Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Season 1, Episode 10
Jimmy peeled himself off the couch and walked over to the door, expecting there to be a package. Instead, he saw two police officers and a man in a suit fidgeting with his tie. He looked through the peephole again, making sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. He reached for the doorknob before thinking better of it and stepping back.

“Mom!” he yelled out. “There’s someone at the door!”

He waited a few seconds. “Mom!”

“What?” his mother’s voice rang out from upstairs as she continued getting ready, already dreading her two-hour commute.

“Someone’s at the door,” he said again. “I think they’re cops.”

...

“I would really feel better if Captain Marron was here,” Tom mentioned once more, tapping his index finger against the wooden table.

“We understand, but we’re just in information-gathering mode right now,” Detective Brunson replied, his patience beginning to wear thin. “You’re more than welcome to speak with the Captain at any time, but I’d really like a chance to speak with your son while everything’s still fresh.”

Tom took a deep breath and crossed his arms — a silent acknowledgment that the battle had been lost.

“Now, Brice,” Brunson said, adjusting his body so he was facing him directly — Brice sandwiched between his lawyer, Malcolm Harris, a family friend, to his right, and his parents to his left. “What do you remember about that night?”

“Hmm,” Brice looked toward Malcolm, who nodded. “We were hanging out at Skylar’s — that’s a friend of Co— a friend of ours, I guess. We were just hanging out, really, and then we left the party and... I don’t know, I guess got pulled over after that?”

“You’re not sure?” Brunson asked — more accusation than question.

Malcolm nodded once more before Brice continued. “I must’ve gotten distracted or something. I just know I pressed the gas when I was trying to brake, and we sort of jerked forward at the intersection. That’s when the cop pulled us over.”

“Do you normally drink at parties?”

He looked at Malcolm — another nod.

“No, not really.”

“Not really, or no?”

Malcolm raised a hand. “Come on, Jake. What are we doing here?”

“I’m trying to establish what Brice’s state of mind might have been that night,” Brunson answered bluntly. “I’ll make this easier — did you drink that night?”

Malcolm nodded again.

“I don’t recall,” Brice said — the words sounding as rehearsed as they were.

“Mom. Dad.” Brunson sat up. “I appreciate you coming, and I understand why you want to be here. But for these next questions, I think it’d be best if I spoke to Brice privately for a few moments. His counsel, of course, can remain.”

“No.” Liz answered shortly.

“Brice?” Brunson faced him, who was now looking down at the table. “Is that something you’d want?”

“No.” Liz said again, more fiercely this time.

“Okay,” Brunson did his best to hide his smirk, though it still tugged at the corner of his lips. “How long have you and Connie been dating, Brice?”

“I don’t know... a couple years?”

“Come on, man. You don’t know how long you and your girlfriend been together? She’s not gonna love that, brother.”

“Probably six years,” Brice said, clearing his throat. Malcolm was no longer looking at him, instead jotting notes in his pad.

“You guys have sex?” Brunson asked, locking eyes with Brice and never breaking contact.

“Hmm,” Brice thought about looking toward Malcolm, but he couldn’t move — couldn’t think. He could feel his parent's eyes on him as well.

“I think I know the answer to that,” Brunson laughed, though it did little to lighten the mood. If anything, the short laugh only intensified the pressure on Brice.

“Yeah, we do.”

“You use protection?”

“Jake, come on,” Malcolm scoffed.

“I gave the boy the option of some privacy,” Brunson said, his Southern twang becoming unburied as he leaned back in his chair, almost proud of himself. “He can always not answer.”

“Answer whatever you’re comfortable answering, son,” Malcolm told him, as Liz continued to shoot daggers at Brunson. Tom, meanwhile, alternated between staring at the table and the clock on the wall.

“Yeah, we use protection,” Brice said.

“Always?”

“Most of the time,” he answered quickly this time, hating the satisfaction Brunson seemed to draw from his discomfort.

“You guys ever have any pregnancy scares? That late text? God, don't you hate those?”

Brice saw the play now — just as he would on a football field. Even with a single-high safety, just from the way the corners settled into their stance and how the box safety leaned forward or back, he could tell if it was going to roll into a two-high shell. Brunson wasn’t that deceptive; his line of questioning was clearly leading down a path — one Brice didn’t want to go down but had no choice. Sometimes, you take the deep shot, even against two-high safeties.

He looked over at Malcolm — just as he would at Coach Butler on the sidelines — who nodded.

“Yeah,” Brice said. “We’ve had—”

“What is the relevancy here?” Liz cut in, raising her hand to stop him. “What exactly are you investigating?”

“Like I said,” Brunson sighed, “We’re just trying to get the facts.”

“Is he being charged?” she asked bluntly.

“Charged with what?” Brunson asked, a hint of condescension in his voice.

“Is he free to go?” she asked, standing up, Tom following her lead. Malcolm stayed seated, jotting a few final notes.

“We’d really appreciate if you—” Brunson began before Liz cut him off again.

“So he is,” she said to him. “Come on, honey, you’ve got school.”

Brice got up from his seat, making brief eye contact with Brunson. He wasn’t sure how he felt as they walked out — the interview suddenly over. Part of him was relieved, like he’d passed a test he hadn’t studied for. Another part — one he didn’t quite understand — weirdly wanted to sit back down. As uncomfortable as the questions were, each answer felt liberating, like clearing a hurdle. And the pregnancy question — the one he’d zeroed in on like an Olympic hurdler coming down the track — was suddenly removed. Not conquered, but erased. It hadn’t knocked him over, sent him stumbling embarrassingly onto the track — but he hadn’t cleared it either.

Tom placed a hand on his son’s shoulder as they walked through the hallway, Brice feeling the piercing eyes of the other officers on him. His previous visit came back in fragments — Connie’s yelling, the cup of water one of the officers handed him, the brief nap he took in the very room they now passed.

While Tom and Brice were fixated on the door, Liz lingered behind. She wasn’t wary of the eyes on her — she was the one with the keen eye now, scanning the room until she spotted a familiar face. She broke off from the group, walking toward the slender man with the clean-cut face and combover — the same haircut he’d had since high school.

“She still has you doing her dirty work for her, huh?” she said as she approached Chuck, whose three-piece suit looked noticeably out of place as he busied himself at a makeshift workstation, propping his laptop on a file cabinet.

“Good morning to you, too,” Chuck said, not bothering to hide his smirk. There was no point. After all, this was probably the reason Britney — his boss — had insisted he be present for Brice’s interview, even though reading the transcripts in his office would’ve done just as well.

“This is low, even for her,” Liz scoffed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lizzy.” Chuck closed his laptop. “I’m just doing what the Office of the St. Joseph’s District Attorney calls for. You still remember what it’s like being on this side, right?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Chucky,” Liz said, jabbing her finger into his chest, wrinkling his shirt. “And you sure as shit don’t fuck with my children.”

[djp73]

Don’t fuck with me Chucky.

The were definitely a thing.

[Captain Canada]

Walls look like they're going to start moving at any second. Start closing in on Brice.

[redsox907]

Walls look like they're going to start moving at any second. Start closing in on Brice.

rich white boy always gonna find himself an escape route, usually supplied by mom and pops. And from the looks of it, Lizzy ain't bout to sit back and let her son get railroaded

[Caesar]

Chucky was giving both Lizzy and Hannah the Seed of Chucky and probably still clapping Hannah cheeks. I'd expect nothing less from incestuous rich people in small town America.

Brice's wishy washy statements lead me to believe his past behavior toward Connie was much worse. #JusticeForConnie

[Soapy]

Don’t fuck with me Chucky.

The were definitely a thing.

thats one way to look at it

Walls look like they're going to start moving at any second. Start closing in on Brice.

rich white boy always gonna find himself an escape route, usually supplied by mom and pops. And from the looks of it, Lizzy ain't bout to sit back and let her son get railroaded

Would you?

Chucky was giving both Lizzy and Hannah the Seed of Chucky and probably still clapping Hannah cheeks. I'd expect nothing less from incestuous rich people in small town America.

Brice's wishy washy statements lead me to believe his past behavior toward Connie was much worse. #JusticeForConnie

Not everyone is used to being in police stations, Caine

[Soapy]

Season 1, Episode 11
Kurt slammed his car door shut and tossed on his Notre Dame visor, jogging toward the growing line at the gate. He flashed his badge, though he didn’t need to — the gold logo on his polo carried more weight than any lanyard as eyes drifted toward it.

He scanned the field as he entered — clean turf, packed bleachers, crisp air. Recruiting rules said he couldn’t talk to players but often times, his presence — or rather the presence of the logo — in of itself was the recruiting pitch.

Near the back of the end zone, a small group of college assistants were gathered — Indiana State, Butler, Ball State. The fraternity of faces he saw at every turn.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Kurt nodded, taking up a quiet post just far enough to be seen, but close enough to hear.

“You here for the Curtis kid?” asked a coach in Indiana State blue, smirking. “Guess that explains why he ghosted me.”

Kurt smiled politely. “We’re taking a look.”

“Couldn’t be for Brice,” another chimed in — a Ball State rep he’d known from his days there. “Not unless you're recruiting for County Jail now.”

The laughter came quick and mean, a little too comfortable. Kurt blinked, unsure if he’d misheard.

The Indiana State coach caught it. “One of the coaches told us. Kid got picked up this morning — something with his girlfriend."

...

If Brice hadn’t already felt the weight of the crowd, the visitor section made sure of it.

“Con-nie! Con-nie! Con-nie!”

The chant rattled down from the stands, vicious in its glee. They cheered at every opportunity, even when their own offense was on the field. Brice stayed on the sideline, hood down, face calm. He clapped for his teammates, even smiled once or twice. He should’ve stayed home like his dad had said. Should’ve stayed on the couch, headphones in, pretending none of this was happening. But absence felt like guilt. And guilt was worse than shame.

The last twelve hours replayed in fragments — the cold metal chair at the station, the lawyer’s stern face, his parents’ silence on the drive home. He wanted nothing more than to talk to Connie, figure out what was happening, what she had said. Instead, his lawyer had made it clear that contacting her wasn’t an option. His parents made sure of that, confiscating his phone and laptop, telling Brice it was for his own good.

On the field, the first half wound down. Penn led 17–14. Brice watched the clock hit zero, jaw tight.

“We never should’ve let him come,” Tom muttered beside Liz.

Liz didn’t answer. She was staring across the field, eyes fixed on the visitor’s section — on the students, and even parents, shouting her son’s girlfriend’s name like a curse.

Inside the fieldhouse tunnel, Brice caught up to Jimmy, their footsteps echoing on the concrete.

“You got an extra mouthpiece?” Brice asked.

“What?” Jimmy blinked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Brice said, unzipping his hoodie. “I need your pads.”

Jimmy stopped walking. “What are you—”

“I’m playing the second half,” Brice said flatly. “I need your pads. My stuff’s at home.”

“Brice, what are you talking ab—”

"I need your fucking pads, bro, I’m fucking playing."

Jimmy hesitated, then began unbuckling. He didn’t understand, not fully, but he understood his brother.

Brice was sliding into the pads when Coach Butler’s voice cut through the noise.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Brice turned, half-dressed, eyes blazing. “I’m playing.”

“The hell you are,” Butler barked. “Jimmy, put your fucking shit back on.

Brice ignored him, pulling the pads over his head. Butler reached out to grab them — Brice jerked back. The pads slipped. A crowd began to form.

“Stop wasting our fucking time!” Butler grabbed again.

Brice shoved him — hard. Butler stumbled into Jimmy, then lunged back, pushing Brice.

Then came the punch. A sharp left hook — clean, heavy, deliberate. Butler’s head snapped sideways. He staggered, and Brice followed with two more punches until the coach crumpled to the floor.

[redsox907]

CTEBrice in full action.

[djp73]

wtf

[Soapy]

CTEBrice in full action.

wtf