Amber’s fingers tightened around nothing, feeling him shrink against her palm. She let go, her hand dropping to the mattress beside her hip. The sound of the frying pan scraping against the stove carried through the thin apartment walls.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Amber pushed herself up on her elbows, looking down at Brian’s face.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Amber sat up fully now, the sheet falling away from her chest. She gestured toward the bedroom door, toward the kitchen beyond it where the sounds of cooking continued. "I can’t keep living like this."
Brian’s hand came up to rub his face. “She’s just making breakfast.”
“She’s always just doing something,” Amber’s voice rose. “She’s always here. In the way. Taking up space.”
“She’s probably getting ready to go out,” Brian said, his voice flat. “You know, looking for a job? You do remember how hard that shit was, right?"
Amber’s hands curled into fists against the mattress.
“Why are you being so weird about her?”
Brian’s head turned slightly. “What?”
“You treat her like she’s some precious little thing,” Amber’s nails dug into her palms. “Like the bitch special or some shit."
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You’re just talking just to talk."
“No, I just want to know what’s so special about the little bitch,” Amber fired back. "I haven’t seen you treat nobody else like her, I can tell you that. The bitch gets the couch. Gets to stay as long as she wants. Free ride with her thousand yard stare and her innocent looking ass."
The sound of cabinet doors opening and closing filtered through the wall. Amber’s jaw clenched.
“I know you think she’s a virgin with her little schoolgirl outfit you found her in,” Amber continued. “But she probably ain’t even that so I don’t know what the fuck you’re waiting for. Can’t trust those private school girls. They’re the biggest ones.”
Brian shrugged.
“Whatever,” she said, already moving toward the bathroom. “Some of us have an actual fucking job to go to."
…
Mel’s footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. Most of the classroom doors stood open, revealing vacant seats and dark projection screens. The building felt abandoned, like everyone had evacuated for an emergency and forgotten to tell her.
She pushed through the door to her econ class. Three people sat scattered across the room. A guy in the front row who always asked questions. Two international students near the window, their notebooks already open. That was it.
Mel moved to her usual seat in the middle, dropping her backpack onto the chair beside her. The clock above the whiteboard read 9:58. Two minutes until class started. No one else was coming.
Professor Chen entered at exactly ten, his briefcase in one hand, coffee in the other. He stopped just inside the doorway, his eyes sweeping across the near-empty room. His eyebrows went up.
“Well,” he said finally, setting his briefcase on the desk. “This is disappointing but not surprising.”
The guy in the front row laughed. Professor Chen took a sip of his coffee, his expression settling into something between amused and resigned.
“I’m assuming everyone else is already getting the party started,” he continued, moving behind his desk to wake up his computer. “Which means you five are either very dedicated students or have no friends.”
“Both,” the front row guy said immediately.
Professor Chen smiled. “Fair enough.”
He clicked through something on his computer, then turned back to face them. “Given the circumstances, I’m going to make you all a deal. Everyone here gets ten points of extra credit just for showing up. And I’ll let you leave after thirty minutes.
Mel pulled out her laptop as Professor Chen launched into his lecture. His voice carried across the empty room, bouncing off the vacant seats. Mel typed notes mechanically, her fingers moving across the keyboard while her brain processed maybe half of what he was saying.
“Alright, that’s about all I can reasonably cover with this turnout. You’re free to go if you want. Or stay if you prefer. I’ll be here for another hour if anyone has questions.”
The front row guy immediately raised his hand. Of course he did.
The international students gathered their things, speaking quietly to each other as they headed for the door. Mel stayed in her seat, pulling out her textbook instead. She opened it to the chapter they were supposed to have read for today.
Professor Chen was answering the front row guy’s question. His voice faded into background noise as Mel’s eyes moved across the page. She highlighted a sentence. Then another. Her hand moved to her notebook, copying down definitions she probably wouldn’t remember next week.
The front row guy finally left. The room went quiet except for Professor Chen typing on his laptop and the occasional sound of a page turning as Mel worked through the reading.
She turned to the next page in her textbook. The words blurred slightly. She blinked, refocusing, and kept reading. The highlighter moved across another sentence. Her hand cramped slightly from gripping the pen too hard. She loosened her grip and kept going, letting herself sink into the monotony of the subject, welcoming the distraction of information that didn’t matter, problems that had clear solutions, a world that made sense.
…
Brice sat on the bench in front of his locker, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. The locker room pulsed around him. Bodies moving. Voices rising. The team captains stood near the center, Ahmad’s voice cutting through the noise.
Brice’s eyes stayed on the floor.
“I need you to ride with me tonight,” he said quietly as his right leg bounced. The words barely made it past his lips. "This one is going to be a fucking bitch."
Ahmad’s voice got louder. Brice’s fingers pressed harder together.
“I don’t know, bro,” he admitted to the floor, to the ghost that lived in his head, "I’m just not ready for this shit to be over. Not like this. I don’t want us to get blown out, turn into a pumpkin like everyone is thinking."
“What if I fuck it up?” his voice dropped even lower. "I can’t have a bad game, bro. Not tonight. Not like this."
The locker room was getting louder.
“Everyone’s watching,” Brice continued. "I don’t want to embarass myself, bro."
Justin appeared beside him, his hand coming down on Brice’s shoulder. Brice looked up. Justin’s face was set, focused.
“Let’s ride out one more time, cinco,” Justin said simply.
Brice nodded. He stood, his legs feeling unsteady. The team was forming up now, everyone moving toward the center. The captains were finishing their speech.
Brice grabbed his helmet from the top shelf of his locker. The weight of it in his hands was familiar. Comforting, even. He tucked it under his arm.
“Just help me get through this,” he said, so quiet that even Justin beside him couldn’t have heard it.
The team started moving as one toward the tunnel. The noise was deafening now. Everyone yelling, everyone hyped, everyone ready to run through a wall if that’s what it took.
Brice’s hand came up to his neck. He rolled his head to the left, feeling the vertebrae pop. Then to the right. The tightness in his shoulders loosened slightly. He took a breath in through his nose, held it, let it out slowly through his mouth.
His fingers found the chinstrap of his helmet. He slipped it on, the familiar pressure settling around his head. The world narrowed to what he could see through the facemask. His breathing echoed inside the helmet, steady and controlled.
Another breath. In. Out.
The lights at the end of the tunnel got brighter. The crowd noise became a wall of sound. His cleats clicked against the concrete with each step, keeping rhythm with the hundred other cleats around him.
The tunnel opened up. The stadium exploded. Seventy thousand people on their feet. He broke into a jog, then a run, his team spreading out around him as they took the field. The noise kept building, kept growing, kept pushing into him from all sides.
But inside the helmet, inside that space where only he existed, everything went quiet.
…
Nia pushed through the door, her feet dragging across the threshold. Brian sat on the couch, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his eyes locked on the TV. Amber occupied the armchair, still in her work clothes, a THC seltzer bottle in hand.
Nia closed the door behind her. Neither of them looked up.
“How’d it go?” Brian asked without turning around.
Nia opened the fridge. Nothing she wanted. She closed it. “Fine.”
“You get the job?”
“They said they’d call.”
Brian made a sound. Nia dropped her backpack beside the couch and sank into the cushions at the far end. The springs groaned under her weight. Brian’s lighter clicked. He held out the blunt toward her without looking away from the TV. She took it, the paper still warm from his lips.
Amber shifted in the chair, her eyes moving from the TV to Nia. “Another ‘trial shift’?"
Nia exhaled slowly. “Something like that.”
“I bet.” Amber stood, moving toward the kitchen. Glass clinked against glass. She returned with a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses, setting them on the coffee table.
Nia stared at the glasses. “I’m good.”
“Bitch,” Amber was already pouring, the clear liquid filling both glasses to the rim. “Get in on these shots. Only thing to do after a shitty day. Unless you want to end up on the news, eating a bullet."
The blunt burned between Nia’s fingers. She took another hit, holding it longer this time.
Brian’s attention stayed fixed on the TV. The announcers were breaking down Texas’s defensive line. Showing clips of previous games. Nia could see him in the background of one shot, his helmet off, talking to a coach.
Nia set the blunt in the ashtray and reached for the glass. The blanco burned going down, sharp and immediate. She set the empty glass back on the table.
Amber smiled, already refilling it. “There you go.”
Nia grabbed the second shot. The burn was worse this time, or maybe she just noticed it more. Her throat protested. She swallowed hard, forcing it down.
“That’s my girl.” Amber poured again.
“Brian, you want one?” Amber asked.
“Nah.” His eyes didn’t leave the screen.
Nia reached for the third shot before Amber could push it toward her. The tequila was already starting to work, softening the edges of the day. The interview where the manager had looked at her like she was stupid for even applying. The trial shift where they’d had her scrubbing toilets for four hours before telling her they’d call her.
The fourth shot went down easier. The fifth shot made her eyes water. She blinked hard, reaching for the blunt again. The room tilted slightly. She closed her eyes, letting it wash over her. The TV showed the coin toss. Players gathering at midfield. Brice stood among them, his helmet under his arm, his face serious.
The tequila didn’t burn anymore. Didn’t taste like anything. Just went down smooth and easy and made everything softer. Made the apartment less suffocating. Made Amber’s presence less grating. Made Jimmy’s absence less like a wound that wouldn’t close.
“Come on, baby,” Brian said suddenly, sitting up straighter. “Let’s hit these fucking parlays."
Nia reached for another shot. The bottle was lighter now. How much had they gone through? She couldn’t remember. Didn’t want to remember. Just wanted to keep drinking until she couldn’t feel anything anymore. Until today dissolved. Until tomorrow seemed impossibly far away. Until she could exist in this moment where nothing was required of her except sitting here, drinking, watching a game she didn’t care about, surrounded by people who didn’t care about her.
The tequila kept flowing. Amber kept pouring. Nia kept drinking.
The room spun slowly, gently, like she was on a carousel that never stopped. She leaned back into the couch cushions, her body sinking deeper, her eyes struggling to focus on the screen. Nia closed her eyes. The darkness felt better than the light. The silence in her head felt better than the noise. The numbness felt better than everything else.
She reached for another shot.
…
Brice’s cleats dug into the turf as he moved toward midfield. The stadium noise pressed against his eardrums, seventy thousand voices creating a wall of sound. His eyes swept across the field, past the officials gathering at the fifty, past his own teammates flanking him, toward the Texas sideline.
Derek stood there among a cluster of Longhorns, his helmet dangling from one hand. Their eyes met. Derek’s mouth curved into that same fucking smirk from the green room. Derek’s smirk widened. He said something to the player beside him, his eyes never leaving Brice’s face. The other player laughed.
Brice’s vision narrowed. The crowd noise faded to white static. He took a step forward before catching himself, forcing his feet to stop.
The referee was calling for the captains. Ahmad touched Brice’s shoulder, pulling his attention away. Brice turned, his eyes dragging away from Derek’s face, and moved toward the center of the field where the officials waited.
The coin flip happened. Brice heard the call but didn’t process it. The officials were gesturing, explaining something. Brice nodded without hearing the words. His teammates started moving back toward the sideline. He turned to follow, his eyes finding the Texas sideline again.
Derek was still watching him. Still smirking.
Brice stopped walking. His chest rose and fell, his breathing coming harder now, faster. His hand came up slowly. He pointed toward the sky, his finger extended, his arm straight.
“Let’s ride, Jimmy,” he said to no one.
…
LaPenna set down his fork, reaching for his water glass. The condensation had left a ring on the wooden table. Lois would mention it later.
“How was everyone’s Monday?” Lois asked, passing the salad bowl to Malcolm.
Malcolm took it, spooning greens onto his plate. “Fine. Had a calc exam. Pretty sure I bombed it.”
“You always say that,” Francis said from across the table. “Then you get an A.”
“Not this time.”
Reese was already halfway through his second helping of chicken. He swallowed before speaking. "It was alright until Coach decided to make it a long run day."
“You’ll be complaining once the season’s done,” Lois said, smiling at him.
Jane pushed food around her plate, her fork making small circles through the mashed potatoes. She looked up, her eyes moving from her mother to her brothers.
“We should watch the game,” she said.
LaPenna’s hand stilled on his glass.
“Oh yeah,” Malcolm nodded, "It’s tonight, isn’t it?"
“Yeah,” Jane’s fork kept moving. "There was like barely any people in my classes today."
“We can finish eating in the living room,” Lois said, already standing. “A little school spirit. That’s a great idea, hon."
The boys moved immediately, grabbing their plates. LaPenna stood last, carrying his plate and glass into the living room where Reese was already turning on the TV. The game came into view. The camera panned across the field, showing players getting ready for the kickoff. Then the camera found him. Brice stood near the sideline, his helmet off, talking to another player.
LaPenna settled into his chair, his plate balanced on his lap. His eyes stayed on the screen.
“He’s in one of my classes,” Jane said, her voice flat.
Malcolm turned to look at her. “For real? What’s he like?”
Jane took a bite of chicken, chewing slowly. She swallowed before answering.
“Forgettable, honestly. They all sort of blend together like zebras or something.”
LaPenna’s mouth twitched. The smirk came and went quickly. He brought his fork to his mouth, his eyes returning to the television where Brice was jogging toward the center of the field.
…
Brice saw him as soon as he pulled the ball from Jaheim’s bell, George sprinting free across the secondary. Brice planted his feet and let the ball rip, not overthinking it as the pigskin left his finger tips. It fell right into George’s gloves as he turned up field, splitting the two Texas defenders as he tumbled into the endzone.
Brice’s eyes immediately scanned the field, finding the number three jersey in burnt orange.
"Talk that shit now, bitch boy!" Brice screamed at Derek who slowly turned around.
"Niggas still gonna flip your bitch after this, fuck nigga!" Derek spat back at him.
An official turned his head towards them. Brice moved closer to Derek, lowering his voice.
"I would say the same about yours but she’s probably some bonnet wearing, Walmart shopping, ghetto booger."
"Fuck you, hoe ass nigga," Derek pushed Brice away as a smirk spread across Brice’s face as he turned around and started running to celebrate with his teammates.
…
"Fuck off my field, trash ass White boy!"
Brice ignored the comment as he did indeed jog the fuck off the field, looking up at the jumbotron in the endzone as the punting unit came out onto the field.
…
"Goddamn it!" Tom muttered to himself as the stadium erupted, drowning the groans from Purdue’s smaller section of fans, "Can’t buy a fucking stop."
Liz shot him a look. He ignored it. Sophie stifled her laugh.
"We’re going to need your boy to put on that Superman cape tonight," a nearby fan told Tom.
Tom quietly nodded, the realization dawning on him as he looked towards Purdue’s sideline where Brice was warming up. Sophie rolled her eyes, taking out her phone.
…
Brice had barely had time to sit down and check his tablet for clips of the previous drive when the stadium erupted again. Another Texas touchdown. He stowed the tablet away, replacing it with his helmet. He glanced over to the blue tent where Justin was limping out of it, his right cleat off, his ankle heavily tapped with ice bags underneath.
"Fuck it," he muttered to himself.
…
This game wasn’t going to be won with field goals. That’s what went through Brice’s head as he stared the defense down. The ball was at the goal line and yet the running game was out of the question. This was likely two down territory although this was as good of a time as any to punch it in. They couldn’t afford to walk away with three points, let alone zero.
Brice received the snap and stared at Corey the entire time, waiting for him to cross the linebacker’s face. The linebacker took a tiny step forward and that’s all the space Brice needed as he fired the ball in with so much velocity that Corey fell as he caught it.
Brice jumped to see over the offensive line, to see if Corey came down with it. He couldn’t see him but he could see the nearest official, holding two arms up.
Touchdown.
"I’m still here, bitch!" Brice screamed into the unsuspecting ear of a Texas defensive lineman, who pushed him away.
…
Liz’s fists were clenched as she looked down on the field, her eyes fixated on number five. Part of her wanted him to hand it off. Take the burden off himself. Let someone else deal with the pressure of this ever increasing cauldron. But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.
Her eyes followed him as he took the snap, drifting back into the pocket before finding his running back in the endzone. The crowd erupted in unison around her as she found herself engulfed by a sea of black.
"Yes!" she screamed, her hand finding Tom’s arm as she began to shake it.
Tom let out a deep breath as he looked onto the scoreboard. One point game.
…
Brice rushed onto the field, his helmet still in his hands as he hurried to the huddle. The defense was still in the endzone, celebrating their turnover. Brice waved him off, eager to get back to work, eager to take the lead.
He looked up at the time. Five minutes left in the third quarter. A touchdown here and then it’s a quarter. A quarter to be champions. A quarter to be immortal.
The offense got set, two running backs flanking Brice, none of them Justin. Brice took the snap and read the inside linebacker who bit on the handoff action as Brice quickly pulled the ball out, dumping it out to Jaheim who had gone out into the flat. The ball was slightly behind him but he adjusted, turning up field and went into the endzone before being tackled by Derek.
"Let’s fucking go!" Brice pumped his fist so hard that he felt a strain in his shoulder.
…
Brice held his breath as he handed the ball off, unsure if Jaheim had expected the handoff. Almost all of the RPOs had turned into play actions but the defense had peeled off near the goal line, closing all of the passing lane.
Jaheim secured the ball and followed the pulling guard who placed a Texas player on his ass. Jaheim barreled forward, making contact near the goal line with a linebacker.
"Get in," Brice muttered to himself as Jaheim kept driving his feet forward, "Get in!"
…
The ball went through the uprights as Brice grabbed his helmet, slipping it on as he stood to his feet. He looked up at the scoreboard. 40-35. 3:32 remaining.
"Come on, bro," Brice muttered to himself, "One more drive, brother."
…
Brice squirted some water into his mouth as he looked up at a replay of the previous play, right before the two minute warning. This drive had been a success by all accounts, flipping field position and making Texas use up all of their timeouts with the ball on the 26-yard line. A field goal made it an eight point game. A first down would ice it.
"What do you like here?" Coach Henson asked Brice. "Drop back?"
Brice took another swig from the water bottle. A run play. A simple run play. No harm, no foul. Run some more clock. Kick a field goal. He had done his part. More than enough. The whole offense on his back. He had gotten them here. It was their turn to finish it off.
"Empty," Brice nodded, "Put it in my hands."
…
Weight pressed down on her. That was the first thing Nia registered. Weight on her chest, on her legs, pinning her against something soft. The couch. She was on the couch.
Her eyes wouldn’t open. She tried. Commanded them to lift, to see. They stayed shut, heavy as stones. The tequila still moved through her blood, keeping her trapped somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.
Something moved against her. Rhythmic. Insistent. Her body rocked with it.
Grunting. Close to her ear. Hot breath against her neck.
“That’s right, fuck that bitch,” Amber’s voice cut through the fog. “The little bitch is taking that shit like a good bitch."
Nia’s brain struggled to process the words. The weight shifted. Something pushed inside her. Pain bloomed sharp and immediate, cutting through the alcohol haze like a knife.
Nia’s eyes flew open. The ceiling spun above her. Brian’s face appeared in her vision, his features distorted, his mouth open. His body moved on top of hers. Inside hers.
Stop.
The word formed in her head but wouldn’t reach her mouth. Her lips wouldn’t move. Her throat had closed. Her body lay there, limbs heavy and useless. She tried to move. Her arm responded sluggishly, lifting slightly before falling back to the couch. Her legs wouldn’t respond at all.
Brian’s grunting got louder. His hands gripped her hips. The pain intensified.
This wasn’t happening. This was a nightmare. She was still passed out. Still unconscious. She would wake up in a moment and everything would be fine. But the pain was real. The weight was real. Brian’s breath on her face was real.
“Come on, daddy,” Amber’s voice urged. “Give her that fucking dick."
Nia’s eyes burned. She squeezed them shut, trying to retreat back into unconsciousness. Back into the darkness where she didn’t have to feel this. Didn’t have to know this was happening.
Nia’s eyes clenched tighter. If she couldn’t see it, maybe it wasn’t real. If she went back to sleep, maybe she’d wake up somewhere else. Some other life. Some other version of herself that hadn’t ended up here.
But sleep wouldn’t come. The pain kept her tethered to consciousness. The couch cushion pressed against her back. The TV still played somewhere in the background. Nia’s stomach turned. She tried to speak. Tried to scream. Nothing came out except a small whimper that got lost in Brian’s grunting.
His movements got faster. More erratic. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise.
Please stop. Please stop. Please stop.
The words cycled through her head on repeat. A prayer to no one. To nothing. To the darkness that wouldn’t take her back.
***
