of the table. "Abdul always a little scared bitch."

"I'm not scared. I just know what’s going to happen if we do this."

"You scared, nigga."

"Fuck you, hoe ass nigga."

Brice took a drink from his cup as his phone buzzed against the table but he didn't reach for it. Probably Serena. She'd been texting more lately.

"Brice," Shane said, pulling his attention back. "Tell this man we’ll be fine."

Brice set down his cup. "I mean, no one needs to find out."

Abdul's head snapped up. "Why are we listening to the nigga with the worst judgement who knows he ain’t gonna be the one that’s gonna get in trouble?"

"I'm just saying. We could fly out Thursday night, come back Sunday morning. As long as we're back for meetings Monday, what's the problem?"

"The problem," Abdul said slowly, like he was explaining something to a child, "is Coach is gonna lose his fucking shit when he finds out we left the fucking country like we’re on vacation."

"He also gave us a bye week," Shane interjected. "Which means we're supposed to have time off."

"Time off doesn't mean Mexico, nigga."

"Cabo's like a three-hour flight. Ain’t no different than going to like Colorado or some shit or is that forbidden too."

Justin sat up, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "You know what the real problem is?"

Everyone looked at him.

"This fuck nigga gonna bring his girl and she gonna post it on Instagram," Justin grinned as he pointed to Abdul.

Shane's mouth curved into a slow smile. "Damn. You're right. Brice should know that better than anybody."

Brice looked at Shane, who was still smiling, that careful expression that said he knew exactly what line he was walking.

Then Brice laughed, cutting through the tension. Abdul cracked next, a snort escaping. Justin's grin widened, his own laugh building. Shane just sat there looking pleased with himself.

"Yo, that's fucked up," Abdul said through his laughter, but he was still laughing.

"I'm just saying bro," Shane replied, taking another bite of his food.

Brice wiped at his eyes, the laughter subsiding into something quieter. "You’re a hoe, bitch."

"Alright, alright," Justin said, waving his hand. "So Cabo's out, obviously. What about New York?"

Shane made a face. "New York?"

"Yeah, New York. It's like a two-hour flight. We could hit the city, see some shit, eat good food. Way less suspicious than Cabo. Even if Abdul pussy-whipped ass take his girl and she post the city or some shit, it ain’t gonna stand out"

"It's also cold as hell right now," Shane pointed out.

"Nigga, you from here."

Abdul was nodding slowly, his expression thoughtful. "New York's not terrible."

"See?" Justin spread his hands. "I'm a problem solver."

Brice's phone buzzed again, harder this time, the vibration rattling against the table. He reached for it without thinking, turning it over to check the screen.

Wayne Marks.

…

She sat for a moment, staring at the hospital entrance. St. Catherine's Medical Center. The same place where Jimmy had been born. The same place where Sophie had taken her first breath. Now here they were again, the building unchanged, the doors still sliding open and closed for people entering with hope or leaving with grief.

She grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car. The October air carried a bite that made her pull her jacket tighter. The walk to the entrance felt longer than it should have, each step deliberate, measured. The automatic doors sensed her approach and opened with a soft hiss.

The lobby was exactly as she remembered it. Beige walls. Vinyl chairs arranged in clusters. A reception desk staffed by a woman in scrubs who looked up briefly before returning to her computer. The smell hit her immediately, that particular smell that existed only in hospitals.

Tom stood near the elevators, his back to her, his phone pressed to his ear. And beside him, slumped in one of the vinyl chairs with her backpack still on, was Sophie.

Liz's stride faltered. She'd expected Tom. They'd agreed to meet here, to be present for this, whatever this turned out to be. But Sophie wasn't supposed to be here. Sophie was supposed to be in third period chemistry, taking notes, being a normal fourteen-year-old girl whose biggest concern was an upcoming test.

Tom turned as she approached, ending his call.

"You brought Sophie," Liz started.

"Yeah?"

"From school."

"Yeah?"

Sophie hadn't looked up from her phone.

"Tom," Liz said, moving closer to him, creating distance between themselves and Sophie. "What the fuck?"

"She needs to be here."

"We don't know yet that it's Brice's kid."

Tom tilted his head to the side, his jaw working. "We all know that's his fucking kid, Liz."

Liz opened her mouth to argue, to push back, to maintain the fiction they'd been carefully constructing for months but now facing the crushing reality, she found she couldn't. She closed her mouth. Nodded once.

Tom gestured toward the seating area near the windows, away from the main cluster of people. They walked over together, Sophie trailing behind them.

Liz chose a seat near the corner, away from the handful of other people scattered throughout the waiting area. Tom sat beside her, leaving a chair between them. Sophie dropped into a seat in the row behind them. No one spoke. The television cycled through weather reports and traffic updates.

She'd been in this hospital two times as a patient. Jimmy had been pretty easy. Planned C-section, the doctors not wanting to risk another emergency after her 36-hour ordeal with Brice. She'd been awake for it, Tom beside her in his scrubs, watching as they pulled their second son from her body. Jimmy had come out screaming, furious at being removed from the warmth he'd known, and he hadn't stopped screaming for months.

Sophie had been the same as Jimmy. Another planned C-section. Another baby pulled into the world before she was ready. But Sophie had been quiet, eerily so. The nurses had checked her immediately, concerned by the silence, but she'd been fine. Just quiet. Just watching.

…

Brice sat in a different waiting room on the second floor, tucked away from the main entrance. The chairs here were older, the vinyl cracked in places. No television. No other families. Just him.

His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped between them. He stared at the gray tile between his feet, counting the specks in the pattern. Anything to keep his mind from going where it wanted to go.

His mind drifted to Connie without permission. To a different hospital, a different baby. Their daughter. He didn't know her name. Didn't know what family had taken her. Didn't know if they'd told her she was adopted or if they were pretending she was theirs from the start.

She'd be four now. Maybe in preschool. Learning her ABCs. Drawing pictures with crayons. Living a life he'd never be part of, with parents whose faces he'd never seen.

"I always felt like she was going to end up looking like me," he said quietly to the empty room. "Like some sort of karmic penance or some shit."

The groaning of the air conditioning unit hummed their response.

"I wonder if she knows. If they told her. Or if they're waiting until she's older," something caught in his throat. "Maybe they'll never tell her. Maybe she'll grow up thinking she's theirs and never know about us."

He rubbed his palms against his thighs, the friction grounding him slightly.

"Would you want to know if it was you?" he paused, like there would be an answer. "I don't know either, bro."

"This feels different though. This isn't—"

"What's different?"

Brice's head snapped up. Sophie stood in front of him. He hadn't heard her approach.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Same thing you are, I guess," she dropped into the chair next to him.

They sat in silence. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Sophie pulled her phone from her pocket, looked at it, then put it away without using it.

Brice kept his eyes on the floor, aware of her presence beside him. She didn't ask what he'd been saying. Didn't ask who he'd been talking to. Just sat there, quiet, like she already knew.

"Can I ask you something?" Sophie said after what felt like several minutes.

"Yeah," Brice begrudgingly muttered. He hadn’t spoken to her about any of it, always assumed that she found out on Instagram like everyone else. The same way he figured she knew about Connie and the countless other things they never spoke about it. They rarely did.

"That thing you do. After touchdowns. When you flap your arms like this," she demonstrated, moving her arms up and down like wings on a bird.

Brice felt a laugh escape despite everything. "That looks nothing like what I do."

"Whatever. You know what I mean. What's it about?"

"It's stupid," he answered.

"Okay."

More silence.

"I feel like he's watching," Brice said finally, the words coming out quieter than he intended. "When I play. Like he's up there somewhere, watching the games. And when I score, I'm celebrating with him too. The wings are like..."

"Like an angel," Sophie finished.

"Yeah. Like an angel. It's stupid."

"You already said that."

Brice shrugged. His hands were still clasped between his knees, his shoulders hunched forward.

Sophie nodded slowly, processing this. "Yeah, I thought so."

They fell back into silence. A nurse walked past the doorway, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum.

"You can't pick and choose when he's watching you, Brice," Sophie said.

He turned to look at her but she was already standing. She walked out without looking back.

…

Skylar sat propped up in the hospital bed, her hair pulled back, wearing a fresh gown they'd given her after the delivery. The baby was cradled against her chest, swaddled in the standard-issue hospital blanket with the pink and blue stripes. Her mother stood to her left, one hand on Skylar's shoulder. Her father was near the window with her younger brother, both of them keeping their distance but staying close enough to be part of it, the way men usually do.

The baby made small noises, little grunts and squeaks that didn't quite build into cries. Skylar adjusted her hold, supporting his head with more confidence than she'd had an hour ago.

A knock at the door cut through the moment.

Everyone's heads turned. Skylar's mother moved first, crossing to the door and opening it partway. She paused, her body language shifting into something careful, guarded. Then she stepped back, pulling the door open wider.

Brice walked in.

The room went still. Skylar's father straightened from where he'd been leaning against the wall. Her brother's eyes went wide for the football player then narrowed for the man. Her mother stood frozen by the door, her hand still on the handle.

Skylar smiled.

"Hey," she said, her voice soft and tired but clear.

Brice stopped just inside the doorway. His face gave nothing away. No smile, no frown, no readable expression at all. He looked at her, then at the baby, then back at her. Her mother glanced at her father. Some silent communication passed between them. Then her mother moved to stand beside her husband, creating space near the bed. Her brother stayed where he was, arms crossed, but he wasn't glaring anymore.

"Congratulations," her mother said finally, the word careful.

"Yeah, congrats," her father added, his tone matching his wife's.

Brice nodded once but didn't say anything. He moved closer to the bed, his hands staying at his sides, feeling like the smallest person in the room.

Skylar looked down at the baby, then back up at Brice. "You want to hold him?"

Brice froze. His eyes were fixed on the bundle in her arms, but he wasn't moving closer, wasn't reaching out.

One of the nurses, the older woman who'd been checking Skylar's vitals earlier, appeared beside Brice. She touched his elbow gently, guiding him forward. "Here, honey. Sit down first."

Brice let himself be directed to the chair beside the bed. He sat, his movements stiff, mechanical, reminiscent of his first sessions with his quarterback coach. The nurse positioned his arms, showed him how to cradle, how to support the head. Skylar leaned forward, transferring the baby carefully into Brice's arms.

The weight settled against him. Brice's arms adjusted automatically, holding the baby secure. He stared straight ahead, not looking down, not meeting anyone's eyes. The baby squirmed slightly, one tiny fist working free of the blanket.

Skylar watched him, her smile still in place. "His name is James."

Brice's face cracked. Not a smile, not yet. Just a fracture in whatever wall he'd built. His eyes finally dropped to the baby in his arms. James.

Then he smiled. Small at first, barely there, but growing. His shoulders started shaking. His breath caught. Tears spilled down his cheeks, fast and silent, and he didn't try to stop them or wipe them away, he couldn’t, not with a baby in his hand.

His baby. Their baby. Their Jimmy.

[Captain Canada]

This the same Brice that told her she took a rotating, assembly line of dicks a week ago?

Talm bout "their Jimmy".

[Caesar]

[redsox907]

g6 schedule hoe ahh nigga

he ain't lyin

I've been saying it, Skylar a pro. Naming that baby after his dead brother. fucking. diabolical.

[Soapy]

This the same Brice that told her she took a rotating, assembly line of dicks a week ago?

Talm bout "their Jimmy".

g6 schedule hoe ahh nigga

he ain't lyin

I've been saying it, Skylar a pro. Naming that baby after his dead brother. fucking. diabolical.

he got caught up in the moment

[Soapy]

Season 6, Episode 16
The football felt wrong in his hands.

Brice gripped the laces, reset his fingers, gripped them again. Same ball he'd thrown ten thousand times. Same weight, same texture, same everything. But today it felt foreign.

"You’re up, Brice," Coach Hinshaw's voice cut across the practice field.

Brice nodded, stepped into the pocket they'd formed with cones. He took the snap from one of the backup quarterbacks, dropped back three steps. His eyes moved through the progression, trying to visualize Maryland’s defense but none of it came to mind. He released the ball and it sailed two feet over Shane’s head, stationed a couple yards away as a receiver.

"Brice, what the hell was that?"

Brice didn't answer. He jogged back to the line.

They ran the same play six more times. Each rep felt mechanical, disconnected. His footwork was there. His reads were technically correct. But nothing clicked.

Around him, the rest of the team went through their drills. Offensive line working on combo blocks. Receivers running routes against air. Running backs hitting the sled. A normal practice that felt like anything but normal.

Brice’s mind kept drifting towards his locker where his phone sat. It had been three days. Three days since he held him. Three days since the swabs had been collected, labeled, sent off to two separate labs. Three days since everything felt okay, like the world wasn’t crashing down on him, if only for a moment.

"Alright, bring it in!" Coach Odom's whistle cut through his thoughts.

Brice jogged toward the center of the field where the team was gathering. His legs felt heavy, like someone had filled his cleats with concrete. He found a spot in the back of the huddle, only half-listening as Coach Odom wrapped up practice.

Brice's mind drifted again. James's face floated up unbidden. Those tiny features, barely formed, more potential than actual person yet. The way his fingers had gripped Brice's thumb. The small noises he made, not quite crying, just existing.

Their Jimmy. Except maybe not their Jimmy. And even if it was their Jimmy, he wasn’t sure that would be enough.

Beyond those tiny features would be eighteen years. Eighteen years, maybe more, of having someone like Skylar in his life. If having a child with Connie was an inconvenience, Skylar would be downright hell.

He knew of her motives, the things she wanted in life, the kind of life she wanted to have. At least he thought he did, up until she rejected that offer. She had her hooks in, that much was evident, and a pound of flesh wouldn’t be enough. Neither was a $1 million in deferred payments apparently.

The team breaking the huddle broke Brice’s train of thoughts as he began walking toward the facility. Justin caught up to him, matching his pace.

"You good, bro?"

"Yeah."

Justin studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Aight."

They walked the rest of the way in silence. The locker room was loud, guys talking shit, music playing from someone's speaker. Brice went straight to his locker where his phone sat at the bottom of it. He stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. The screen lit up. A handful of notifications. He scrolled through them without really reading. Serena had texted three times. His mom once. A few group chats he was part of but never responded to.

Nothing from the lab.

The walk to the library was automatic, his feet following a path they'd worn into muscle memory over the past year. The afternoon air was cool, the campus busy with students moving between classes and dining halls. A few people nodded or waved along the journey. He returned the gestures without really seeing them.

The library was quieter than usual for a Tuesday. Midterms were still a few weeks out, so the desperate studying energy hadn't set in yet. Brice made his way to the third floor, to the study rooms they'd claimed as their regular spot.

Abdul had beaten him there. Sabrina sat across from him, laptop open, earbuds in. The other two regulars whose names Brice could never quite remember occupied the remaining seats.

Mel's chair was empty.

Brice dropped his backpack on the table, the thud drawing everyone's attention.

"What's good," Abdul said, not quite a question.

"Chilling."

Brice pulled out his statistics textbook, his binder, a pen. Arranged them on the table in front of him. Opened the textbook to where they'd left off last session. Stared at the page without reading it.

The numbers and formulas blurred together. He blinked, tried to focus, but his eyes just slid across the page without comprehension. Around him, the others worked in relative silence, the scratch of pens and clicking of keyboards providing a low soundtrack.

He pulled out his phone. Opened his messages. Scrolled up to his last conversation with Mel. Three weeks ago. No response. He'd followed up two days later with "can we talk?" Still nothing.

The read receipts showed she'd seen both messages.

Brice set his phone face-down on the table. Picked up his pen. Looked back at his textbook. The words still wouldn't stick. He read the same paragraph three times, retaining nothing.

Brice tried again. Read another paragraph. Took notes that were just words copied from the textbook without any understanding behind them.

His phone buzzed against the table. He flipped it over. Another text from Serena, finalizing plans for the night.

He set the phone back down. Tried to return to his textbook. The empty chair across from him kept pulling his attention. He'd fucked that up too. Add it to the list.

Brice forced himself to read another page. Then another. The information passed through his brain without landing anywhere useful. He took more notes, filling the page with words that meant nothing, just going through the motions because sitting still felt impossible.

An hour passed. Then another. People came and went from the study room. Abdul left to get coffee, came back with a cup for himself and one for Sabrina. The two randoms whose names Brice still didn't know packed up and left. New people filtered in to take their spots.

Mel never showed.

Brice's phone stayed silent. He kept working, kept pretending to study, kept moving his pen across the page. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to avoid thinking about James's face, about Skylar's smile when she'd said the name, about the way his own face had betrayed him in that hospital room. What the fuck was there to be happy about? Fucking Sophie. Fucking Jimmy.

The chair was uncomfortable, the table too low, everything slightly wrong in ways he couldn't articulate. Around him, life continued. Students studied, typed, whispered to each other. The world kept spinning like nothing had changed, like he wasn't sitting here waiting for news that would alter the entire trajectory of his life.

Brice read another paragraph. Took another note. Checked his phone again even though it hadn't buzzed. The screen showed nothing new.

He settled back into his chair and tried to focus on the work in front of him, tried to lose himself in the numbers and formulas, tried to make the next few hours pass without thinking about anything that mattered.

It didn't work. But he kept trying anyway.

…

The cafeteria was loud enough that Nia could hide in the noise. She moved through the lunch line without thinking about what she was grabbing, her tray accumulating food she wouldn't eat.

She spotted Damien at a table near the windows, sitting alone. Nia's feet carried her toward him before she'd decided to move. Damien's head jerked up. His eyes went wide for a second, then he stood up, grabbing his backpack from the floor.

"Dam—" Nia tried calling out but he was already moving toward the exit. She watched him disappear through the doors, that fuzzy feeling in her head getting worse.

The last few days were fragments. The party. Drinking with Damien. Pills maybe? Pills probably. Drugs definitely. She couldn't remember. Then waking up on Brian's couch with the worst hangover of her young life, the catalog expanding by the week.

"Yo."

Nia turned. Zack stood beside her, his tray loaded with an extra burger and two chocolate milks.

"You good?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm just—" Nia looked back at the doors Damien had gone through before sitting down. "What's up with Damien?"

Zack's expression shifted. "He came up to you?"

"No," Nia shook her head, "He’s just been acting weird as fuck lately."

"Oh, you don’t remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

Zack scoffed, "Probably best that way."

"What don't I remember?" she insisted.

Zack set down his burger, wiping his hands on a napkin. "The party from last week, shit got a little…active."

"I don’t remember much from that night," the words came out slowly, like she was pulling them from mud.

"Yeah, that's because you were fucked up." Zack sucked his teeth. "I told you to slow down on that shit, especially around that motherfucker. You was fucking gone, girl."

Nia shrugged her shoulders. Getting fucked up was part of the reason she hung with them in the first place. "Okay, so?"

"So he tried some shit with you on the couch."

"What do you mean tried some shit?"

Zack looked uncomfortable now, his eyes not quite meeting hers. "You know how some guys get. He was doing way too fucking much, you know, way too much."

Nia's hands gripped the edge of the table.

"He ain’t do nothing though," Zack continued. "Brian stopped that shit. I mean, we did. We handled it, you know."

"Handled it how?"

"How you handle some shit like that," Zack shrugged. "All that matters is that fucker ain’t gonna be around anymore and he knows better than to fuck with you so I wouldn’t worry about that."

Nia's vision blurred at the edges. She blinked, trying to clear it, but everything stayed fuzzy. Her brain was trying to fill in the gaps, trying to remember, but there was just nothing there. A black hole where that night should be.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her voice coming out smaller than she intended.

"I figured Brian told you. He's the one who brought you back to his place."

"He didn't tell me shit."

Zack shrugged. "Maybe he thought you remembered. Or maybe he didn't want to make it weird."

Nia's stomach churned. She pressed her palm against her forehead, trying to think, trying to process.

"I shouldn't have been that lit," she heard herself say.

"Yeah, probably not," Zack shrugged before returning his attention to his burger, the more pressing matter.

Nia stilled herself, trying to picture herself at that party, too out of it to recall any of it, too out of it to have any agency over herself. She remembered one of the few parties she attended with Jimmy back when they were freshmen. It was after one of his first games on varsity and he had invited her. She knew it wasn’t his idea, probably his brother’s or one of his teammates but she was still excited to go until they got there.

Between the loud music, the smell of the cramped living room and the obnoxious drunks, even as a thirteen-year old, she didn’t see the appeal of it. Neither did Jimmy and they left after fifteen minutes or so, spending the night away at the park, him pushing her on that swing set, talking about everything and nothing at all.

What would Jimmy think of how she spent her days? The people she was hanging out with? Drinking until she blacked out? Hanging with guys like Damien? Would he even recognize her?

The thoughts came rushing, too many at a time, too sober to handle it all. She abruptly got up from the chair, heading towards the exit before Zack even processed that she had left, his attention still on his burger.

She found an empty bathroom, locked herself in a stall, and pressed her forehead against the cool metal divider. The bathroom door opened. Footsteps. Someone going into the stall next to hers. Nia stayed frozen, waiting for whoever it was to leave.

The toilet flushed. The sink ran. The door opened and closed. Silence again.

Nia unlocked the stall and moved to the sink. She turned on the faucet, splashed cold water on her face. It didn't help. Nothing helped.

The water kept running. Nia watched it spiral down the drain, wishing she could disappear into it, wishing she could wash away everything that had happened, everything she'd become.

But she couldn't. So she dried her face with a paper towel, took a breath, and walked back out into the hallway.

The bell rang. Lunch was over. Time to go to class, to sit in a desk, to pretend she was paying attention when really she was just counting down the minutes until she could leave, until she could find something to make her feel less, until she could disappear into the numbness again.

Because that's what she did now. That's who she was. And Jimmy would hate it.

…

Serena pulled the breakfast sandwich from the microwave, the paper wrapper warm against her fingers. Steam rose from the torn edge as she carried it to the kitchen island where Brice sat hunched over his phone.

"You want one?" she asked.

"I’m good."

Brice's thumb kept moving across his screen, his eyes tracking whatever he was reading. She took a bite, watching him.

His phone rang. His eyes locked on the screen. Serena stopped chewing. He answered without saying anything, just brought the phone to his ear.

Serena watched Brice's face. His expression was blank, his free hand gripping the edge of the counter.

He wasn’t talking, just listening. Serena couldn't make out the words but she didn't need to. She could see it happening in real time, the way Brice's shoulders dropped half an inch, the way his jaw unclenched just slightly before clenching again harder, the way his eyes closed for one long blink.

"Yeah," Brice said finally, his voice flat. "Alright. What’s next then?"

[Captain Canada]

Figured boy would be a mess after the birth. Wonder what choice you're going to make.

[redsox907]

[Soapy]

Figured boy would be a mess after the birth. Wonder what choice you're going to make.

we shall see

noticer in question, gang

He wasn’t talking, just listening. Serena couldn't make out the words but she didn't need to. She could see it happening in real time, the way Brice's shoulders dropped half an inch, the way his jaw unclenched just slightly before clenching again harder, the way his eyes closed for one long blink.

that's them bubble guts.

second tower just got hit.

[Caesar]

You's the pappy buddy