Damaged Petals.

[redsox907]

911 call from Amber, after Brian was done raping her?

Def not Connie. She can't take the sudden stop until she realizes she ain't finding her baby

[Soapy]

Fuck Brice. Bitch ass.

So who going to the upper room with a stomach full of pills or because they went down the street? Nia or Connie? Soapy Perry take says Nia but Connie can’t be ruled out

Just feels so... wrong.


Never beating the RPO merchant allegations. Stay in that pocket if you ain't scared.

what exactly did you want me to do with Purdue's offensive line and Texas' 90 across the board defensive line, gang?

the playcalling on both sides of the ball in the final 2 minutes was gross
congrats on the natty
Nia offing herself in her parents house so her mom had to find her is diabolical

911 call from Amber, after Brian was done raping her?

Def not Connie. She can't take the sudden stop until she realizes she ain't finding her baby

we shall see

[Soapy]

Season 7, Episode 2
The monotonous lecture on algebraic equations faded into background noise as Nia’s phone vibrated against her thigh. She slid it out just enough to see the notification: “hithere.skylar posted to their story.” Her finger hovered over the screen for a split second before she pulled the phone fully onto her lap, angling it away from prying teacher eyes.

Skylar’s story loaded: a sun-drenched image of her standing beside a teal and orange food truck, a baby propped on her hip. His chubby fingers reached toward the camera, tiny mouth open in what looked like delight. “Food truck Friday with my little man! #momlife #babyboy”

Nia’s thumb lingered over the image until it disappeared, replaced by another shot of James in his stroller, a tiny hat shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Nia, perhaps you’d like to share with the class what’s so fascinating on your phone?”

Nia’s head snapped up, heat rushing to her face as she quickly tucked her phone away.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, not meeting the teacher’s stern gaze.

But even as she pretended to focus on the equations scrawled across the whiteboard, her mind stayed with that little boy’s face, those curious eyes that seemed to look right through the screen at her.

...

“Hand me that Phillips head,” Tom said, gesturing toward the toolbox while holding the safety gate in position at the bottom of the stairs.

Brice dug through the jumbled tools and passed the screwdriver to his father. "Is he even crawling yet?"

“Trust me, they go from stationary to everywhere,” Tom tightened the final screw and tested the gate with a firm shake. “Better to have it ready than rushing it in place.”

Brice surveyed the transformed living room: corners covered with foam protectors, cabinets secured with childproof locks, a playpen already assembled in the corner. His childhood home now prepared for someone else’s child. Well, his child.

"How’s it looking on your end?" Tom asked, packing up the tools.

“Almost done. Just need to attach the mobile thing,” Brice ran a hand through his hair.

Tom leaned against the wall, studying his son. “Not exactly how you pictured it, is it?"

"Yeah, not exactly," Brice scoffed.

“Look,” Tom set the toolbox down. “This situation isn’t ideal, obvious. Skylar wasn’t your pick. She wouldn’t be mine either. I get that. But at this point in time, honestly, you’ve got two choices: resent the situation or make something good out of it.”

Brice looked away. “I know.”

“When life throws you an option route you didn’t call, you still got to make the read and execute,” Tom clapped him on the shoulder. “And I’ve never known you to miss a read when it counts. Well, except for that third down. I mean, what were you even looking at? Almost fucked the game away.”

...

“This is ridiculous, Skylar. We agreed you’d take one semester off to adjust, not drop out entirely.” Mrs. Hayes paced the kitchen, her coffee growing cold on the counter.

Skylar bounced James gently in her arms, trying to keep him from fussing during what went from a side comment at breakfast to a twenty-minute argument. “Mom, do you have any idea how hard all of this is? The last thing I need right know is to be stressing about some paper or an exam coming up. It’ll just be a waste of time and a waste of my energy."

“A waste of time?” her father looked up from his phone. "You leaving school after we’ve already paid for four semesters would be a waste of money."

“Obviously, I didn’t know I was going to be here with this,” Skylar slightly held James up.

Her mother stopped pacing, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “And how exactly do you plan to support yourself and James?"

"I’m sure that won’t be an issue for us.”

Mr. and Mrs. Hayes exchanged knowing looks.

“Honey,” her mother tried to softened her voice but there was still some bite to it, “You cannot bank your entire future on that little boy and I’m not talking about the one you’re holding. What if he gets injured? What if—“

"Mom, get a grip, please,” Skylar snapped. “Brice could not play another down of football and he’d still have made more money than anyone in this family. We’ll be fine."

Her father set his phone down with a decisive thud. “This is exactly why you need an education. So you never have to depend on anyone else’s money or goodwill.”

“I’m not having this conversation again,” Skylar grabbed the diaper bag from the counter. “James needs a nap, and I need to not be here right now.”

“Running away doesn’t change reality,” her mother called after her.

“Neither does taking Statistics 101,” Skylar muttered as she slammed the door behind her.

...

“In Hinduism, the soul, or atman, is believed to be eternal,” Mr. Winters explained, his chalk tapping against the board as he wrote. “When the physical body dies, the soul is reborn into a new body. This cycle of death and rebirth is called samsara.”

Nia barely registered the words, her thumb scrolling through Skylar’s Instagram feed. She’d gone back nearly a year now, watching as Skylar’s pregnancy progressed in reverse. James getting smaller in the photos, disappearing back into his mother’s growing belly.

“The type of rebirth depends on karma, the accumulated effects of one’s actions in this and previous lives,” Mr. Winters continued.

Nia paused on a photo of Skylar in the hospital, holding newborn James for the first time. His tiny face scrunched and red, eyes barely open. Something about those eyes.

“Some believe that souls can recognize each other across different lifetimes. People we feel immediately connected to might be souls we’ve known before.”

Nia looked up.

“In some traditions, it’s believed a soul can choose to return quickly after death, especially if they feel their purpose was unfinished or if they have strong attachments to those still living.”

Nia’s phone slipped slightly in her grip. She glanced back down at the post.

“How soon?” The question surprised herself.

Mr. Winters paused, surprised by her engagement, having not heard her voice before. "Come again?"

“How soon could someone...” she swallowed. “After they die, how soon could they be reborn?”

“Some traditions believe it can happen almost immediately,” he replied. “Others suggest a period of reflection in between lives.”

Nia nodded, her eyes drifting back to her phone.

...

The drive took twenty-three minutes. She parked across the street from a modest two-story home with blue shutters and a basketball hoop in the driveway. A tricycle lay abandoned on the lawn. Maybe they had older children. Maybe they couldn’t have any more of their own.

Minutes stretched into hours as Connie sat watching, rehearsing what she might say, what she could say. The afternoon sun slid toward the horizon. Neighbors walked dogs. Mail was delivered. The house remained still.

The streetlights flickered on. A minivan pulled into the driveway. A woman emerged first, then a man, both in their thirties.The man opened the sliding door, and a small hand appeared.

Connie’s throat closed. The family had already disappeared inside. Connie’s hand went to her car handle then froze.

What was she doing? What would she even say?

Reality crashed down. Connie yanked her hand back as if burned.

“What am I doing?” she sobbed. “What am I doing?”

She drove away with blurred vision, the image of that little hand, that little profile, burned into her mind.

...

“We look okay,” Brice leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. "I mean, I was worried this time last year and look where we ended up but this year, I don’t know, I feel like it’s lowkey going to be even harder."

LaPenna nodded.

“We’ve got guys who barely saw the field last year feeling like they won something. Now they’re up, it’s their turn and they think they’ve already arrived.”

"What about you? Do you feel that way?"

Brice shook his head. “No. I mean, yeah, obviously I was part of last year’s team, a big part of it. But I also know how hard it was and how last year’s team can’t win any games for this year’s team. If anything, we’re not sneaking up on anybody anymore. That’s for sure. Purdue, winning a natty in football? That’s some video game shit and even if you did that in a video game, your friends would think you changed everyone’s ratings or something, call you a cheater or say you cheesed."

LaPenna made a note on his pad. “So what’s your goal for this season?”

“Another championship, obviously,” Brice’s answer came quickly.

“Obviously,” LaPenna echoed, his tone neutral. “And beyond that?”

Brice’s gaze drifted to the window, where late afternoon sunlight slanted across the campus. “It’s my last ride, you know? Last chance to show the scouts what I can do. I’m not just some RPO merchant. I can stand in the pocket, read a defense, execute the offense. I know I’m good, everyone knows that, NFL good even but it’s all about making the case to be the top guy and there can only be one of those, you know?"

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”

“It’s the job,” Brice shrugged. “Pressure is privilege. My dad always told me that."

LaPenna set his notepad aside. “And off the field? What does next year look like there?”

The rhythm of Brice’s breathing changed slightly, a hesitation before he answered. “I’m figuring it out. Working on being more present for James, especially in the offseason with the more laxed schedule. Trying to make things work better with Skylar.”

“That’s what you think you should say,” LaPenna observed, leaning forward. “But what do you actually want, Brice? Not what you think you should want.”

Brice shrugged. “What I want doesn’t really matter at this point, does it?"

“Of course what you want matters. It’s your life.”

Brice fell silent, staring at his hands.

“Let me ask you something,” LaPenna continued. “When you picture your ideal situation with James and Skylar, what does it look like? And don’t give me the greeting card answer or what you think I want to hear or what your mom wants to hear from you.”

The seconds stretched into a full minute before Brice responded. “I don’t know if such a thing exists,” he admitted quietly. “I’d like to want to be a dad and obviously that would mean being on good terms with Skylar, working as a team. I just can’t move past it, you know? Not really. Yeah, we’ll have a couple of good days, she’ll send me some pictures of him doing some shit and I’ll like it or whatever but some days? I just feel trapped, you know?"

LaPenna didn’t rush to fill the silence.

“Trapped by what?”

Brice let out a dry laugh. “Everything. Being tied to Skylar forever. It’s like every decision I make now has somebody else attached to it. I just signed the deal of my life, for now at least, and the entire time I’m thinking how much of this shit is going to her.”

“And that feels suffocating.”

“Yeah.”

LaPenna nodded once. “Do you resent them for that?”

Brice’s head came up fast. “What kind of monster resents their kid?"

“I didn’t ask if you resent James,” LaPenna said calmly, although he knew the answer to that question too. “I asked if you resent them, the situation, the permanence of it, what it’s done to the way you imagined your life.”

Brice looked up at the ceiling.

"Sometimes,” he admitted.

LaPenna let that sit between them.

“And what do you do with that feeling when it comes up?”

Brice exhaled through his nose. “Depends on what day it is, honestly. Sometimes I won’t answer her text scheduling the next whatever the fuck. Sometimes I act like she didn’t send me some receipt for some shit that she needs to pay for. And sometimes I just go workout or find some lucky lady."

“Have you ever just sat with it?"

Brice sighed. "Now why would I do that, Doc?"

“Are you afraid? Of what you’ll find? If you just sat there."

Brice didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the window, but he wasn’t really looking at anything outside.

“That maybe I’m not who everybody thinks I am,” he said finally. “Or, maybe I’m exactly what some people think I am. Nobody wants to be a dick, you know? Like no one wakes up wanting to be a dick or selfish or self centered or a narcissist or whatever the fuck else people think I am."

“You can’t build trust with James or Skylar by performing,” LaPenna told him. “You build it by being honest, first with yourself, then with them.”

“So what, I’m supposed to tell Skylar I feel trapped? Didn’t exactly work out swimmingly the first time. ”

“I’m asking whether you’ve been honest enough with yourself to understand what that word means.”

Brice stared at the ground.

“Does trapped mean you don’t want them,” LaPenna asked, “or does it mean you’re grieving the life you thought you’d have?”

Brice looked back at him.

"I never thought about it like that.”

"That’s why I’m sitting where I’m sitting and you’re sitting where you’re sitting."

"Fuck off," Brice laughed, "I don’t know, I guess the second. I didn’t exactly plan on being a dad, not like this, not right now, not with her."

LaPenna gave a small nod. “There’s a difference between acceptance and adaptation. At some point, Brice, you’re going to have to do both."

The room went quiet again.

“How do I do that?"

LaPenna laughed. “That’s like someone asking you how to win a national championship. It’s not something you just do like cleaning your room or going grocery shopping. You start by being honest with yourself, really honest. Whatever those feelings are, process them."

Brice sat with that.

“And once you stop treating those feelings like something shameful or something that you need to lash out against someone with,” LaPenna added, “You’ll have a better chance of deciding who you want to be instead of just reacting to them."

Brice nodded slowly, "Like a five-year old."

[djp73]

who died?
connie's kid?

[Soapy]

who died?

similar to the first episode of this series, it's a teaser of a later scene that will occur this season.

Season 1, Episode 1

"Interview subject: Connie Gardner. Time: 2:17 AM, October 6th." Detective Rochester clicked the recorder on, its red light pulsing in the otherwise dim room.

[djp73]

- boy here we go

[Captain Canada]

I’m not just some RPO merchant. I can stand in the pocket, read a defense, execute the offense.

Nia a lil stalker, huh

[Caesar]

Brice just needs to accept he is only ever going to be a deadbeat. Skylar also needs to accept this.

[Soapy]

- boy here we go

let's get to it brudda

I’m not just some RPO merchant. I can stand in the pocket, read a defense, execute the offense.

Nia a lil stalker, huh

Brice ready to show yall who he is

Brice just needs to accept he is only ever going to be a deadbeat. Skylar also needs to accept this.

Ain't no growth there

pause

[Soapy]

bump