Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

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.

1,000-yard rusher in the big ten

Is that the old Brice coming out I see?

wait until the front page of the NYT is Brice doing cocaine of Cardi B's fake ass

He can't hangout with his teammates?

[Soapy]

Season 12, Episode 2
“Last rep, last rep, last rep,” Musgrave said, already backpedaling toward the group huddled by the sled.

Brice ran it. Faked the handoff to the imaginary running back behind, rolled right and found Ben standing in for the tight end at eighteen yards.

The field had filled out since morning walkthrough. More jerseys now, more numbers Brice didn’t have memorized yet, coaches stacked three deep along the far hash marks with laminated call sheets clipped to their belts. The media had multiplied too. A cluster of them near midfield, phones out, thumbs moving. A couple of the beat guys had actual notebooks.

The whistle cut through the noise. Two short blasts and the field reorganized itself fast, players jogging to spots like they’d rehearsed it.

Brice peeled off from Jordan and Ben, unclipping his helmet as he walked, helmet coming off in one motion. He ran a hand through his hair, damp with sweat, and grabbed the water bottle sitting on the bench by the sideline cart. Squeezed a stream of it over his head, felt it run cold down the back of his neck and under his collar.

Around him the offense was setting up, coming together in the huddle. Breece Hall. Garrett Wilson. Omar Cooper. Kenyon Sadiq. The offensive line.

The media shifted as well. They stood up straighter. Phones went into their pockets. Arms crossed. Everyone moving to the absolute front of the media section, making sure they had a good view for the first snap.

Zach Parker was already at Brice’s elbow, call sheet in hand.

"Gun Trips Right, Zorro, 96 F Flood."

Brice nodded, working his mouthpiece back in as he listened, eyes tracking the defense setting up across from them. Parker clapped him on the shoulder pad once and stepped back.

Brice pulled his helmet back on, snapped the chinstrap into place, and jogged out to the huddle. He took a knee at the center of it, the offense bending down around him.

"Here we go, here we go. Gun Trips Right, Zorro, 96 F Flood. On one. On one. Ready!"

"Break!"

…

"Check your mirror," Tom said.

Sophie's eyes flicked up to the rearview, then back to the windshield.

"It’s just us."

"Doesn't matter. It should just be a habit at this point."

She rolled her eyes but did it anyway, checking the side mirror before easing the truck out of the lot and onto the empty stretch of road.

She lifted her foot, coasted, then eased back onto the gas. The truck picked up speed, crawling toward the stop sign at the end of the block before she braked again, checked both ways, and turned back into the lot.

His phone buzzed against his thigh. He didn't look at it. It buzzed again by their second loop around the lot and he still didn't look, just laid his hand flat over the pocket like that might quiet it.

Sophie didn't look either. Eyes forward, hands where he'd told her, ten and two.

"So," he said. "How's the summer going so far?"

"Fine."

"Yeah? Just hanging out with your friends?"

"Some."

They looped back into the lot, empty rows of striped asphalt with nobody around to hit. She took the turn wide, then corrected, straightening the wheel.

"Good, good," he said, nodding along. He looked out the window for a second, then back at her. "Listen, about the college visits…"

"It's fine."

"As soon as things settle down a little, we'll go. Things are just a little…you know, right now."

She didn't say anything for a second. Checked her mirror. Signaled before she'd even started the turn back out onto the road.

"You always tell me to stay focused when I'm driving," she said.

"Right."

"So."

He looked at her. She kept her eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel, and didn't say anything else.

"Right," he said again, quieter this time, and let it sit there.

The truck rolled back out onto the road, then looped back into the lot. Neither of them said anything for a while. His phone buzzed a third time. He still didn't check it.

…

The office sat at the end of a long hallway, the kind of building where every door looked the same except for the little brass plates screwed in beside them.

Dr. Marchetti was already seated when he walked in, not behind a desk, just an armchair angled toward a second one across from it, a couch pushed off to the side. She was tall, or read tall sitting down. Dark hair pulled back, simple jewelry, navy blue blazer. She didn't stand when he came in. Just watched him cross the room.

Brice took the open chair. There was a couch in the corner, its practical purpose unclear to him as he sat across from her instead.

"I think we’re looking at a house near here this weekend," Brice said, glancing toward the window. Rooftops and treetops stretched out below. "Heard it’s a good area."

She didn’t follow his eyes to the window.

Brice cleared his throat. Crossed one leg over the other, uncrossed it, planted both feet on the floor instead.

"So how's this usually go? You ask, I answer, we build up to the hard stuff?" He smiled. "Or are we skipping the small talk?"

"Is that what you’re here for? Small talk?"

"Right." He laughed, short, adjusting himself in the chair.

Marchetti sat there, hands folded in her lap, waiting, watching him.

"What do you want out of this?"

Brice opened his mouth, then closed it, then rubbed at the back of his neck. "I mean, I've done this before. In college."

"Okay."

"It was helpful. At times." He shrugged. "Annoying as fuck, other times. You know how it is."

She didn't say anything.

"It wasn't really my choice back then either," he added, laughing a little. "At least not in the beginning. Not court mandated or anything. Just heavily suggested by the coaches when they decided to take me in. I had a little situation towards the end of high school. You probably know that already."

"What do you want from this?" she said again. Same words. Same delivery, like she hadn't already asked it once.

"I don't know. To get better, I guess. To continue to get better. To continue to handle things better."

"Handle what things?"

"Whatever comes up."

"How do you feel you’re handling things right now?"

Brice paused. He looked past her, out the window again, at the rooftops and the treetops and the sun sliding low behind all of it.

She didn't fill the silence for him. She just waited, pen still resting untouched against the notepad on her knee. They sat there for a while.

…

The waiter came by, topping off the water glasses, then hovering near the empty bottle.

"Another?"

"Yes," Britney said, before Tom could even reach for the menu again.

The waiter nodded and disappeared toward the bar.

Britney lifted her glass, tilting it to catch the last inch of red still sitting at the bottom. Tom followed, picking his up too, watching her over the rim.

"To new beginnings," she said.

"New beginnings," Tom held his glass up as well.

They toasted and each took a sip.

"Although," Tom scoffed, "I don’t know what we’re celebrating. She got the house. Twenty-five percent of the business. Full custody. I don’t think I won a single line item."

"Tom."

"I'm just saying, if this is a win, I'd hate to see what losing looks like."

She set her glass down, folding her hands on the edge of the table.

"The fact that it’s over is the win," she said, "That’s what you won. Peace of mind. Not having this shit weighing on you anymore. You get to move on with your life. Stop fighting with your past. That sounds like a win to me."

Tom looked at her.

"And you," he said, tilting his glass towards her.

Britney's eyebrows went up, the corner of her mouth following. "You’re getting soft on me, Thomas?"

"Shut up."

"No, I like it. Say it again. Slower this time."

"Fuck you."

She laughed, reaching for her glass again.

The waiter returned with the second bottle, went through the small performance of showing the label, pouring the taste, waiting for the nod. Britney gave it. He filled both glasses and left.

"So," she said, settling back into her chair, "We go back in session on Monday but I should be done by Wednesday afternoon. Unless I get pulled into that committee I was talking about last week."

"You hear back from Carlisle?"

"Fuck no," she shook her head with a small laugh, "Anyway, that means I’ll probably be back by Wednesday night."

"I’ve got the driving lessons with Sophie on Thursday but after that, I’m free. Murph can hold down the fort on Friday."

"The lake house then?"

"The lake house," Tom raised his glass. She met it.

[Caesar]

Brice trying to fuck on this therapist like he’s Tony Soprano dreaming about Dr. Melfi plot loading

Tom a goofy

[Captain Canada]

She got 25%? Tough look Tom. Bruce shoulda fronted more money for the lawyer