Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Season 6, Episode 20
Connie's fingers picked at the tissue in her lap, pulling at the edges until small pieces came away. "I don't know. I’m over it, I guess."

"You’re over it."

"Yeah. It’s not like I can do anything about it, can I?"

Dr. Mendel leaned back in her chair, her expression unchanged.

Connie's jaw tightened. The tissue tore a little more. "How else am I supposed to feel?"

"That's what I'm asking you."

Connie shifted in her seat, the leather creaking beneath her.

"I'm happy for them, I guess," Connie shrugged. "It’s the beauty of life, isn’t it? The whole purpose of us being on Earth? Getting to be parents?"

"They get to be parents."

"Yeah."

"And you don't."

Connie looked down at her lap, at the shredded tissue scattered across her jeans like snow.

"I made my choice," she said quietly. "What was the other option? Taking her to class with me?"

"Was it your choice?"

"Our parents—" she started, then stopped. "They thought it was best."

"So how much agency did you actually have in this decision?"

"I could have said no," Connie managed. "If I really wanted to keep her, I could have fought for it."

"Could you?"

"Yes."

"A fifteen-year-old girl."

Connie's hands were shaking now. She pressed them against her thighs, trying to still them. "I don’t know, maybe they would have listened if I fought hard enough."

"Would they?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I didn't try hard enough, I just let them talk me into."

"Why not?"

Connie's mind raced backward, to that hospital room, to the papers in front of her, to her mother's hand on her shoulder. She'd been so tired. So empty. Her body still aching from labor, her arms still feeling the phantom weight of the baby they'd taken away after those three minutes.

"Because they were right," Connie said, the words barely audible.

"So you agreed with them."

"Yes. I agreed."

"Is that why you carry so much guilt?"

Connie's head dropped forward, her hair falling to hide her face.

"I don't know," she whispered.

"I think you do."

Connie wiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing the tears across her skin.

"Because sometimes I'm relieved," she sighed. "Sometimes I'm glad they made the decision for me. Glad I didn't have to be the one to choose. And that makes me a terrible person."

Dr. Mendel's expression softened slightly, just a small shift in her features. "Why does that make you terrible?"

"Because a good mother wouldn't feel that way. A good mother would have fought. Would have kept her baby no matter what."

"You were a child yourself."

"I was old enough to get pregnant."

"That doesn't make you old enough to raise a child."

Connie shook her head, more tears falling. "Yeah, I guess, I don’t know. Some days I’m glad, other days I fucking hate it."

…

Nia stood at the edge of the parking lot, her backpack hanging from one shoulder.

Zack appeared beside her. "Yo, heading to the spot?"

Nia shook her head, not trusting her words.

"Cool," Zach nodded, walking past her toward the tree line where the park began. She stood there as Zack disappeared into the trees.

She could picture it already. The group gathered on the benches. Someone passing around a bottle or a joint or pills, whatever was available. The familiar numbness spreading through her limbs, making everything soft and distant and manageable.

Every muscle in Nia's body pulled toward that path. Her feet wanted to follow. Her hands wanted to reach for whatever would make her forget. Thirteen days of clarity. Thirteen days of feeling everything. Thirteen days of not wanting to feel any of it.

Nia pulled her headphones from her jacket pocket. Her fingers fumbled with the cord, untangling it, shoving the buds into her ears. She unlocked her phone and scrolled through her playlists until she found it and she pressed play.

The first notes took her breath away. That song he'd played on repeat their freshman year, the one he'd sing off-key just to make her laugh. Her vision blurred. She blinked hard, forcing the tears back, and started walking.

…

"So," Brice finally said, breaking the quiet. "We gonna talk about the elephant in the room or keep pretending it's not there?"

LaPenna interlocked his fingers. "What elephant?"

"Come on. You know."

"I'd rather you tell me."

Brice shifted in his seat, uncrossing his legs and planting both feet on the floor. "The kid. My son. Come on, man. You really want me to believe that no one from the team has told you?"

LaPenna set down his glasses. "Why do you think the coaching staff tells me things?"

"Because that's how this works, right? They want to make sure I'm good mentally, so they keep you in the loop."

"That's not how therapy works, Brice."

"Sure."

"These sessions are confidential. The coaching staff doesn't tell me anything about your personal life unless you tell me first."

Brice studied LaPenna's face, looking for the lie. He didn't find one. "Alright."

"So you're bringing it up now," LaPenna said. "Why?"

"What do you mean why? I feel like that’s the type of shit people talk about in therapy."

"Is it?"

"Considering the other mundane shit we talk about in here and you overanalyze, I would say having a fucking kid is one of them."

LaPenna leaned back in his chair. "I'm more interested in why you feel comfortable discussing it now."

Brice's brow furrowed. "What?"

"I’m going to assume based on your comments that you’ve known about this for a while now. Or been expecting me to bring it up. You haven't mentioned it once."

"I'm mentioning it now."

"Right. So what changed?"

Brice looked away from LaPenna, his eyes finding the bookshelf in the corner. "I don't know. I'm ready to talk about it now."

"Why now?"

"Because."

"That's not an answer."

Brice's hands gripped the armrests. "Because my family won't shut up about it."

LaPenna nodded slowly. "Tell me more about that."

"About what?"

"The pressure from your family.

Brice exhaled through his nose. "I don’t know, I guess my mom wants me to be there more, get more involved or whatever."

"And you don't?"

"I didn't say that."

"What are you saying?"

Brice's leg started bouncing. "I'm saying I don't know how this is going to work. What is it I need to do."

"What does your father do?"

Brice stopped his leg. "What?"

"Your father. What kind of father is he?"

Brice's hands loosened on the armrests. "He's... a dad. I don’t know, he has his own business, works hard, always took care of things."

"That's what he does for work."

"Taught me how to play football. How to be a quarterback."

"That's still what he does. I'm asking about who he is."

Brice opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyes moved back to the bookshelf, scanning titles he couldn't read from this distance. "He's a good dad, man. He provided for us. Made sure we had everything we needed. I don’t know, I think people think I’m this trust fund kid because of where I’m from or how I look."

"And that bothers you."

"Because it's not true. My parents didn't start with shit. My mom helps like poor people and shit. My dad drove trucks. They built what they have. I watched them do it, you know? We’re not this rich family that came from money."

"Okay."

"So when people act like I don't know what hard work is, like I just showed up and got lucky, it pisses me off. I've been working since I was six years old. Every morning before school. Every weekend. My dad made sure of it."

"Your dad trained you."

"Yeah."

"He taught you work ethic."

"Exactly."

"He provided financially."

"Right."

"What else?"

Brice's brow furrowed again. "What do you mean what else?"

"What else did he do? Beyond the training and the providing."

"I don't... I mean, he was there. At games. At practices."

"Watching you."

"Yeah."

"What else?"

Brice's hands moved to his knees, gripping them. "I don't understand what you're asking."

"I'm asking about your relationship with your father beyond the actions. Beyond what he did for you or gave you. How did he make you feel?"

Brice stared at LaPenna, his mind reaching for something, anything that would answer the question. His father's face appeared in his head. Standing on the sideline. Cooking him dinner. Driving him to practice. But feelings? Emotions?

Brice's throat tightened. "He... I don't know. He was proud. I think."

"You think?"

"He'd say good job. Tell me what I did right. What I needed to fix."

"Coaching."

"Yeah. I guess."

"What about when you weren't playing football? When you were just spending time together."

Brice tried to picture it. Tried to remember moments that weren't about training or games or film sessions. Nothing came. Or maybe things came, but they were hazy, indistinct, completely forgettable.

"We didn't really do that," Brice said finally.

"Do what?"

"Just spend time together doing nothing."

LaPenna wrote something in his notepad. "How does that make you feel?"

"I don't know. Fine. He was busy with work. I was busy with football, school."

"Fine."

"Yeah."

"You're sure?"

Brice's leg started bouncing again. His hands pressed harder into his knees. "What do you want me to say? That I'm upset he didn't take me fishing or whatever? That's not who we are. I don’t need that fucking shit."

LaPenna set his pen down again. "What happens when your child grows up?"

Brice could feel himself getting frustrated again. "What?"

"What kind of relationship do you want with him?"

Brice's mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"Do you want him to describe you the way you just described your father?"

The words hung there. Brice's hands went slack on his knees. His leg stopped bouncing. He stared at the carpet between his feet, at the pattern he'd memorized over months of sessions. His father's face appeared again in his mind. Proud. Present. Providing. All the things that mattered. All the things that had gotten Brice here, to this office, to this life, to this moment. And all the things that, when he tried to explain them, sounded hollow.

"I don’t know, I never really thought about it," Brice heard himself say. "I mean, I love my dad, alright? I don’t know if I’m not explaining it right but I love him, I do. And I know he loves me. I guess I would want him…"

He trailed off. LaPenna waited.

"I don't know what I want," Brice admitted.

[Captain Canada]

Brice hasn't thought something through? Shocking.

[Caesar]

oh no, pobrecito. Daddy didnt take him out fishing and everyone thinks he’s rich even though he is. Oh no. Dios mio. Whatever shall we do. Does Bwice need a safe space?

You know who ain't even have a father around growing up and never made it an excuse? #OurQuarterback #CG10 #TwiceTheManBriceIs

Connie still on crashout watch.

[redsox907]

You know who ain't even have a father around growing up and never made it an excuse? #OurQuarterback #CG10 #TwiceTheManBriceIs

oh don't you even start

only reason senor autistic doesn't use it as an excuse is because that would mean talking about his big emotions and he don' do that. couldn't even tell Laney, the only girl he's close to except his mama and mireya, that deep down he scared to get left in the mud

all that to say - if you feel this way Bryce how tf you think your BM feels? Like it or not, time to actually drop yo nuts fuck boi

[Soapy]

Brice hasn't thought something through? Shocking.

stall him out

oh no, pobrecito. Daddy didnt take him out fishing and everyone thinks he’s rich even though he is. Oh no. Dios mio. Whatever shall we do. Does Bwice need a safe space?

You know who ain't even have a father around growing up and never made it an excuse? #OurQuarterback #CG10 #TwiceTheManBriceIs

Connie still on crashout watch.

let that trauma out gang

You know who ain't even have a father around growing up and never made it an excuse? #OurQuarterback #CG10 #TwiceTheManBriceIs

oh don't you even start

only reason senor autistic doesn't use it as an excuse is because that would mean talking about his big emotions and he don' do that. couldn't even tell Laney, the only girl he's close to except his mama and mireya, that deep down he scared to get left in the mud

all that to say - if you feel this way Bryce how tf you think your BM feels? Like it or not, time to actually drop yo nuts fuck boi

speak on it

valid points vis-a-vis Bryce and Skylar

[Sonny]

all that to say - if you feel this way Bryce how tf you think your BM feels? Like it or not, time to actually drop yo nuts fuck boi


Seconded. Brice coming off like someone who never thinks about shit. Just coasting through life.

[Soapy]

all that to say - if you feel this way Bryce how tf you think your BM feels? Like it or not, time to actually drop yo nuts fuck boi


Seconded. Brice coming off like someone who never thinks about shit. Just coasting through life.

valid criticism

[Soapy]

Season 6, Episode 21
The stadium lights made everything too bright.

Tom stood on the fifty-yard line with Liz on his left and Sophie on his right, all three of them wearing Jimmy's number twelve. The jersey hung loose on Liz's frame, the shoulders drooping past where they should sit. Sophie had tucked hers into her jeans, the fabric bunching awkwardly at her waist. Tom's fit better, though the sleeves were shorter than he would've liked.

The crowd filled the stands behind them, a sea of faces he couldn't distinguish in the glare. The announcer's voice crackled through the speakers, saying something about honoring Jimmy's memory, about the kind of player he was, the kind of person. Tom heard the words without processing them, his focus narrowing to the cold air filling his lungs and the grass beneath his feet.

Coach Lanovoi approached from the sideline, flanked by two administrators Tom recognized but couldn't name. They carried something between them, a frame catching the stadium lights as they walked. The jersey inside was pristine, number twelve stitched in white against the blue fabric.

Tom's jaw clenched. He forced it to relax, then felt it clench again.

Lanovoi stopped in front of them, his expression practiced, sympathetic in that way people got when they didn't know what else to do. He said something Tom didn't catch, then extended the frame toward him.

Tom took it. The weight was substantial, the glass cool against his palms. He looked down at the jersey, at the Colton last name spelled out in block letters, and his vision blurred at the edges.

Liz's hand touched his elbow. Light, brief, then gone. Tom blinked hard, forcing his eyes to clear. He looked up at Lanovoi and nodded once, not trusting his voice.

The administrators were saying something now, taking turns speaking into a microphone someone had produced. Tom caught fragments. "Legacy." "Impact." "Never forgotten." The words washed over him, meaningless sounds that had nothing to do with the boy who used to lay on the living room couch so still that you’d forget he was there.

Beside him, Liz had arranged her face into something resembling a smile. Tom could see the effort it took, the way her cheek muscles pulled tight, the way her eyes stayed flat even as her mouth curved upward. She was performing for the crowd, for the cameras he could see positioned around the field, for everyone who needed to see the grieving mother holding it together. A family brought closer through loss.

Sophie wasn't performing. Her face was stone, her arms crossed over the jersey she wore, her eyes fixed on some point beyond the field. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere else, like standing here in her dead brother's number was the last thing she'd ever choose to do.

The speaking ended. Applause rose from the stands, polite and sustained. They turned toward the stands, toward their seats in the family section. Tom took a step, then another, Liz matching his pace. Sophie had already moved ahead of them.

They climbed the steps. The faces around them blurred together, people reaching out to touch his arm, to offer condolences he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears.

Tom sat down heavily, the framed jersey across his lap. Liz settled beside him, her hands folded in her lap, that smile finally fading now that they were away from the center of attention. Sophie dropped into her seat on his other side, pulling her phone from her pocket.

The teams were lining up for the second half kickoff. St. Joseph was winning by three touchdowns. Tom watched the players take their positions, watched the kicker approach the ball, watched it sail through the air toward the waiting returner.

"I want to go home."

Tom turned. Sophie was looking at him, her phone dark in her hand, her expression unchanged.

"What?" Tom asked.

"I want to go home. Can we go?"

Tom glanced at Liz, who was already looking at Sophie.

"We can go," Liz said quietly.

Sophie stood immediately, not waiting for Tom to respond. She moved past him toward the aisle, her phone already back in her pocket. Tom looked down at the framed jersey in his lap then back up at the field where the game continued without them.

"Yeah," Tom said to no one in particular. "I guess we’re going."

He stood, tucking the frame under his arm. Liz rose beside him, gathering her purse from beneath her seat. They moved into the aisle, following Sophie down the steps, past the same faces that had watched them receive the jersey, past the concession stands and the bathrooms and the exit gates.

The parking lot was half-empty, most people still inside watching the game. Their car sat in the second row, Tom's truck reflecting the stadium lights. Sophie was already there, waiting by the passenger door, her arms crossed against the cold.

Tom unlocked it with the key fob. Sophie climbed into the back without a word. Tom opened the driver's door, carefully setting the framed jersey on the floor behind his seat before climbing in.

"I'll be right there," Liz said.

Tom looked at her. She was standing by the passenger door, her hand on the handle but not opening it, her eyes fixed on something back toward the stadium.

"What?" Tom asked.

"Just give me a minute. I'll be right there."

…

"You alright?" Tom asked.

Sophie's eyes met his in the mirror. "Even if I'm not, what can you do about it?"

Tom's hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. The silence filled the truck, heavy and suffocating.

"Sorry," Sophie said quietly.

Tom's grip loosened. He turned slightly in his seat to look at her directly instead of through the mirror. "It's okay. I understand."

Sophie pulled her gaze from his, looking back out the window at the empty parking lot. "It's just... I look forward to these things, you know? When they honor him. When people remember him. It makes me happy at first."

Tom waited.

"But then it makes me so freaking sad," Sophie continued, her voice cracking slightly. "Because he'll never know. He'll never know how much people loved him. How much they miss him."

"He knew," Tom said. The words came automatically, the same reassurance he'd given himself a thousand times.

Sophie's head snapped toward him. "No, he didn't."

"Sophie—"

"He didn't, Dad. Come on." Sophie sat forward now, her arms wrapping around herself. "You know he didn't. Not really."

Tom's throat tightened. He could feel the argument forming, the defense he wanted to mount, but the words wouldn't come.

"Everything was always about him," Sophie said. "Every dinner conversation. Every weekend. Every fucking thing. Brice's game. Brice's stats. Going to Notre Dame. And Jimmy just... sat there. Quiet. Like he didn't matter."

"That's not—" Tom started, but Sophie cut him off.

"I was there, Dad." Sophie's voice rose slightly.

Tom's hands fell from the steering wheel into his lap. The framed jersey sat on the floor behind his seat, Jimmy's number facing away from him. He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Sophie she was wrong, that they'd loved Jimmy just as much, that they'd never favored Brice, that Jimmy had known how important he was.

But the words stuck in his throat because somewhere, in the part of himself he didn't like to examine, he knew she was right.

The silence pressed in from all sides. Tom stared through the windshield at nothing, at the empty parking spaces and the distant stadium lights and the dark sky above. Sophie had leaned back against her seat, her face turned away from him again.

Tom opened his mouth once more, trying to find something to say, some way to fill the space between them. Nothing came. So he sat there, letting the quiet settle over them both, letting it fill the holes in their chests that Jimmy had left behind.

Sophie sniffled once, barely audible. Tom didn't turn to look at her. Didn't reach back to touch her shoulder. Just sat in his seat, his hands in his lap, his eyes on the windshield, and let the silence do what words couldn't.

…

Skylar sat alone in the top corner, bundled in a thick winter coat. She held something against her chest, wrapped in what looked like several blankets layered on top of each other.

"Skylar," Liz called out as she reached the top row.

Skylar's head turned, her eyes widening slightly. "Liz. Hi."

"Hi." Liz moved closer, settling onto the cold metal bench beside her. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I heard he was getting honored," Skylar adjusted the bundle in her arms slightly. "It felt important."

"Wow, how nice of us," the words came easier than Liz expected. "That means a lot."

The bundle shifted and Liz realized what she was looking at. Baby James's face peeked out from between the layers of blankets, his cheeks pink from the cold, his eyes closed.

"You did a great job bundling him," Liz said, leaning closer to get a better look. "That's a lot of layers."

Skylar smiled, that nervous first-time mother smile Liz remembered wearing herself. "I wasn't sure if it was too much. Or not enough. I kept second-guessing whether I should even bring him out in this cold."

"It's not that bad tonight."

"I know, but still." Skylar looked down at James, her expression softening. "I really wanted him to be here though. It's only right, right?"

"You made the right decision," Liz heard herself say. "You're a good mother. Trust your instincts."

Skylar's eyes lifted to meet hers, something vulnerable flickering across her face for only a brief moment. "Thank you."

They sat in silence for a moment, both looking down at the sleeping baby. TThe cold metal of the bench pressed through Liz's jeans. Liz smiled at Skylar. Skylar smiled back. Neither spoke, just sat there in that shared understanding that sometimes existed between mothers.

"Have you eaten?" Liz asked. "We were going to grab dinner. You should join us."

Skylar's smile faltered slightly. "Oh, I don't want to intrude—"

"You wouldn't be intruding."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Liz stood up, extending her arms slightly. "Here, let me hold him while we walk down. These stairs are steep."

Skylar hesitated for just a moment, her arms tightening protectively around James. Then she nodded, carefully transferring the bundled baby into Liz's arms.

The weight settled against Liz's chest, solid and warm even through all the layers. James made a small sound but didn't wake, his face scrunching up briefly before relaxing again. Liz adjusted her hold, supporting his head with one hand, cradling his body with the other. The motions came back automatically, muscle memory from years of holding her own babies.

"Okay?" Liz asked.

"Yeah." Skylar gathered her purse, slinging it over her shoulder. "Thank you."

…

Nia stood near the chain-link fence at the stadium's edge, her fingers wrapped around the cold metal. Her face was wet, the tears still coming even though she'd tried to stop them. She'd watched the whole thing from here, standing apart from the crowd, unable to make herself go inside where the lights were too bright and the noise was too loud and everyone would see her crying.

She wiped at her face with her sleeve, the fabric rough against her skin. Her throat hurt from holding back the sobs that wanted to come. Her chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped bands around her ribs and was pulling them tighter with each breath.

Two figures emerged from the stairwell. A woman with shoulder-length blonde hair, holding a bundle of blankets. Another woman beside her, younger, talking quietly. Nia's eyes locked on the older woman's face.

Jimmy's mom. Nia had seen her before. At games. At school events. She was impossible to miss, one of those people that stood out even when she was wearing what everyone else was wearing.

Her hand loosened on the fence. Her feet wanted to move, to close the distance between them. Words formed in her head. Hi. I'm Nia. I was friends with your son.

But her mouth wouldn't open. Her legs wouldn't move. She just stood there, frozen, watching them walk closer.

The younger woman looked familiar too. Nia squinted, trying to place her. Sophie? No, too old to be Sophie. Someone else. Someone she'd seen around but couldn't name.

They were getting closer now. Ten feet. Five. Close enough that Nia could see the bundle in Mrs. Colton's arms was a baby, wrapped tight against the cold. Close enough to see the careful way they both moved, protective and purposeful.

Say something. Just say something.

Nia's throat closed. The words were right there, pressing against the back of her teeth, but they wouldn't come out. Mrs. Colton passed within arm's reach, her attention on the baby, on the other woman, on anything except the girl standing by the fence with tears streaming down her face.

They kept walking. Their voices faded. The parking lot swallowed them up.

Nia's hand fell from the fence. The cold metal had left marks on her palm, red lines where her fingers had gripped too hard. She stared at them, not really seeing, her vision blurring again.

She'd had been given a chance. A chance to say something, anything, to tell Jimmy's mom that her son had mattered to someone outside the family. That he'd been Nia's friend. That she thought about him every single day and wished she could go back and have just one more day with him.

And she'd stood there like a statue. Mute. Useless.

The grief crashed over her fresh and sharp, like it was the first day all over again. Her knees went weak. She pressed her palm against the fence again, needing the cold metal to keep her upright.

Sixteen days. She'd made it sixteen days.

She could picture it. The benches. The trees. The familiar faces. Someone passing her something that would make this feeling go away, make everything soft and distant and bearable again.

Jimmy's face appeared in her mind. Not the way he looked in the casket, but the way he'd looked that last time at the park. Laughing about something stupid. Blushing when she brought up their pact. Just being Jimmy.

What would you think of me now?

Her feet started moving without her deciding to move them. Away from the stadium. Away from the parking lot where Mrs. Colton and the other woman had disappeared.

The path was familiar even in the dark. She'd walked it so many times in the past few months that her body knew the way automatically. Past the elementary school. Past the row of houses with their porch lights on. Past the corner store where the owner always watched them like they were going to steal something. Probably because they were.

The park appeared ahead. She could see figures on the benches. Could hear voices carrying across the open space. Could smell the smoke before she got close enough to see who was holding what.

Sixteen days.

Her legs kept moving. One foot in front of the other. Closer to the voices. Closer to the smoke. Closer to the thing that would make her stop feeling like this.

…

The athletic facility was empty when Brice arrived, the hallways dark except for the emergency exit signs. He swiped his keycard and the door clicked open, the sound echoing in the silence.

The weight room stretched out before him, row after row of equipment waiting in the darkness. He hit the lights and they flickered on overhead. His reflection appeared in the mirrors lining the wall. He looked away from it.

His phone sat in his bag, screen down, DND activated. The silence pressed against his ears.

He started with some stretching. Hamstrings first, then quads, then hip flexors. He worked through it methodically, counting breaths, focusing on the pull and release.

The foam roller came next. He positioned it under his back, rolling slowly, working out the knots that had formed between his shoulder blades. The pressure hurt in that good way, that way that meant something was getting better even if it felt worse in the moment.

Twenty minutes passed. Maybe thirty. Time felt different here, alone, with nothing but the hum of the ventilation system and the occasional creak of the building settling.

He moved to the turf area, starting his agility work. Ladder drills. Cone work. Quick feet. His breathing quickened, his body warming up properly now. Sweat formed on his forehead. He wiped it away with his shirt.

The ball sat in the equipment rack. He grabbed it, gripped the laces, reset his fingers. The motion was automatic, thousands of repetitions making it muscle memory. He dropped back three steps, went through his progressions against air, released the ball into the net set up across the room.

Again. And again. And again.

His shoulder started to loosen, the tightness from the season fading with each throw. The ball felt right in his hands now, an extension of his arm rather than a separate object.

Forty-five minutes. An hour. He didn't check his phone to know.

He finished with core work. Planks. Russian twists. Dead bugs. His abs burned. His arms shook. He held the final plank until his form broke, then collapsed onto the turf.

The ceiling tiles stared back at him. White with small black dots scattered across them in patterns that meant nothing. He counted his breaths. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Four counts in, six counts out.

Jimmy's face appeared behind his closed eyelids. Brice opened his eyes.

He gathered his things, turned off the lights, and left the facility darker than he'd found it.

The massage place was fifteen minutes off campus, tucked into a strip mall between a nail salon and a dry cleaner. The woman at the desk recognized him but didn't make conversation beyond confirming his appointment. He appreciated that about this place. No small talk. No questions about the upcoming game. Just service.

The massage room was dim, lit by a single lamp in the corner. Soft music played from hidden speakers, some kind of instrumental that was supposed to be relaxing but just made him more aware of his own breathing.

He stripped down to his boxer briefs and laid face-down on the table. The paper crinkled beneath him. The air was cold against his bare skin. The massage therapist entered without knocking. She never knocked. Just came in, washed her hands at the small sink, and got to work.

Her hands found the knots in his shoulders immediately. The pressure was intense, bordering on painful. He focused on breathing through it, letting his muscles release under her fingers. She worked in silence, moving from his shoulders to his back to his legs. Each muscle group got attention, got worked over until the tension dissolved. His body sank deeper into the table.

Ninety minutes passed this way. No words exchanged. Just pressure and release, over and over, until his body felt like something separate from himself, something that had been taken apart and put back together slightly different.

The cryotherapy chamber was in the back room, a cylindrical tank that looked like something from a science fiction movie. Brice had done this enough times that the initial shock didn't bother him anymore.

He stepped inside, the door sealing behind him. The temperature dropped immediately, negative two hundred degrees Fahrenheit, the cold so intense it stopped feeling like cold and started feeling like something else entirely.

Three minutes. He counted the seconds in his head, watching the timer on the wall outside the chamber. His skin turned red. His muscles contracted. His lungs burned with each breath of the frozen air.

The cold pushed everything else out. No room for thoughts about Jimmy. No room for thoughts about James. No room for anything except surviving the next second, then the next, then the next.

The timer hit zero. The door opened. He stepped out into air that felt tropical by comparison, his body shaking, endorphins flooding his system.

He dressed slowly, his fingers clumsy with the cold. The recovery room had heated blankets and a recliner. He wrapped himself in the blankets and sat, letting his body temperature normalize, letting his heart rate slow back down.

His phone stayed in his bag. Still on DND. Still dark.

The drive back to his apartment was quiet. Campus was mostly empty, most students either at parties or already asleep. He drove through the orange streetlights one after another, his hands loose on the wheel, his body feeling like it belonged to someone else.

His housing complex appeared on the left. He pulled into his driveway, killed the engine, sat in the silence for a moment.

A figure stood outside his door.

She was bundled in a puffy jacket, her breath visible in the cold air, her phone in her hand. She looked up as he approached, a smile forming on her face.

"So this is what being a stalker feels like," she said, shoving her phone into her pocket. "I've been out here like twenty minutes. Thought maybe you died or something. You know, since you weren't answering any of my texts."

Brice forced something that might have been a laugh, the sound coming out hollow. He moved past her to his door, pulling his keys from his pocket.

"I'm just saying, it's cold as hell out here," Serena continued, her tone light, playful, like she was trying to draw him into banter that he couldn't access.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The house was dark inside, just the way he'd left it. He stepped through without looking back at her, without inviting her in.

Serena followed anyway. The door closed behind them.

Brice moved through the dark toward the kitchen, not bothering with lights. His hands found the fridge handle, pulled it open. The cold air and light spilled out. His meal prep container sat on the second shelf. Steak, noodles, vegetables. The same meal he ate before every game.

He pulled it out, peeled back the lid, moved toward the microwave.

"I can do that," Serena said from behind him.

He didn't respond. Just kept moving, opening the microwave door, setting the container inside.

"Brice. I can do it."

His finger hovered over the start button. The microwave hummed, waiting. He could feel her presence behind him, could feel her watching him, trying to figure out what he needed when he didn't know himself.

He pressed the button. The microwave whirred to life, the turntable starting to rotate.

"Okay," Serena said quietly.

He heard her move. Heard fabric rustling. When he finally turned around, she was putting her jacket back on, her movements slow, deliberate, giving him time to stop her.

"You can stay," he finally said.

Serena's hands stilled on her zipper. She looked at him, her expression careful, neutral, waiting for more.

He didn't have more. Just those three words.

She nodded once, then moved toward him. Her hand reached out, taking the container from where he'd set it on the counter. She checked the timer on the microwave, adjusted it, pressed start again.

"Go shower," she said, her voice soft but firm, "You stink."

Brice stood there for another moment, his body not quite ready to follow instructions.

The water was scalding when he stepped under it. He didn't adjust the temperature. He stayed under the water longer than necessary. Long enough that when he finally stepped out, his skin was pruned and the bathroom was thick with humidity.

He dried off, pulled on sweatpants and a t-shirt, ran his hand through his wet hair. The mirror was still fogged. He didn't wipe it clean.

When he emerged, Serena had his meal plated and sitting on the dining table. She'd found a fork, a napkin, a glass of water. His gym bag sat by the door, emptied. His game day bag sat beside it, packed with everything he'd need tomorrow.

She was on his couch now, her phone in her hand, scrolling through something. She looked up when he entered but didn't say anything. Just watched him move to the table and sit down.

The food was still hot. He picked up the fork and started eating, his body going through the motions automatically.

He finished eating and carried his plate to the sink. Rinsed it. Set it in the dish rack. Serena was still on the couch, still on her phone, still waiting.

Brice moved to his bedroom without saying anything. The door stayed open. An invitation if she wanted it, permission to leave if she didn't.

He heard her get up. Heard her footsteps across the apartment. Heard her pause in the doorway.

She entered, closing the door behind her as she changed into the set of pajamas that were in that one drawer that he left unused. The room went dark except for the streetlight filtering through the blinds. She moved around to the far side of the bed, the side she always took when she stayed over, and climbed under the covers.

Brice laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. Serena shifted beside him, getting comfortable. Her breathing evened out. Not asleep, just quiet, just there.

[redsox907]

didn't even go to his dead brothers memorial. What a buster.

to Nia. She either gonna get reamed out or OD

Sophie ain't wrong

[Caesar]

Brice shows everyday that he is a self-centered, selfish, abusive, miscreant dirtbag. Lawd almighty. Johnny Manziel 2.0.

I skipped down too far on the Nia scene at first and thought she was counting down days to kill herself stay far away from them racist white folks, young sister.

Not only was Sophie right but she’s even more forgotten. All they do is feed her and drag her along everywhere for Brice and/or dead ass Jimmy. There ain’t a single scene in this entire story where Tom or Liz has done something for Sophie FOR Sophie (since the only thing they did for her was a celebration of Jimmy). Sophie could be out there wilding like Nia. They wouldn’t know. They don’t even pay attention to her.

Skylar better watch out. Liz probably still plotting to make her give that baby up.