Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Slowly getting lost on Liz's agenda to tell the truth, but oh well.

Brice is a confusing motherfucker so I get why Serena is a little off-kilter when it comes to him. Of course he doesn't know what the saying means. Kid reads with his finger underlining every word.

Connie gonna get that nigga fired

Liz always manipulating to reach the best outcome, she believes, for her family. At this point, since she couldn't get Skylar to give up the baby, it would be for Brice and Skylar to be together as she doesn't want the stigma of him having a bastard child

“It’s easier this way,” Brice heard himself say, "I got to hold the trophy up, probably get interviewed. I doubt he remembers anyway."

can't hold a baby in one hand and a trophy in the other?

“That saying. ‘You want to have your cake and eat it too.’” he scoffed. “No shit, I want to eat it. What the fuck is the point of having a cake if you’re not going to eat it?”

I hate to admit it, but I'm with fuck boy Colton on this one. Gimme that cake bihh

Kraven gonna get him self on a list real quick

eat the cake, annie mae

Connie gotta be a bad bitch for Kraven to be risking his life and potentially freedom for her crazy ass. Just tell her to go make another fucking baby if she want a kid so bad. She knows how it’s done.

Brice an annoying motherfucker man. Release that Black woman for the bondage of laying with a slovenly, selfish, self-loathing, shameless, shallow, senseless, spoiled, spiteful, sanctimonious Yakubian Savage.

[Soapy]

Season 6, Episode 28
Brice killed the engine and sat there for a second, his hands still on the wheel. The house looked the same as it always did. Same brick facade. Same porch light that flickered when the wind picked up. Same mailbox with the dent from one of Brice’s drunken nights.

Different now, though. Everything was different now.

He grabbed his bag from the passenger seat and got out, his feet crunching on the gravel. The front door was unlocked.

Brice dropped his bag by the stairs and moved into the kitchen.

Tom stood at the stove, a spatula in one hand, his other hand braced against the counter.

“Hey,” Tom gestured with the spatula toward the fridge. “Grab me those peppers. Top shelf.”

Brice moved to the fridge, pulling it open. He found the peppers wrapped in plastic, grabbed them, and handed them over.

“Your mom’s in the garage with James,” Tom said, already turning back to the stove.

Brice heard it then. Faint but unmistakable. The high-pitched wail piercing through the walls.

His feet carried him toward the door that led to the garage. He pushed it open.

The bench press was gone. So were the dumbbells, the squat rack, the plates that had been stacked against the far wall. In their place sat a portable crib, a changing table, a rocking chair that looked to be from the Clinton administration. The concrete floor was covered with foam mats, the kind that locked together like puzzle pieces.

Liz stood near the crib, James in her arms, her body swaying in that rhythmic motion that seemed universal to anyone who’d ever held a crying baby.

“Hey, honey,” she said over the crying.

“Hey.”

Brice moved further into the space, his eyes taking in the transformation. This was where he’d learned to power clean. Where he had spotted Jimmy on his first two-plate bench press.

Now it was foam mats and a diaper genie.

He sat down in the folding chair near the changing table. Liz continued her swaying, her hand moving in circles on James’s back.

“Your dad set all this up,” Liz said, her voice raised to be heard over the crying. “Been his little project the last couple of weeks."

“It’s nice.”

“It’s temporary.” She adjusted James in her arms, trying a different position. “I want to move him into Jimmy’s room eventually. Make it a proper nursery. But I’m giving it some more time. We haven’t touched anything in there since—“

She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to.

James’s crying started to subside, dropping from a wail to a whimper. Liz’s swaying slowed but didn’t stop, her body still moving in that gentle rhythm.

“He’s been fussy all morning,” she said. “Skylar dropped him off about an hour ago and already fed him before but something’s bothering him now.”

Brice watched his mother work. Watched the way her hand moved on the baby’s back. Watched the way she hummed something low and wordless. Watched the way James’s body gradually relaxed against her chest.

He should offer to take him. Should stand up and reach out his arms and give his mother a break. Should do something other than sit here like a spectator.

His body stayed in the chair.

“Breakfast!” Tom’s voice carried through from the kitchen.

Liz’s eyes met Brice’s. “Perfect timing.”

She moved toward the door, still holding James, still swaying slightly even though the baby had finally quieted. Brice stood and followed her back into the kitchen.

Tom had plates set out on the table. Three of them. Eggs, bacon, toast. A bottle sat warming in a bowl of hot water near the sink.

“Here,” Liz said, turning toward Brice. “Take him while I use the bathroom.”

She was already transferring James into his arms before he could respond. The baby’s weight settled against his chest.

Liz disappeared down the hallway. Tom was already sitting down, pulling his plate toward him.

Brice stood there, James in his arms, his father serving breakfast like this was normal. Like the weight of his son against his chest was something he’d carried a thousand times before instead of something that still felt foreign and terrifying.

“Sit down,” Tom said, gesturing to the empty chair.

Brice moved to the table, lowering himself carefully into the chair, adjusting his grip on James. The baby’s eyes were closed now, his breathing even. His small hand had found Brice’s shirt, fingers clutching the fabric.

Tom pushed the bottle across the table. “In case he wakes up.”

Brice looked down at his son. At the tiny features that were starting to look more defined, more like an actual person instead of just a blob of needs and noise. James’s mouth moved slightly, like he was dreaming about eating.

Tom started eating. The sound of his fork against the plate filled the kitchen. Somewhere down the hallway, the bathroom sink ran.

Brice sat there, holding his son, his breakfast untouched, and tried to figure out what the fuck he was supposed to do next.

…

Nia’s key turned in the lock with a soft click. She pushed the door open slowly, listening for any sound of movement. The house was quiet. Her parents’ cars hadn’t been in the driveway. They were supposed to be at work. She’d timed it that way.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible. She moved toward the hallway, her backpack already off her shoulder, ready to fill it quickly and leave.

“Nia.”

Her body froze. Her mother stood in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel in her hands. Her expression shifted rapidly. Surprise, then relief.

Her mother crossed the distance between them quickly. Her arms came around Nia before Nia could process what was happening. The hug was tight, almost desperate. Her mother’s chest rose and fell against hers. The dish towel pressed against Nia’s back.

Nia’s arms hung at her sides. She’d expected yelling. Expected anger. Expected demands about where she’d been, what she’d been doing, why she hadn’t answered her phone. Not this. Not her mother holding her like she’d thought she might never see her again.

The hug lingered. Nia could feel her mother’s heartbeat. Could feel the way her grip tightened slightly, like she was afraid Nia would disappear if she let go.

Nia pulled away. Her mother’s arms loosened but didn’t fully release. Nia twisted out of the embrace and moved toward her bedroom, her steps quick, purposeful.

“Nia, wait—“

She didn’t wait. She pushed open her bedroom door and went straight to her dresser. Her hands pulled open drawers, grabbing clothes without really looking at them. Shirts. Jeans. Underwear. She shoved them into her backpack.

Her mother appeared in the doorway. She didn’t enter. Just stood there, watching, her hands still clutching that dish towel.

“You don’t have to do this,” her mother said quietly.

Nia grabbed more clothes. Her hands moved faster.

“Whatever you’re going through, we can work through it together,” her mother continued. “We just want you home. We want you safe.”

Nia moved to her closet, pulling out her winter jacket. It was getting colder. She’d need it.

“We still love you,” her mother’s voice cracked slightly. “No matter what’s happened. No matter what you’ve done. We just want you to be safe and happy.”

Happy

Nia’s hands stilled on the jacket. The word echoed in her head. Happy. When was the last time she’d been happy?

Her eyes moved around her room. The walls she’d stared at for hours. The bed where she used to lie, phone propped on her pillow, Jimmy’s face filling the screen. Those nights when they’d fall asleep on FaceTime, neither of them wanting to hang up first. She could still picture him there, his face soft with sleep, his voice getting quieter and quieter until it faded completely.

She remembered standing in front of this very mirror, trying to decide which bra to wear on days when she had English with him. The pink one or the black one. Like it mattered. Like anything that stupid would end up mattering in the end.

Her throat tightened. This bed. This room. She’d imagined it so many times. The two of them here, alone, finally following through on their pact. She’d thought about what it would be like. How nervous she’d feel. How he’d probably be nervous too. How they’d figure it out together.

She’d never get that now. Would never get any of it. Never get to visit him at whatever college he ended up at. Never get to introduce him to her college friends. Never get to have him meet her parents as her actual boyfriend instead of just her friend. Never get to grow up with him the way she’d always assumed they would.

Her vision blurred. Her hands clutched the jacket tighter.

“Nia, please—“

She grabbed her backpack, shoving the jacket inside with everything else. The zipper caught. She yanked it harder until it closed. Her mother was still standing in the doorway, blocking her exit.

“Please don’t go,” her mother said. “Please, baby. Just stay. We can figure this out.”

Nia moved toward the door. Her mother didn’t move aside immediately. They stood there, inches apart, her mother’s eyes searching her face for something that Nia couldn’t give her.

“Please,” her mother whispered.

Nia pushed past her, her shoulder brushing against her mother’s arm. She heard her mother turn, heard footsteps following her down the hallway.

“Nia! Nia, please!”

…

The mundaneness of fatherhood had already struck Brice. Baby James sat next to him in a bassinet in the living room, watching another episode of some CBS show. The kind he saw commercials for all the time but never actually watched. His dad had gone into work an hour ago, leaving just him and the baby. Liz was working from home in the study, her laptop open, her voice occasionally carrying through the house when she took calls.

Brice kept looking at James. The baby was awake, his eyes tracking movement on the screen even though he couldn’t possibly understand what he was watching.

Brice waited to feel something. Joy, maybe. That overwhelming love people always talked about. Some sense of responsibility or purpose. Some connection that would make this feel less like babysitting and more like being a father.

Nothing came. Just dread. Just boredom. Just the weight of sitting here watching a baby who didn’t do anything except exist and need things.

The show on TV reached a commercial break. Some pharmaceutical ad with people walking on a beach. Brice’s eyes moved back to James. The baby was staring at him now, his expression blank, unreadable.

Brice stood up. His legs felt stiff from sitting. He walked through the living room toward the study, his footsteps quiet on the carpet.

The study door was open. Liz sat at the desk, her fingers moving across the keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screen. She wore reading glasses that she only put on when she was working. Made her look older somehow.

She looked up when he appeared in the doorway.

“Hey,” she said, pulling off her glasses.

“Can you watch James for a bit?” Brice asked. “I’ll be right back.”

Her expression shifted slightly. “Where are you going?”

“Just need to run an errand real quick.”

“What kind of errand? We’ve got plenty of food, hon.”

“Just something I need to handle.”

Liz set down her glasses on the desk. Her eyes searched his face. “Brice—“

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, already turning away. “Like thirty minutes tops.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond. Just moved back through the house, grabbed his keys from the counter, and headed for the door.

…

Smoke hung in the air, drifting toward the ceiling fan that did nothing but push it around. Nia held the blunt between her fingers, staring at the ember without bringing it to her lips. Brian was scrolling through his phone, his thumb moving in that mindless way people did when they weren’t really looking at anything.

The knock made Nia’s chest tighten. Her body went rigid. She looked toward the door, then at Brian, her mind already spinning scenarios. Her mom. She’d followed her here. She’d found her.

Brian stood up, moving toward his bedroom without any urgency. He disappeared through the doorway, and Nia heard the sound of something being moved. A drawer opening. The familiar rustle of plastic bags.

A customer.

Her shoulders dropped. Her breathing evened out. She brought the blunt to her lips and took a small hit, the smoke harsh in her throat.

Brian came back out, moving past her toward the door. He unlocked it, pulled it open.

“Yo, what’s good?”

The voice that answered made Nia’s head turn involuntarily.

“Appreciate you coming through."

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes finding the doorway. Brian stepped aside, and he walked into the apartment. He looked different than he had at the cemetery.

His eyes swept the apartment, landing on Nia for a brief second. No recognition. Just a quick assessment before his attention returned to Brian.

“You can come in, she’s cool,” Brian said, gesturing toward the couch.

Brice nodded at Nia, a small acknowledgment, then moved to the armchair across from the couch. He sat down, his body language loose, comfortable. Like he’d been here before.

Nia sat frozen.

“Surprised to hear from you, man,” Brian said, settling back onto the couch beside Nia. “After how shit ended last time.”

Brice laughed, the sound easy. “Come on, that shit just added to my lore. Still had a good time.”

“I forgot you’re royalty now."

“A king is born a prince, brother," Brice smirked.

Brian shook his head, but he was smiling too. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pre-roll, and tossed it to Brice. Brice caught it one-handed, already pulling a lighter from his hoodie pocket.

The flame sparked. Brice lit the pre-roll, took a long drag, and leaned back in the chair. His eyes moved around the apartment again, landing on Nia. He held her gaze for a second longer this time.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked.

Nia’s throat tightened. She forced something that might have been a laugh, lifting her shoulders in a shrug.

“It’s fucking South Bend,” Brian said, taking a drag from the blunt. “Of course you know her. It’s the same fucking people all the fucking time.”

Brice laughed. So did Brian. The sound filled the apartment, casual and easy, like they were old friends catching up. Nia brought the blunt to her lips again, barely inhaling, her eyes fixed on the coffee table.

“So how’s college treating you?” Brian asked. “Besides the whole championship thing.”

“It’s alright. It’s like St. Joe’s a little bit just on fucking steroids."

“Motherfucker, you know everyone knows how much you make, right?"

"You can’t always believe the internet, numb nuts."

"I bet it ain’t too far off."

“Something like that.” Brice took another hit. “Could be worse.”

“Could be a lot worse,” Brian agreed. “Heard about Skylar. That’s fucking wild.”

Brice sucked his teeth. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

“Skylar fucking Hayes.”

“I know.”

“I mean, at least she looks good,” Brian said, his tone light, teasing. “Baby won’t be ugly. Long as it looks like her and not your goofy ass.”

Brice flipped him off, but he was smiling again. “Fuck you.”

“I’m just saying. You got lucky on that front.”

Nia’s fingers tightened around the blunt. The woman from the grocery store. The one with the stroller, the one who’d looked at her like she was dangerous. That was Skylar. And the baby—

“Girl or boy?” Brian asked.

Brice’s smile softened slightly. “Boy. James."

The apartment went quiet. Nia’s chest stopped moving. Her lungs forgot how to work. The blunt burned between her fingers, ash falling onto her jeans, but she didn’t feel it.

James.

Brian lifted his blunt, his expression solemn. “Long live Jimmy.”

Brice raised his pre-roll. “Long live fucking Jimmy.”

[Captain Canada]

I know she's struggling, but fucking Nia. Scene really tugs at your heart strings.

Brice will do anything but be a good father, huh.

[redsox907]

Brice raised his pre-roll. “Long live fucking Jimmy.”

Brice still picking and choosing when to honor his brother, while the baby specifically named after his brother sits unattended by his own father who couldn't handle being a Dad for one day without getting high? fuck boi gonna fuck boi

[Caesar]

Johnny Manziel 2.0 up in here. I still need Skylar to go get herself an “NBA player” man who wanna be stepdaddy. That’ll show these terrible people.

Nia is Soapy Perry in full flow at this point. Can’t give that poor girl a break.

[Soapy]

I know she's struggling, but fucking Nia. Scene really tugs at your heart strings.

Brice will do anything but be a good father, huh.

Brice raised his pre-roll. “Long live fucking Jimmy.”

Brice still picking and choosing when to honor his brother, while the baby specifically named after his brother sits unattended by his own father who couldn't handle being a Dad for one day without getting high? fuck boi gonna fuck boi

#fuckthemkids

Johnny Manziel 2.0 up in here. I still need Skylar to go get herself an “NBA player” man who wanna be stepdaddy. That’ll show these terrible people.

Nia is Soapy Perry in full flow at this point. Can’t give that poor girl a break.

if I'm Soapy Perry, what are you, champ?

[Soapy]

Season 6, Episode 29
"You never asked?"

"Not really," Brice shrugged as he picked up a piece of fried calamari, "I just figured it was some Catholic shit to be honest."

"I don’t know how but that feels like White privilege," Serena tried to hide her smirk to no avail, "Y’all got some many people to choose from. We got like twelve."

"I don’t know about that," Brice returned a smirk, "Shaniqua. LaToya. Sha’Toya. The possibilities are endless."

"If I didn’t know how much you loved black pussy, I would call you a racist," Serena shook her head as she snatched the calamari from his hands, tossing it into her mouth.

"What can I say?" Brice laughed as he grabbed another piece of calamari, his eyes drifting to the TV mounted above the bar. "Jesus fucking Christ. How did they already score?"

"I’m guessing you’re not going for Georgia?"

"Fuck no," Brice popped the calamari in his mouth, chewing slowly, "I’m not trying to see that Georgia defense if I don’t have to."

"Is that Brice Colton being scared of something?"

"I’m not the one I’m worried about," Brice shrugged, "Now Sabrina’s little lap dog and his crew? I don’t know if they’re ready for that Georgia front."

"Tulane’s in New Orleans, right?" Serena asked, dipping another stolen fry in ketchup. "I think one of the girls on our track team applied there. I don’t think she got in, though."

"Yeah, they’re a pretty good school. I went to a camp once down there in high school," Brice shook his head. "City's dirty as hell. Couldn’t pay me to live there."

"I've always wanted to go," Serena tilted her head from side to side. "I heard the food is amazing."

A smirk played at the corner of Brice's mouth. "Well, you just might end up there if we make the championship. That’s where it’s hosted."

"Is that right?" Serena raised an eyebrow.

Brice's attention suddenly shifted as movement near the entrance caught his eye. He noticed her right away, heading toward the takeout counter. He quickly looked away, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth and focusing intently on the TV.

Serena noticed too. Her posture stiffened, eyes narrowing as she tracked Mel's movement across the restaurant. Mel stood stoically in line, keeping her gaze fixed forward, though Brice could tell from the tension in her shoulders that she'd spotted them.

The silence at their table stretched uncomfortably. Brice kept chewing his fries, deliberately not looking in Mel's direction while Serena sent death glares across the room. After what felt like an eternity, Mel collected her order and walked out without glancing their way.

As the door closed behind her, Serena turned back to Brice.

"Have you ever had a threesome?"

Brice inhaled sharply, a piece of fry going down the wrong way. He coughed violently, reaching for his water and taking several gulps while his mind raced. Did she know about the girls in Indy? Was this a trap? Justin. Always fucking Justin.

"You okay?" Serena asked, looking more amused than concerned.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, just…that was unexpected."

"Well?" She tilted her head, waiting.

"Uh, no," he lied smoothly, setting down his water. "Not really my thing."

Serena shrugged, stirring her drink with her straw. "I've always been curious about it. With another girl, obviously."

She looked up at him through her lashes. "I think all girls are at least a little bi-curious, you know. At least I am. Especially if she looks good."

Brice's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

…

Connie's fingers moved across the keyboard, the clicking sound barely audible over the Netflix show playing in the background. The glow from the laptop screen lit her face in the dim room. Behind her, Eli shifted on the bed. She heard the rustle of sheets, the creak of the mattress springs.

"Con," he said, his voice thick with sleep.

"Just a few more minutes," she murmured, her eyes not leaving the screen. Someone claiming they'd successfully petitioned for their records in Illinois. Another person sharing their reunion story. None of it applied to her situation, but she read it anyway.

"You've been saying that for an hour."

"I know. I'm almost done."

Another sigh from the bed. The sound of him rolling over. Then silence.

Connie scrolled through another thread. Someone had posted about hiring a private investigator. The replies were mixed. Some said it was worth it. Others warned about the cost, the emotional toll, the possibility of finding nothing.

Her cursor hovered over the reply button.

"What are you even working on?" Eli's voice came again, more awake this time.

Connie's hands stilled on the keyboard. Her throat tightened.

"Just research," she said, keeping her voice light. "For a class."

"What class?"

"Family law."

"Since when are you taking family law?"

The lie was already crumbling. She closed the laptop quickly, the screen going dark. She turned in the desk chair to face him.

"It's for next semester," she said. "I'm just getting ahead."

Eli was propped up on one elbow, watching her.

"Okay," he said finally.

She stood up, moving toward the bed. The mattress dipped as she climbed in beside him, pulling the covers up to her chin. The sheets were warm where he'd been lying, and she pressed herself against that warmth. Eli's hand found her waist, his fingers sliding under her shirt. His touch was gentle, exploratory. His lips found her neck.

"Not tonight," Connie said softly.

His hand stilled. His lips pulled away from her skin.

"It's never tonight," he said, his voice flat.

Connie opened her mouth to respond, but he was already rolling away from her. His back faced her now, his shoulders rigid with tension. The space between them felt wider than the few inches it actually was.

"Eli—"

"Just go to sleep, Con."

She laid there, staring at the back of his head, watching the rise and fall of his breathing as it gradually evened out. Five minutes passed. Then ten. His body relaxed, his breathing deepening into the rhythm of sleep.

Connie reached for her phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up her face in the darkness. She opened her browser, typing in the search terms she'd memorized by now. The same forums loaded. The same advice threads. The same dead ends she'd been chasing for weeks.

But her thumb kept scrolling.

…

LaPenna's office felt warmer than usual. Brice had already shed his jacket, draping it over the arm of the couch. He stretched out, one arm along the back cushions.

"We’ve played there before but this is different," he said, unable to keep the grin off his face. "This is the actual fucking Rose Bowl, man."

LaPenna set down his pen, leaning back in his chair. "You're excited."

"Hell yeah, I'm excited. Do you know how many times I watched that game as a kid?" Brice's hand moved through the air, gesturing. "Christian McCaffrey running all over Iowa. Justin Herbert. Me and Jimmy used to talk about it all the time. Like, that was the dream, you know? Playing in Pasadena with that fucking gorgeous backdrop. I always wondered if the players could tell how beautiful it was on TV."

"This was a shared dream with your brother."

"Fuck yeah," Brice's smile widened. "Something about playing a school like USC or Michigan in the Rose Bowl just felt perfect, I don’t know why. Not like Notre Dame played a bunch in that game so when the playoffs started and we started seeing different teams go there, it was like fucking perfect. One day, that’ll be us, you know. Playing together, maybe even for a natty."

The smile faltered slightly. Brice's eyes moved to the window, watching the campus beyond the glass.

"But yeah," he continued, his voice picking back up. "It's gonna be a good game, I can feel it. I know people think Georgia’s just going to roll all over us but all year long, we’ve been proving people wrong, shutting them up. Wouldn’t want it any other way, honestly."

LaPenna nodded slowly. "How was your time in South Bend?"

Brice's hand moved to his knee, fingers tapping. "Good. It was good. Got to spend some time with James. Just us."

"How did that feel?"

"Fine. I mean, it was nice. My mom had everything set up in the garage for him. She turned it into like a whole nursery situation."

"Your old workout space."

"Yeah," Brice laughed. "That was a trip. Walking in there and seeing foam mats instead of weights. But yeah, it was good. He is getting bigger. More aware of things."

LaPenna's pen moved across his notepad. "What did you do with him?"

"Just hung out mostly. Watched TV. Fed him a few times. Normal baby stuff, I guess."

"And how did that make you feel?"

Brice's fingers stopped tapping. "I don't know. Normal? Like I said, it was fine."

The silence stretched. LaPenna waited, his expression neutral, giving Brice space to fill the quiet. Brice shifted on the couch, his arm dropping from the cushions.

"I just can’t wait," Brice broke the silence, "Georgia in the fucking Rose Bowl, man. I’ll be honest, I never thought we’d be playing these kind of games when I came here. I thought maybe a solid bowl game was the best we could aim for, maybe a trip to Indy where we get blown out or something but holy shit, the fucking Rose Bowl man."

"There's a finality to the way you're talking about this," LaPenna interrupted gently.

Brice's mouth closed. He stared at LaPenna for a second.

"What do you mean?"

"The way you're describing this game. This opportunity. It feels like you're trying to savor something before it's gone."

Brice's eyes dropped to his hands.

"I guess I am," he said finally. "I mean, I don’t have a lot more games before I’m gone."

"Gone."

"To the draft," Brice clarified. "I'll be a junior next year and it sounds like as long as I don’t fuck it up, I got a good shot at being the first quarterback off the board."

LaPenna wrote something down. "How does that feel?"

"Exciting. Terrifying. I don't know," Brice's hand moved through his hair. "It's what I've been working toward my whole life. But now that it's actually happening, it's like... I've got maybe fifteen games left. If we make it to the championship, if we win, maybe a few more. But that's it. That's all the college football I have left. I don’t know, I’ve been working so much to get here and it’s like already over."

"And you want to enjoy it."

"Yeah. Exactly," Brice's voice picked up. "Because I didn't get to enjoy it at St. Joe's. My senior year ended with me on the bench, injured, watching us lose in the semis, fucking getting into fights with my coach and shit and the whole thing with Connie. I never got that moment, you know? That final game where I could leave everything on the field and walk away knowing I gave it everything."

"You feel like you have unfinished business."

"Not unfinished. Just... I want to do it right this time. I want to play every game like it's my last because it basically is. Fifteen games. Maybe less. That's nothing."

LaPenna set down his pen, folding his hands. "If you could go back, what would you do differently?"

Brice's throat tightened. "I don’t know. Be a better leader? A better brother? Who knows, if I’m not a dickhead, maybe we win that game, maybe we make a run to State and I get a chance to come back or even if I don’t, maybe Jimmy wins it all for us."

"You feel like you let your team down."

"I did let them down. "

Brice's breathing had quickened, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. He forced himself to relax, to breathe slower, to push back the tightness in his chest.

"So yeah," he said, his voice quieter now. "That's why I'm trying to enjoy this. The Rose Bowl. The playoff. All of it. Because I know exactly how fast it goes away. How quickly you run out of chances."

LaPenna leaned forward slightly. "It sounds like you're grieving something that hasn't happened yet."

Brice's eyes snapped up. "What?"

"You're already mourning the end of your college career. Before it's even over."

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe I am."

"Why do you think that is?"

Brice's hands pressed against his thighs. "Because I know how this ends. I've seen it with other guys. Shit, one day my dad was playing in front of eighty thousand people, the next he was just... done. And everyone moves on. They find the next guy to cheer for. The next name on the back of a jersey. And you're just supposed to be grateful you had your moment."

"Do you feel that? Grateful?"

"I do. I am," Brice corrected quickly. "I just... I want more time. I want to stretch it out. Make it last as long as possible because once it's gone, it's fucking gone, you know? There's no getting it back."

LaPenna nodded slowly. "What are you most afraid of losing?"

Brice’s mind raced through answers.

"The certainty," he heard himself say. "Right now, I know who I am."

The question sat between them, heavy and unanswerable. LaPenna didn't rush to fill the silence. He just let it exist, let Brice sit with the weight of what he'd just admitted.

"I don't want to be my dad," Brice continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t think he ever got to do the things he wanted to do in life. I don’t know, I can’t really tell if he’s really happy, you know? I feel like he’s always chasing something, something he’ll never find in me, in Jimmy, in…other people."

"You think that's what will happen."

"I think it happens to everyone eventually. You peak and then you spend the rest of your life trying to get back to that feeling. Chasing something that's already gone."

[Caesar]

"If I didn’t know how much you loved black pussy, I would call you a racist," Serena shook her head as she snatched the calamari from his hands, tossing it into her mouth.

Bro, stand the fuck up...

"Yeah, they’re a pretty good school. I went to a camp once down there in high school," Brice shook his head. "City's dirty as hell. Couldn’t pay me to live there."

This is a micro-aggression coming from Brice considering how he was raised and who he was raised by.

I see the play forming with Connie. She gonna try to snatch Skylar’s baby to replace her own, Kavern gonna have to OIS her ass.

LaPenna not pushing more on the fact he glossed over being a fucking father to keep talking about the Rose Bowl? -1 therapist points.

[redsox907]

City's dirty as hell. Couldn’t pay me to live there.

Connie slowly alienating herself by trying to chase the past. Curious she hasn't had any therapist scenes lately, she give that up too?

Serena doing anything she can to keep Brice's attention dear lord lmao

Also, LaPenna not only glossing over the fact that he quickly shifted talking about his son, but also glossed over the obvious Daddy issues

[Soapy]

"If I didn’t know how much you loved black pussy, I would call you a racist," Serena shook her head as she snatched the calamari from his hands, tossing it into her mouth.

Bro, stand the fuck up...

"Yeah, they’re a pretty good school. I went to a camp once down there in high school," Brice shook his head. "City's dirty as hell. Couldn’t pay me to live there."

This is a micro-aggression coming from Brice considering how he was raised and who he was raised by.

I see the play forming with Connie. She gonna try to snatch Skylar’s baby to replace her own, Kavern gonna have to OIS her ass.

LaPenna not pushing more on the fact he glossed over being a fucking father to keep talking about the Rose Bowl? -1 therapist points.

City's dirty as hell. Couldn’t pay me to live there.

Connie slowly alienating herself by trying to chase the past. Curious she hasn't had any therapist scenes lately, she give that up too?

Serena doing anything she can to keep Brice's attention dear lord lmao

Also, LaPenna not only glossing over the fact that he quickly shifted talking about his son, but also glossed over the obvious Daddy issues

#nooticer regarding Connie not attending sessions. more on that later.

Regarding LaPenna: not to pull a Caesar as those are valid criticisms, they are also intentional. It's been covered in the past how LaPenna has had to bend not only his usual approach to sessions but also his ethics, the most drastic example being Brice showing up drunk to sessions. The Purdue connection aside -- which is problematic in its own right -- LaPenna often picks and chooses his spots when to challenge and push Brice in order to avoid him retreating back into his shell or worse, stop showing to sessions which he's done in the past. I think that's where the interesting debate lies regarding LaPenna's approach. Is he enabling Brice by allowing him to be avoidant or is this better than pushing him and him not coming back at all?

In the last scene, he tries to veer the topic into fatherhood, Brice clams up so LaPenna allows Brice to continue talking about the game, eventually steering that topic back into more personal realm which is where the scene ends, not the session itself. This song and dance is consistent in their sessions.