Brice arrived fifteen minutes early because Ilyssa’s rule was Ilyssa’s rule.
The auxiliary room had been gutted and rebuilt into something that looked like it belonged on television. FOX had remodelled the room with two chairs angled toward each other, a clean Purdue backdrop behind them, key lights already set and throwing warm white light across the setup. A small crew moved around the edges. Cables snaked across the floor, taped down with black tape that caught the light when he stepped over it.
Shannon Spake stood near the makeup station, reviewing notes on her phone. She looked up when he walked in.
“Brice. Thanks for making time.”
“Appreciate you guys coming out.”
They shook hands.
He sat in the chair they’d set for him while a woman with a powder brush came over and did a quick pass across his forehead. The lights were hotter than they looked. He could already feel the warmth on his skin.
“Just a few touch-ups,” the woman said. “You’re good.”
Spake settled into the chair across from him, crossing her legs at the ankle. A producer counted them in, and the red light on the camera blinked on.
“So, Brice. Purdue’s 3-0 to start the season. How does this team feel compared to the group that won it all last year?”
Brice leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “More experienced, honestly. We’ve got a lot of guys who played in that championship game, a lot of guys who know what it takes to win at the highest level. But we’re also more targeted. We’re not sneaking up on anybody. Every team we play, they’re trying to make their season by beating the defending champions. We know that. We embrace it.”
She nodded, already moving to the next question. “Michigan comes in at 2-1. They dropped the opener to Georgia but have looked dominant since. What do you see when you watch them on film?”
“Physical team. Always have been. Their front seven is as good as any in the country, and their secondary flies around. We’ve got our hands full.”
Ilyssa stood just off camera, arms loosely crossed. Brice could see her in his peripheral vision, a still figure against the wall, watching.
Spake got to Carr quicker than Brice anticipated. “C.J. Carr leads the Big Ten in passer rating. What makes him so effective?”
Brice didn’t hesitate. “His pre-snap processing is as good as anyone in college football. He reads defenses before the snap, identifies the coverage, and knows where he’s going with the ball. You can see it on film, the way he manipulates safeties, the way he gets to his second and third reads. He doesn’t panic. He trusts what he sees.”
He let the compliment hang there for a beat. "We know how important he is to his team so our guys are going to do their best to get after him, make him uncomfortable and try to make him look human, but he’s a great player."
"You were once committed to be his backup. Who knows? Maybe even challenge for his job as a freshman. Does that shared history make these games just a little bit more personal?"
Brice cleared his throat.
“Things didn’t work out when I was seventeen,” he said. “That’s the reality of it. Purdue gave me an opportunity I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life. The coaching staff believed in me, the players welcomed me, and I’ve tried to repay that faith every single day. Last year’s win against them, that wasn’t about me. That was about this program. About showing what Purdue football is capable of. We proved something that night, and we’re building on that this season.”
Off camera, Ilyssa shifted her weight slightly.
Spake moved onto the draft.
“Two top prospects on the same field this Saturday,” Spake said. “A lot of eyes on this game for reasons beyond the scoreboard. How much are you thinking about April?”
Brice allowed the question to breath. “I’m not thinking about April. I’m thinking about Saturday. Michigan is Saturday. The draft handles itself if I do my job.”
Spake nodded with a small smile. “Last thing, Brice. You’ve talked a lot about growth over the past couple of years. What’s been the biggest thing that’s helped you mature, both on and off the field?”
“Fatherhood,” he said. “Having my son changed everything for me. It reshaped my focus, my dedication to my craft. When you have someone depending on you, when you’re responsible for another person’s life, it puts everything else in perspective. I play for him now. To take care of him. To create a legacy and leave an impact that he could be proud of. Every snap, every rep, every game, that’s for him.”
…
Brice had his calculus textbook open to chapter four and his phone face-down on the table next to a half-empty bottle of water. Mel sat across from him, her notebook open, pencil moving in quick, even strokes as she worked through a problem set.
“You’re doing it wrong,” she said without looking up.
“I’m doing it the way the book says to do it.”
“The book is wrong.”
“The book is literally the source material.”
Mel looked up at him over the top of her notebook. “Did you check the domain?"
Brice looked back at the problem.
“Shit.”
“Shit,” she echoed, smiling.
He erased the last three lines of his work and started over. The library hummed around them with the soft clicking of keyboards, the distant whir of the printer, someone’s phone vibrating against a table somewhere behind them.
“Okay,” he said, writing out the corrected step. “So if I set the denominator equal to zero first—”
“Then you find the values that make it undefined.”
“Right.”
He worked through it.
“See? Not that hard.”
“You needed me to tell you that.”
“I needed you to confirm what I already knew.”
Mel laughed quietly and went back to her own work.
The sound of footsteps on the carpet made Brice look up. Serena was walking toward their table, her backpack slung over one shoulder, a Starbucks cup in her other hand.
“Hey,” Brice said, pulling out the chair next to him.
Serena didn’t sit down right away. She looked at Mel, then at Brice, then at the open textbook between them.
“Studying,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. Mel’s been helping me with calc.”
“I can see that.”
She set her cup down and lowered herself into the chair. She pulled her backpack onto her lap and unzipped it, taking out a notebook and a pen.
Mel looked up. “Hey, Serena.”
“Hey.”
Mel held her gaze for a moment, then looked back down at her notebook. Her pencil started moving again, but slower now.
Brice turned back to his problem set. “So for this one, chain rule?"
“Chain rule won’t work if the function is composite,” Mel said. “You need to check if it’s a composition first.”
He worked through it. The table was quiet except for the scratch of pencils and the soft tap of Serena’s pen against her notebook. She wasn’t writing anything. Brice could see that from the corner of his eye.
He finished the problem. Checked it against Mel’s notes.
“Nice,” he said.
Mel nodded. She glanced at her phone, then at Serena, then back at her notebook. She closed it.
“Actually,” she said, gathering her pencil and sliding it into the spiral binding, “I should probably head out. I told my roommate I’d meet her for dinner.”
“Alright,” Brice looked up. “Have fun. Thanks for the help."
Mel stood, shouldering her backpack. She looked at Serena. “Good seeing you.”
Serena gave a small nod.
Mel walked away. Brice watched her go, then turned back to his textbook.
“Are you deadass right now?"
He looked up. Serena was staring at him, her pen still tapping against her notebook.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head and looked down at her phone.
Brice watched her for a second, then went back to the problem. He wrote out the first step, then the second. The pen kept tapping.
“Can you stop that?”
She stopped. For about three seconds. Then it started again.
He finished the problem. Checked it. Got it wrong. Erased and started over.
“You know what,” Serena said, closing her notebook, “I’m gonna head out.”
“You just got here.”
She stood up, shoving her notebook into her backpack.
Brice reached out and caught her wrist. “Hold on. What’s going on?”
She looked down at his hand on her arm, then at him. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“Because I want to.”
“Why do you want to leave? You just got here.”
“Brice.”
He let go of her wrist. She didn’t sit down, but she didn’t walk away either. She stood there, backpack hanging from one shoulder, her jaw set.
“What?” he said.
“How can you just sit there and study with her like nothing happened?”
He blinked. “What do you mean?"
Serena stared at him.
"I told you that she was in my group. For the grief counseling."
"You didn’t tell me you guys were friends. How can you just be friends with her after everything?”
“She apologized. We’re good."
“We’re good,” Serena sucked her teeth.
“Yeah. She apologized. She’s been a good friend, especially with the grief group stuff. I’m not gonna carry resentment forever.”
Serena’s shoulders dropped. Not in relief. In something closer to exhaustion. “Brice, she literally—”
“I know what she did.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” He kept his voice level. “And she owned it. She came to me, she apologized, she didn’t make excuses. What else am I supposed to do? Hold a grudge for the rest of my life?”
“I’m not saying hold a grudge. I just think its fucking weird to be friends with someone that literally ditched you when you were going through some real ass shit. Who thought you were some sort of monster. That’s not fucking weird to you?"
“I guess not. I don’t know,” Brice shrugged, "I just don’t see the point in staying mad at her. She made a mistake. I’ve made plenty."
Serena let out a breath through her nose. She adjusted the strap of her backpack. “You’re making another one. She’s not your friend, and she’s not someone you want as a friend."
“Look, I’m not asking you to be friends with her," Brice held his hands up, "I know you guys had your own falling out but for me, she’s been a good friend. She really helps me with the grief group stuff and Calculus."
“And Calculus?" Serena shook her head before turning and walking away.
Brice sat there, mouth partly open, but no words came out. He couldn’t find any as he watched her turn the corner at the end of the row and disappeared behind a bookshelf.
…
Connie set the paint roller in the tray and wiped her hands on a rag that was already more paint than fabric. The last stripe of blue looked decent. Not great. The old color still bled through in one corner near the ceiling, but Rosa had stopped correcting her technique about an hour ago, which Connie took as either approval or surrender.
“Ya terminé,” she called, rolling her shoulders back. The muscles between her shoulder blades had locked up sometime around the third coat.
Rosa looked up from the floor, where she’d been kneeling with her bucket of soapy water. She said something in Spanish that Connie caught about half of, something about dinner, something about staying.
“No, no, está bien,” Connie said, shaking her head. “I should probably head back. I have some things to—”
Rosa was already standing, wiping her hands on her apron, shaking her head with the kind of certainty that didn’t leave room for argument. She said something else, faster this time, and Connie caught the word comida and the word casa and the tone that meant the conversation was already over.
“Okay,” Connie said. “Okay, sí. Gracias.”
Rosa smiled and nodded once, like the matter had been settled from the beginning.
The walk to their house was short, three blocks down a dirt road lined with small concrete homes, most of them with laundry hanging from lines strung between windows. Rosa walked ahead, talking the whole way, most of it in Spanish that Connie only half-followed.
Hector was already at the table when they arrived. He’d changed out of his work clothes into a clean button-down, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The table was small, barely big enough for three and already set with plates and cups and a pitcher of water that had condensation running down the sides.
He stood when Connie came in. “Hola, mija.”
“Hola, Pastor.”
“Please.” He waved his hand. “I told you. Hector.”
“Right. Hector.”
Rosa disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a pot of rice, then a plate of chicken, then a bowl of beans. She set each one down with a small nod, like she was approving of her own work.
They sat. They prayed. Connie folded her hands in her lap, then unfolded them, then folded them again.
“Eat,” Rosa said, gesturing at the food with both hands. “Come.”
Connie picked up her fork. “Everything looks amazing. Gracias.”
Rosa said something to Hector in Spanish, and he translated.
“Pollo San Salvador,” Connie repeated, nodding. “Sounds good.”
She took a bite. It was good. Really good, actually.
“Good?” Rosa asked, watching her.
“Really good. Muy bueno.”
Rosa smiled and turned to Hector, saying something that made him laugh. He responded, and they went back and forth for a moment in Spanish, their voices overlapping in the easy way of people who’d been having the same conversation for thirty years.
Connie ate quietly, listening to the rhythm of it. She caught fragments, something about one of the boys who’d come to help that afternoon. Hector reached for Rosa’s hand without looking, his fingers finding hers on the table between the rice and the beans. Rosa squeezed back, still talking, not missing a beat.
“Where you from?” Hector asked, turning back to Connie.
“Indiana,” she said. Their faces were blank. “Chicago?"
He nodded slowly, processing. “Chicago. Big city.”
“Big city,” she agreed.
“How long you stay?” Rosa asked.
“A few more weeks,” Connie said.
Rosa said something to Hector, and he translated: “She says that is enough time to finish the painting.”
Connie laughed. “I hope so."
The conversation moved in fits and starts. Connie would answer a question, and Hector would translate for Rosa, and Rosa would respond, and Hector would translate back, and somewhere in the middle of all that translating, they’d get sidetracked talking to each other about something completely different: the beans needing salt, the fan not working right, whether it was going to rain tomorrow. Hector insisted it would. Rosa insisted it wouldn’t. They argued about it for a full minute in Spanish, their voices rising and falling, Rosa rolling her eyes at something he said before breaking into a smile she tried to hide behind her hand.
Connie watched them.
“You two,” Connie said, and then stopped, because she wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence in either language.
They both looked at her.
She set her fork down. Tried to find the words. “Es — you are very — how do you say —” She made a gesture with her hands, circling them toward each other. “Together. For a long time.”
“Thirty-two years,” Hector said.
“Thirty-two,” Connie repeated. She tried again. “I mean…it’s nice. The way you…” She pointed between them. “You talk. You…” She mimicked the hand-holding. “You are…it’s sweet. Muy dulce.”
Rosa said something in Spanish. Hector translated: “She says we are old and boring.”
“I didn’t say boring,” Rosa corrected him in English, then switched back to Spanish, saying something else that made Hector laugh.
“What did she say?” Connie asked.
Hector shook his head, still laughing. “She said I am boring. She is not boring.”
That boy dumb, too?
