Season 4, Episode 16
Brice smeared the black paint across his face, putting on more than usual as he looked into the mirror. He slipped his helmet on, the dark visor hiding his bloodshot eyes, the tears on his cheeks blending in with the paint.
He forced himself to his feet, not trusting himself to look at any of his teammates as he walked towards the door but he could feel their eyes on him. He somehow made it to the tunnel, finally looking up towards the long walkway that led out onto the field.
Walter was the first to put a hand on Brice’s shoulder, almost causing him to collapse onto the floor but Abdul quickly wrapped his arms around him, holding him up. No one said anything. They didn’t need to. Each teammate that walked past just tapped him on the shoulder pad or the helmet.
Kendall walked up to him, sharing a nod before leaning in, bumping their helmets. Brice nodded back, finally able to hold someone’s gaze.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to get through that night’s game but he’d be doing it with his brothers. The only ones he had left.
Season Stats 302-406, 2897 Yds, 23 TD, 6 INT, Sacked 33x, 89 Car, 370 Yds, 2 TD, 4 fumbles (4 lost) Remaining Schedule at Illinois, at #15 Indiana
He stood at midfield with the lights washing everything flat and white, the noise folding in on itself like surf.
“So much emotion this week,” the reporter said, her voice steady yet calmed as she hovered the microphone near his mouth. “How did you handle it tonight?”
Brice smiled. It came easily, muscle memory. He had smiled through handshakes and condolences, through a week that felt like it had been lived underwater. He smiled now the way he always did, small and controlled, convincing to the untrained eye.
“Long live Jimmy,” he said.
He nodded once, like that answered everything. He thanked her, because that was the right thing to do, and before she could follow up, he jogged off, then sprinted, helmet tucked under his arm, swallowed by bodies and pads and hands slapping his back. Someone grabbed him in a bear hug. Someone yelled his name. Someone else screamed something he couldn’t make out, joy or triumph or both.
He let it carry him for a few seconds. Let the noise push him forward. Let the scoreboard glow in his periphery like proof that something still worked the way it was supposed to. Then, instead of turning toward the locker room, he cut left.
The corner was empty, a dead pocket between the stands and a service corridor, shadowed and forgotten. The sound dulled there, the crowd reduced to a distant roar, like weather. He leaned his back against the wall and slid down until his heels caught and his thighs burned. He squatted first, head bowed, hands braced on his knees.
He tried to breathe. It didn’t work. The first sound surprised him, a broken exhale that caught in his chest and came out wrong. His shoulders started to shake before he could stop them. He pressed the heel of his hand into his mouth, biting down, but it only made it worse. The tears came hard and fast, blinding, spilling over without warning or mercy.
He dropped to his knees.
His helmet tipped and rolled away, clattering softly before coming to rest on its side. He didn’t go after it. He folded forward instead, elbows to the ground, forehead hovering just above the concrete as if he might rest there, as if he might disappear into it.
He sobbed. There was no other word for it. Deep, ugly, full-bodied sobs that tore through him, leaving his throat raw and his chest aching. The kind of crying that felt like it came from somewhere below the ribs, older than thought, older than language.
For a moment, just a moment, football had worked. The reads had been clean. The throws had come out sharp. The pocket had felt safe for the first time all year. For three hours, the noise in his head had been replaced by cadence and coverage, by the simple, holy math of down and distance. He had been useful. He had been excellent.
And still.
Still this.
Still the hollow that opened the second the clock hit zero. Still the weight that settled the instant the cameras turned away. Still the knowledge that no number on a stat sheet could reach across whatever distance separated him from his brother now.
He dragged his forearm across his eyes, smearing tears and sweat together, but they kept coming. His chest hurt. His head throbbed. He felt wrung out, scraped hollow, like there was nothing left inside him to give: no strength, no speech, no performance left to put on for anyone.
Not even football could save him. Not tonight. Not for a few minutes. Not at all.
Somewhere nearby, a door slammed. Laughter echoed down a concrete hallway.
Brice stayed where he was.
He stayed on his knees in the shadowed corner of the cold tunnel, shoulders shaking, face buried against his arm, and let himself finally feel the thing he’d been outrunning since the phone call came. He cried until his throat burned and his eyes ached and his body felt too heavy to hold itself up.
When the tears slowed, they didn’t stop so much as fade, leaving him empty and trembling. He stayed there a moment longer, breathing unevenly, staring at the emptiness of the concrete in front of his face.
Then, eventually, he reached for his helmet. He didn’t feel better. He didn’t feel healed. He just felt done.
We know a POS like Brice is gonna destroy everything around him after this so hopefully Connie got her therapist’s number on speed dial or she gets a TRO against him.
We know a POS like Brice is gonna destroy everything around him after this so hopefully Connie got her therapist’s number on speed dial or she gets a TRO against him.
Season 4, Episode 17
The short glass sat in front of Brice, staring at him like a challenge or, perhaps more accurately, an escape hatch. The bartended that had slid it across the wooden table was cleaning beer mugs a few feet away, Brice being the first customer to walk through the door and for now, the only one.
A bit of sunlight came through the tinted windows, exposing the worn down barstools and sticky booths of the bar tucked off State Street. His teammates had flooded the place just a few hours ago, heading there immediately after their plane landed but Brice had retreated himself to his room, falling asleep as soon as his head hit his sheets, not even bothering to shower.
It wasn’t a good sleep though. It was the sort of sleep that had you waking up every fifteen minutes. Thoughts flashing through his head, images of his brother never too far away.
He wondered the kind of player that Jimmy would have ended up being. Offense or defense. Maybe he’d have stuck it out at quarterback, found a college coach that believed in him and gave him the keys to run the offense. Maybe they’d have played against each other or on the same team. Maybe in the NFL. Maybe another pair of brothers to make it to the Pro Bowl, All Pro, Super Bowl, Canton.
He wondered what kind of boyfriend Jimmy would turn out to be, if he ever made it past first base with Nia. The thought of Jimmy fumbling with her bra, pestering him for details after the fact as Jimmy blushed brought a smile to his face. He wondered what kind of father he would have been, how he would have handled that 'I’m late' text from his girlfriend.
But most of all, he wondered if he was scared. It’s that question that kept a steady stream of tears on Brice’s face. Did he know he was dying? Was he in pain? Was he panicking? Did he try to call out for help but was unable to? Was he doomed from the start?
"You alright there, champ?"
The question snapped Brice into reality, the glass still sitting in front of him. He slowly raised his head, meeting the gaze of the bartended and nodded his head and in a single motion, grabbed the glass and downed it.
"Another one, please."
…
A half-empty bottle of water sat sweating on the table between them, untouched. Brice leaned back in the chair with his arms folded, one ankle hooked over his knee.
LaPenna noticed it right away—not the posture, but the lag. The half-second delay before Brice’s eyes settled. The way his words, when they came, had to travel.
“You always keep it this cold in here?” Brice asked, not looking at him.
LaPenna glanced at the thermostat on the wall. “Same as always.”
Brice nodded, as if that answered something else entirely. His jaw worked once, twice. He rubbed his thumb against the edge of his phone, screen dark.
LaPenna sat forward slightly. Not too much. “How was the game?”
Brice smiled. "Shit, you tell me. Best win in program history since, what, that Ohio State game a few years ago?"
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“We won,” Brice said. “Beat a ranked team on the road. We can still make it to Indy."
LaPenna let the silence breathe. “You want to talk about the decision to play?”
Brice shrugged. “Everyone else does.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Brice tilted his head, finally looking at him. His eyes were glassy, unfocused around the edges. Not falling-over drunk, not slurring—just softened, like the world had lost some of its sharp corners.
“I don’t know what people wanted,” Brice said. “For me to sit at home? Crying like a fucking baby?"
LaPenna felt the first twinge then. A professional instinct, quiet but insistent. He clocked the signs, ran the mental checklist. Intoxication meant postponing. Boundaries meant rescheduling. This was basic.
Still, he didn’t move.
“They didn’t think you were in a position to play a football game,” LaPenna said carefully. “That’s different from wanting something from you.”
Brice laughed, short and humorless. “They always want something. To be disappointed. To be right.”
He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, hands dangling uselessly between them. “You know how many people told me they were ‘praying’ for me? People I’ve never met. People that probably gobbled up all that negative shit people have said about me."
LaPenna watched the way Brice’s fingers shook, just barely. “And how did that feel?”
“Like they’re fake as fuck,” Brice frowned, searching. “Like… like the only redeeming quality about me is that my fucking brother is dead. Besides that, I’m a fucking piece of shit to these people."
LaPenna nodded slowly. “Is that who you think you are?”
Brice snorted. “No. But it’s who they think I am. And that counts for something, doesn’t it?”
“It counts,” LaPenna said, “but it isn’t the same thing.”
Brice leaned back again, eyes drifting to the ceiling tiles. “They don’t know me. They know headlines. They know whispers. Some shit someone said in a bar, or some article written by a guy who’s never been in the same room as me.”
He swallowed hard. “I’m not that bad.”
The words hung there, heavier than he seemed to expect. LaPenna felt the opening like a pulled muscle—sudden, delicate.
“Not that bad,” LaPenna repeated gently. “What does that mean to you?”
Brice stiffened. His jaw clenched, a reflexive tightening. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m just—”
“Don’t,” Brice said again, sharper now. He sat up straighter, the fog thinning just enough to reveal irritation underneath. “Don’t fucking pick apart my words like every fucking syllable has to have some deep fucking meaning."
LaPenna hesitated. He was acutely aware now of the line he’d already stepped over by letting this session continue. The ethical voice in his head grew louder, insistent. He could stop this. He probably should.
But Brice was still talking.
“I played because it made sense,” Brice said. “Because it was the only thing that felt real. Everything else was… performative. Everyone telling me how I should grieve, how long, what it should look like. Fuck that.”
His voice cracked on the last word, but he powered through it, barreling ahead. “Jimmy knew who I was. He didn’t need me to be anything else. He didn’t need me to sit on a couch and stare at pictures.”
LaPenna softened his voice. “And playing—did it help?”
Brice hesitated. Just a beat. “It helped me function, it gave me something to do.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Brice laughed again, this time hollow. “You’re fucking good at this.”
LaPenna felt the conflict tighten in his chest. He chose his words carefully. “Functioning and healing aren’t the same thing.”
Brice’s eyes snapped back to him. “See? That. That right there.” He shook his head. “That’s the shit I’m talking about. Everyone wants to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
“Well don’t be.” Brice stood abruptly, swaying just slightly before catching himself. He grabbed his jacket, fumbling with it for a second before draping it over his arm. “I’m done.”
LaPenna rose halfway out of his chair, instinctively. “Brice—”
“No,” Brice said, already moving toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, shoulders tight. “I’m not that bad. I just… I don’t need this right now.”
The door clicked shut behind him before LaPenna could respond. The room settled back into stillness, the hum of the lights suddenly loud. LaPenna sat back down slowly, staring at the empty chair across from him, the sweat-ringed bottle of water still untouched between them.
…
“…and I hate that part of me,” Connie said, already shaking her head, like she was trying to physically dislodge the thought. “I hate that I felt like that."
Dr. Mendel didn’t interrupt. She waited, pen resting but unmoving, eyes steady on Connie.
“I watched him out there,” Connie went on, voice tightening, “And he looked unbreakable. Like nothing could touch him. Like he always does. He could be so fucking strong sometimes and be this great guy but then…"
“But” Mendel asked gently.
“And then I remembered all the times he wasn’t like that,” Connie said. “All the times he disappeared into himself. When I was throwing up every morning and pretending I wasn’t terrified. When our parents decided what was going to happen to our baby like we didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t strong then. He didn’t cry. He didn’t fight. He just let it happen."
Mendel nodded slightly. “So when you saw him play after Jimmy died—”
“I felt proud,” Connie cut in, sharper now. “And I felt sick about it. Because why does this bring it out of him? Why does this make him brave and strong but our baby didn’t? Our relationship didn’t?"
Mendel leaned forward just a little. “What did it feel like when you saw him cry at the funeral?”
Connie’s breath hitched immediately. She looked away, toward the window, toward anything but Mendel.
“I know I should feel sad,” her voice dropped. “But part of me—God, I hate admitting this—part of me felt relieved. Like I finally saw proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That he can break,” Connie said. “That he isn’t this empty, untouchable thing. And then another part of me felt…"
Mendel waited.
“I don’t know, I guess satisfied,” she continued. “Not that Jimmy died. Of course. But that Brice finally cried, he finally broke. He never cried when we gave the baby up. Not once. He held my hand just because that was what he was supposed to do. He always just does the thing he’s supposed to do."
Mendel spoke carefully. “And what did that mean to you?”
Connie laughed softly through her tears. “That it didn’t matter to him. That we didn’t matter to him. I know that’s not fair. I know people grieve differently. But it’s just how I felt."
“And now you’re angry at him for crying now,” Mendel said, not accusing, just naming it.
“Yes,” Connie said immediately. “Because why now? Why does Jimmy get that part of him when our baby didn’t? And then I start thinking, what kind of person feels that way? What kind of person makes someone else’s death about themselves?”
Mendel let the silence stretch before answering. “Someone who hasn’t been allowed to fully grieve her own losses.”
Connie frowned, blinking. “That feels like an excuse.”
“It’s an explanation,” Mendel said. “There’s a difference.”
Connie wiped at her cheeks, frustrated. “I don’t want to be like him."
Mendel’s gaze sharpened just slightly. “Tell me what ‘like him’ means to you.”
Connie hesitated. “Cold. Selfish. Broken in a way that hurts other people.”
“And do you believe feeling conflicting emotions makes you those things?” Mendel asked.
“I don’t know,” Connie admitted. “Sometimes I think maybe I ruined him. Other times I think he ruined me. And then I hate myself for still thinking in terms of us when a kid died.”
Mendel’s voice softened. “Jimmy’s death stirred things that were never resolved. That doesn’t make you cruel. It makes you human.”
Connie stared at the floor. “Then why do I feel like I’m standing on the same line as Brice? Like I’m capable of the same ugliness?”
Mendel tilted her head. “Because you’re afraid that having anger, jealousy, relief, grief, all at once, means you’re morally failing.”
Connie nodded slowly.
“It doesn’t,” Mendel said. “It means you’re overwhelmed. And it means there are parts of your story that never got space to breathe.”
Connie exhaled shakily. “I don’t want to hate him.”
“You don’t have to decide that today,” Mendel replied. “You don’t even have to understand it today.”
Connie closed her eyes, tears sliding freely now. “I just don’t want to be a bad person.”
Mendel’s voice was steady, anchoring. “Bad people don’t come into rooms like this asking that question.”
Acting like this in therapy is a fast way to have the police knocking on your door for a welfare check and sectioning for a 72 hour psyche hold. And we know that'd lead to Brice's goofy ass in jail.
Connie needs to stop centering Brice in her life story and them hicks in French Lick (I know they're in South Bend). Transfer to a university in the hood. Connect with other POC.
Acting like this in therapy is a fast way to have the police knocking on your door for a welfare check and sectioning for a 72 hour psyche hold. And we know that'd lead to Brice's goofy ass in jail.
Connie needs to stop centering Brice in her life story and them hicks in French Lick (I know they're in South Bend). Transfer to a university in the hood. Connect with other POC.
