Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Season 11, Episode 10 (Season Finale)
"I’m just saying," Jordan said from the kitchen, "Some collard greens would bust right now."

"Where are you getting soul food in West Lafayette? Good soul food," Mel argued back.

“There’s that place on Chauncey."

“That’s a barbecue spot.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“It is not the same thing,” she sat up and pulled the blanket around her shoulders.

The apartment was cold. Jordan kept the thermostat at sixty-five, which she’d already told him was insane.

“Barbecue is barbecue. Soul food is soul food. There is no soul food in West Lafayette. There are no Black people in West Lafayette.”

“Nigga, we’re in West Lafayette," he came around the corner with a glass of water. He was wearing the same sweatpants from last night and so was she. He set the water on the coffee table in front of her and dropped onto the couch next to her, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers through the blanket.

"We don’t count. I know your ass ain’t never cooked no fucking collard greens."

“Okay,” he said. “Chinese.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“Some General Tso chicken. A little egg roll action. Some lo mein.”

“See, that’s the problem.” She set the glass down. “You just named the three whitest things on a Chinese menu.”

“Those are the three best things on a Chinese menu.”

“Because you’ve never had real Chinese food.”

"If we ain’t got no fucking Black people here, you think we got Chinese?"

She laughed. She tried to catch it pressing her hand against her mouth but it came anyway which made him laugh. She shoved his shoulder. He shoved her back. She took the blanket and threw it over his head.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.

“Oh shit,” she said. She sat up straight, the blanket falling off her shoulders. “The draft is starting. Put on ESPN.”

Jordan reached for the remote on the arm of the couch and held it up without pressing anything.

“I thought you thought sports were dumb.”

“I do think sports are dumb.”

He shrugged as he turned the TV on and then navigated to ESPN.

“One of my friends might get drafted tonight,” she said.

Jordan looked at her. Then at the TV. Then back at her.

“From Purdue?”

She nodded.

“The quarterback?”

She nodded again.

“Oh shit,” he sat up. “You can get us some tickets then if he goes to the Colts?”

…

The answer was either Lisbon or Porto and Connie wrote down Lisbon then crossed it out and wrote Porto, then crossed that out too and left it blank.

"Which of these countries does not have a coastline on the Mediterranean Sea?”

“Jordan,” Reese said to the group without looking up.

“Jordan has the Dead Sea,” Maya responded quickly.

“Does it count?”

“It’s not the Mediterranean.”

“Then Jordan.”

Connie wrote it down. The trivia host was up at the front with the microphone, a guy in a Notre Dame sweatshirt who kept making jokes nobody laughed at. The table next to theirs had a pitcher of beer and they’d been loud since round one.

Maya’s sorority friend, the one whose name Connie kept forgetting, was on her phone, her thumb moving across the screen, not really helping. She’d gotten the capital of Burkina Faso earlier, which seemed like about the only contribution they were going to get from her.

“What is the largest island in the world?”

“Greenland,” Reese said.

“Greenland is not a country.”

“It’s still an island.”

“Is it?”

“Greenland,” Connie said. She wrote it down.

The groan came from the bar first. Then the boos. A ripple of noise that moved through the cluster of people standing near the television mounted above the liquor shelf. Someone said something Connie couldn’t make out. Someone else laughed.

She looked up.

The camera had found him. Sitting in a chair, his suit jacket open, the St. Joe’s jersey underneath catching the studio light. His hair was a bit longer. He was looking at something off-camera, his finger tapping against his knee in that way he used to do during exams.

She was beside him. Her hand on his shoulder. Her posture straight, her chin lifted just slightly.

Something moved across Connie’s face. She felt it before she could stop it.

She looked back at the trivia sheet.

The answer to number eight was still Greenland. She picked up her drink and took a sip.

…

The green room was louder than he expected. The lights were brighter too. Brice sat with his back straight, his hands on his knees, and tried to keep his breathing even.

His finger tapped against his knee. He didn’t notice it until Serena’s hand came down on his shoulder. He turned to face her. He smiled. Leaned in. Her lips were soft and quick against his, and then he was looking at the stage again.

The commissioner had just finished. The Cardinals had taken Jeremiah Levy with the second pick. The crowd was still cheering, the noise washing through the arena and spilling into the green room through the speakers.

Rowan’s phone buzzed on the table.

Brice watched him look down. Watched him read whatever was on the screen. Watched him nod.

The breath came out of him before he knew he’d been holding it. His chest loosened and his shoulders dropped and he could feel his heartbeat in his throat, in his wrists, in the tips of his fingers.

Everyone at the table looked at each other.

“They kept their pick?” Tom asked. He was looking up at the stage, squinting through the bright lights, trying to make out the logo on the podium. His hand was flat on the table, his wedding ring catching the light.

Brice’s phone rang.

He stood up. His legs felt wobbly. He grabbed onto the back of the chair for balance. He pulled the phone from his inside pocket and looked down at the screen.

A single tear came. He didn’t wipe it. It rolled down his cheek and he could feel it hit the corner of his mouth.

He answered the call.

“Hey Brice, this is Darren Mougey.”

…

“With the third pick in the 2029 NFL Draft, the New York Jets select Brice Colton, quarterback, Purdue.”

Tom grabbed him first, both arms around his shoulders, pulling him in tight, and Brice could feel his father’s body shaking against his. Liz was next, her arms around his neck, her face pressed against his cheek, and he could feel her tears mixing with his. Sophie came in from the side, her arms around his waist, and he pulled her in with one arm and held her there.

Serena was last. She handed James to Liz and she stepped into him and he wrapped both arms around her and lifted her off the ground, just for a second, and she laughed into his neck and he laughed too, the sound coming out wet and broken.

Barry Odom was at the next table, already on his feet, clapping, his face split open in a grin. Ilyssa was typing something on her phone. Rowan was already on his, talking fast, his hand cupped around the mouthpiece.

Brice pulled back from Serena and looked towards James, grabbing him from Liz. The next breath came out shaky and he let it as James settled against his chest.

Someone from the league was at his elbow, a woman in a headset, guiding him toward the hallway. She looked at James, then at Brice, and smiled. Brice nodded without hearing what she said. He shifted James higher against his chest and started walking.

The first person he passed was a security guard who clapped him on the shoulder and said something he didn’t catch. Then a producer with a clipboard who held out a hand and Brice shook it and kept walking. A man in a suit he didn’t recognize said congratulations and Brice nodded and said thanks and his voice cracked on the word.

The hallway narrowed. The noise from the green room faded behind him, replaced by the hum of the arena, the crowd somewhere above and ahead, the bass of the music vibrating through the floor. The lights were dimmer here, the walls bare, the carpet dark. He could see his own shadow stretching out in front of him, long and thin, moving with each step. James shifted against his chest, and Brice tightened his arm around him.

He was alone now. Just him and James. And Jimmy.

The station was halfway down. A small table with a single lamp, the hat sitting in the center under the light. Green and white. The Jets logo stitched across the front. He picked it up and turned it in his hands. The brim was stiff.

He held it up and looked at it. Then he set it on top of James’ head, practically covering the entirety of it. Brice laughed. James laughed too.

He could see the end of the tunnel now. The light was pouring in from the stage, white and blinding, and at the far end he could make out the shape of Roger Goodell standing at the podium, the jersey held up in front of him, the crowd beyond him a wall of noise and movement.

They stood there for a second.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He took a breath. He let it out. He stepped forward, carrying his son into the light.

[Caesar]

God is good all the time and all the time God is good. Let the church say amen.

This fn going to the Jets is proof of divine power because his ass about to get run out the league in 4-5 years playing for them. Get ready to learn UFL, fn!

[Captain Canada]

Liz calling her own son a slut to his girlfriends face is comedy gold.

The Jets? Nigga ew.

[djp73]

Savior or Wilson 2.0?

[redsox907]

Brice Colton in New York gonna keep the tabloids fed for generations

Hell of a ride brodie. You already dragged bum ass Purdue to a Natty. Time to get your Namath on and drag the Jets to the SB

[Soapy]

God is good all the time and all the time God is good. Let the church say amen.

This fn going to the Jets is proof of divine power because his ass about to get run out the league in 4-5 years playing for them. Get ready to learn UFL, fn!

We ain't duck no smoke

Liz calling her own son a slut to his girlfriends face is comedy gold.

The Jets? Nigga ew.

My first reaction as a Pats fan but drip wise, great potential for aura farming

Savior or Wilson 2.0?

that fake mormon could never

Brice Colton in New York gonna keep the tabloids fed for generations

Hell of a ride brodie. You already dragged bum ass Purdue to a Natty. Time to get your Namath on and drag the Jets to the SB

[Soapy]

Season 12, Episode 1
"If we go backside, we just have to make sure there isn’t an overhang working towards boundary," Musgrave said, motioning with his hands, a clipboard tucked under his arm. "If we’ve got numbers front side, then yeah, just get it out there."

Brice nodded as he wiped his brow with the back of his wrist, his helmet hanging from his left hand.

The field around them was still busy. Rookies and second-year guys mostly, a few vets scattered through. Coaches moved along the perimeter, heading back towards the facility. Media lined the far sideline, notebooks out.

Musgrave tapped the clipboard against Brice’s chest. “Good day overall. We’ll clean that up.”

The whistle blew. Sharp, two-tone, cutting through everything.

Brice fell in with the other quarterbacks. Jordan was already there, toweling off his face, and Ben came jogging over from the far field where he’d been working with some of the receivers. The specialists grouped up with them. Two kickers, a punter, a long snapper, a holder.

"First group up!" the strength coach called out.

Brice lined up on the far hash. The whistle blew again and he went.

He won it easy. Three yards ahead of the nearest teammate by the time he crossed the line. They stood around catching their breath while the next groups went. The skill guys first. Then the mids. Linebackers, tight ends, defensive ends. Brice watched them from the sideline, arms crossed, still breathing hard.

The big guys went last.

Second round. QBs and specialists again. Brice won it again.

The whistle blew for the third round. Brice jogged over to the mids group instead.

Kyle saw him coming. The linebacker was bent over, hands on his knees, still recovering from his last sprint. He straightened up when Brice lined up beside him.

"Fuck out of here, rook," Kyle waved him off, "Go run with the kickers, man. That’s your people."

Brice ignored him and lined up.

"He wants to run with the big boys," Joseph, one of the defensive ends, cackled.

Kyle laughed. Brice watched as the first group came back, Jordan leading the charge.

The whistle.

Brice pushed off hard. He felt like he was in the middle of a herd, running across the safari. He pumped his arms and his legs, keeping pace with the middle of the pack as he crossed the finish line. He turned around. Kyle was still running.

"You sure those ain’t your people?" Brice cracked a smile towards Kyle who finished about third to last.

Kyle gave him a half smile before putting his hands on his head, catching his breath.

Fourth round. Brice beat him again. The gap was smaller this time, half a stride instead of a full one.

Fifth round. Kyle got him. Pulled ahead at the forty-yard mark and held it, crossing the line a step and a half in front. Brice felt his hamstrings tighten on the last ten yards.

Sixth round. Brice was last. Dead last. Kyle already turned around and watching by the time Brice staggered across. His lungs felt like they’d been scraped raw. His hands went to his knees and he stayed there, head down, trying to get air back into his body.

“Yeah. Like I said. Your people, rook."

Brice couldn’t even respond. He just stayed there, hands on his knees, the field tilting slightly beneath him.

…

Liz had the third master service agreement open on her screen, the cursor blinking at the end of a clause about indemnification that needed tightening. She'd already redlined the first two and was halfway through this one when her phone buzzed on the desk beside her keyboard.

She glanced down. New email. Personal mailbox. The subject line was visible on the lock screen. She picked up the phone, unlocked it with her thumb, and opened the email.

She read it.

She read it again.

The phone sat in her hand, the screen still lit, the Docusign logo sitting at the bottom of the page. She set it down on the desk, screen up, and looked at the laptop.

She picked up the phone again. Read it a third time.

The doorway to her office was open. She heard footsteps in the hall, the soft click of heels on the carpet, and then Melissa's head appeared around the frame.

"Hey, we’re about to head out for lunch. You coming?"

Liz looked up, her face settling into something easy.

"Sure," she said.

…

The house opened up immediately with its high ceilings and white walls that seemed to stretch endlessly. The realtor's heels clicked behind her on the hardwood.

"Kitchen's through there, but let me show you my favorite thing about this house. It’s probably going to be yours too."

They walked through the living room. The realtor was already at the far wall, pulling a cord, and the blinds lifted in sections. Floor-to-ceiling glass. The Hudson right there, gray and slow-moving, and beyond it the whole Manhattan skyline stacked up against a pale sky.

"This is the best edge-of-the-city property I've got right now," the realtor said, standing beside her. "You can get in and out of the city in thirty minutes. Tops."

Serena shifted James to her other hip, wishing she had brought the stroller. He was getting heavy. She looked at the view, then down at the street below, then back at the view.

"How far is the facility from here?"

The realtor paused. "That's…that's about forty-five minutes. Give or take."

Serena made a small sound in her throat. Not quite a laugh. "Brice won't like that."

The realtor turned, leaning against the window frame, crossing her arms. "A lot of my clients in your situation end up doing two properties. Something close, Summit, Short Hills, something like that and then a place in the city itself. You don’t always want to make the trek across the tunnel after a night out."

Serena nodded. She wasn't looking at the realtor anymore. She was looking at the water. James grabbed at the collar of her shirt, twisting it in his fist.

The realtor watched her for a beat.

"Actually," the realtor said, her voice shifting slightly, "there's a property in Montclair that just came available. Real close to the facility. Not this view. But a real yard. Great school district. I’ve moved at least six families into that area in the last year and they all love it. That’s something we can look at if this isn’t what you’re looking for and you want something more family oriented."

…

Brice sat on the bench in front of his locker, still shirtless, his practice jersey hanging off the hook above him. His chest was still rising and falling hard.

"This is the finding out part of fucking around," Kyle cackled.

The locker room was loud. Music playing from multiple speakers at the far ends of the locker room, clashing against each other. Guys were filtering in and out. Some in a hurry. Some not. Brice among the latter, not that he had a choice.

"I had you in the first half, motherfucker," Brice shook his head, resting his arms on his knees as he looked down at the locker room floor.

"You ain’t had shit in the first half except your dick and balls."

The guys around them laughed. Brice laughed too.

The locker room continued to settle into its rhythm. Latest round of golf being discussed among the specialist. Dinner plans being made. The undrafted guys swapping their extended stay chronicles. Brice had made his way into the shower and was heading back, his hair still wet, towel wrapped around his waist.

"What you getting into after this?" Kyle asked him as Brice was standing in front of his locker, getting dressed. "We was going to show the rooks a good time, introduce them to the city and shit."

Brice looked up, eyebrows forming into a weary shape.

"We ain’t gonna tax it," Kyle held his hands up, "This ain’t no rookie dinner situation."

"Sounds like it to me. Sounds like why you need me there."

"Now, hold on. Nobody said they need you," Kyle laughed, "You ran with us today, damn near got yourself killed. I thought the least we could do is let you hang with the big boys. What, you and the other Qs and the kickers and shit gonna head to the country club and play grab ass on the golf course?"

"I don’t even golf," Brice scoffed, "Nah, I just got plans after this."

"Yeah, you do," Kyle nodded, "With us. Hurry up, rook. Don’t be last this time."

…

Priya was in the hammock, one leg hanging off the side, swinging it slowly. Sophie sat cross-legged on the grass beside her, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of her shorts. The candle on the patio table had burned down to a nub, and the smoke curled up into the darkening sky.

"I’m not trying to be like all emotional and stuff but like this is legit it," Gen said, tipping her beer bottle toward the yard.

"You are trying to be emotional," Bridget said, holding up a hand. "We’re not doing this with you."

"I’m just saying," Gen shrugged, "By this time next year, Priya will be in Atlanta. Having abandoned us."

"Absolute traitor," Bridget agreed.

Priya placed a sarcastic smile on her face then flipped them off.

"Don't act like I'm the only one leaving," Priya said, pointing across the yard. "Miles is leaving too."

Miles was in one of the lawn chairs, his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his shins. He looked up at the sound of his name.

"It's not my fault that the nearest campus without a chapel in it is in Indianapolis," he said.

The group laughed. Sophie joined them, drawing the eyes of Gen.

"And you."

"What about me?" Sophie replied quickly.

"What’s the move?” Gen scooted up in her chair, leaning towards Sophie.

"You know what the move is," Bridget interjected.

"I don’t," Sophie shrugged, "We were supposed to go on some visits this summer but obviously that’s probably not going to happen with everything going on right now."

"You don’t know," Bridget repeated with a scoff, "Bitch, you’d literally be a god there."

"Goddess," Priya corrected, a small smile forming on her face.

It was Bridget’s turn to flip her off.

The group laughed again. Sophie joined in that too. The conversation drifted elsewhere. She didn’t mind.

…

The key found the lock on the second try. Brice eased the door open with his shoulder, one shoe already off in his hand, and stepped inside like the floor might give him away.

It didn't matter. The TV threw blue light across the living room, low volume, some home renovation show. Serena was on the couch, legs tucked under her, remote resting on her knee. She didn't look up.

"Hey," Brice said, dropping the shoe by the door, working on the other one. "James went down?"

She nodded without looking at him.

"Sorry about that." He set the shoe down next to the first one, lined them up like that would count for something. "Night just got away from me a little."

Her eyes stayed on the screen.

He crossed toward the couch, dropping onto the arm of it instead of sitting all the way down. "This is why we need to get a sitter lined up, though. For real. You could've come out. Some of the other guy’s girls did."

Nothing.

"I'm serious. I'll fly Miss Lafitte's whole family out here if that's what it takes. Cousins. The dog. Whatever she needs." He smiled, waiting for it to land. It didn’t.

Serena finally looked at him. Not amused. "That's not the point, Brice."

"I know, I—"

"We had plans."

He opened his mouth then closed it. He sat there for a second, elbow on his knee, looking at the side of her face since she'd already turned back to the TV.

"Listen," he said, clearing his throat. "I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t mean to flake, it was just a last minute invite and I didn’t want to turn it down. All they know about me right now is that I'm that fucking dickhead that was in the news all the time. I gotta change that. I gotta be around, be one of the guys, let them see something different."

She didn't say anything right away. Then the corner of her mouth moved.

"But you are a dickhead, though."

He laughed and she did too, quick and short, looking away like she hadn't meant to give him that.

He slid off the arm of the couch and onto the cushion next to her, close enough that their shoulders touched. She didn't move away.

[Caesar]

Everyone who got outran by slow ass Brice Colton should be cut immediately.

Serena boodaying even though this is exactly what she wanted when she started throating pink meat. Make it make sense.

[Captain Canada]

Is that the old Brice coming out I see?