Damaged Petals.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 6137
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
This boy blowing up his life like a love-sick puppy and blaming his Mom (who I'm sure has some guilt in this) for him being a temperamental piece of work
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13698
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
that took a dark turn lmao
wouldn't know anything about that loc
guys, she's gone as in they're broken up lmao not that she's deadredsox907 wrote: ↑31 Oct 2025, 02:28Brice shoulda taken his ass to New Mexico State - they don't give a fuck if you want to fuck thotties with throat numbing spray so long as you can toss a ball
I can't believe CC missed it at first
soapy thinking he slick just adding it in at the end thinking we won't notice
growth is not linear ayo if neededCaptain Canada wrote: ↑31 Oct 2025, 10:23This boy blowing up his life like a love-sick puppy and blaming his Mom (who I'm sure has some guilt in this) for him being a temperamental piece of work
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13698
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 2, Episode 12 (Season Finale)
Brice stared at the green bubble, wishing it to change color. Their exchange had lasted into the early morning hours, combative at first. She blamed him. He blamed her. They both said hurtful things, hurling insults at each other. He never paid enough attention to her, gave too much of it to other girls. She was too emotional, too erratic. She tried to have him arrested. He tried to have her abort their unborn child. In the end, there were no winners.
Hate eventually gave way to love, perhaps the dying embers of their relationship. She had loved him, told him as much. He always would, he told her. The exchanges continued for another hour, the rate of the messages slowing down as the length increased. They were more thoughtful, more layered, more complex. But in the end, it was all the same. There would be no winners.
Brice’s room was nearly packed now. A half-zipped bag sat open on the bed, the air faintly metallic from the old radiator. His eyes lingered on the last message again, the blue light from the screen washing over his face. He thought about everything that had folded into this.
The first, second and third test that confirmed that she was pregnant. His reaction to it. What if it had been different? Maybe they would have been able to figure it out, raise a child even as they were ones themselves. He thought about to that morning in the hospital, when his mom didn’t let him go visit her. The few days that followed, that distance that was build that was never closed. His decision to keep things going with Skylar and Amber and Janice and the long list of others. He thought about his exchange with that defensive end, maybe if he kept his mouth shut for once, none of this would have happened. Maybe he’d won State. Maybe he’d be packing his things to go to Notre Dame. Maybe that night with Connie never happens. Maybe. Just maybe.
…
The phone rang twice before being picked up. “Joseph County District Attorney’s Office,” she said, pen tapping idly against her legal pad.
“Hi, this is Jenna with The Gazette. We’re working on a piece regarding alleged misconduct by your office. Would Ms. Campbell or a representative like to comment before it goes live?”
She froze. “Misconduct?”
“We have several claims that Ms. Campbell tricked defendants, mostly minors, into taking plea deals against their best interest. Mentions coordination with some public defenders.”
Her eyes flicked toward Britney’s closed door. “Hold, please.”
She transferred the call. Chuck picked up instantly. “Campbell’s office."
The reporter repeated her statement. Chuck’s voice stayed even. “Who’s your source?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
He leaned back, staring at the certificate on the wall. "When is this coming out?"
“Pretty soon."
Chuck exhaled, slow through his nose. “We’ll be in touch.”
…
The DocuSign banner blinked once, then vanished. “Submitted.” The word sat on the screen, small and still.
Brice leaned back, letting out a slow breath. The duffel on his bed gaped open, full of neatly folded shirts. Cardboard boxes lined the wall. He turned his phone face-down on the desk and zipped the bag shut.
The hinges of the door creaked. Jimmy stood there in socks, holding a controller. “You done?"
“Almost.”
Jimmy nodded, dropped to the floor, and fired up the console. The screen bathed the room in pale light, soft music humming through the speakers.
“You hopping on?”
Brice sat beside him. “Yeah.”
When the team selection screen came up, Jimmy smirked. “I know who I'm running with."
Brice grinned faintly. “Yeah?"
Jimmy locked in Notre Dame.
“Fucking dick," Brice said with a small laugh.
Brice’s cursor moved across the screen, pausing over another logo. The click of the controller was the only sound.
"Good choice," Jimmy nodded.
Brice stared at the green bubble, wishing it to change color. Their exchange had lasted into the early morning hours, combative at first. She blamed him. He blamed her. They both said hurtful things, hurling insults at each other. He never paid enough attention to her, gave too much of it to other girls. She was too emotional, too erratic. She tried to have him arrested. He tried to have her abort their unborn child. In the end, there were no winners.
Hate eventually gave way to love, perhaps the dying embers of their relationship. She had loved him, told him as much. He always would, he told her. The exchanges continued for another hour, the rate of the messages slowing down as the length increased. They were more thoughtful, more layered, more complex. But in the end, it was all the same. There would be no winners.
Brice’s room was nearly packed now. A half-zipped bag sat open on the bed, the air faintly metallic from the old radiator. His eyes lingered on the last message again, the blue light from the screen washing over his face. He thought about everything that had folded into this.
The first, second and third test that confirmed that she was pregnant. His reaction to it. What if it had been different? Maybe they would have been able to figure it out, raise a child even as they were ones themselves. He thought about to that morning in the hospital, when his mom didn’t let him go visit her. The few days that followed, that distance that was build that was never closed. His decision to keep things going with Skylar and Amber and Janice and the long list of others. He thought about his exchange with that defensive end, maybe if he kept his mouth shut for once, none of this would have happened. Maybe he’d won State. Maybe he’d be packing his things to go to Notre Dame. Maybe that night with Connie never happens. Maybe. Just maybe.
…
The phone rang twice before being picked up. “Joseph County District Attorney’s Office,” she said, pen tapping idly against her legal pad.
“Hi, this is Jenna with The Gazette. We’re working on a piece regarding alleged misconduct by your office. Would Ms. Campbell or a representative like to comment before it goes live?”
She froze. “Misconduct?”
“We have several claims that Ms. Campbell tricked defendants, mostly minors, into taking plea deals against their best interest. Mentions coordination with some public defenders.”
Her eyes flicked toward Britney’s closed door. “Hold, please.”
She transferred the call. Chuck picked up instantly. “Campbell’s office."
The reporter repeated her statement. Chuck’s voice stayed even. “Who’s your source?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
He leaned back, staring at the certificate on the wall. "When is this coming out?"
“Pretty soon."
Chuck exhaled, slow through his nose. “We’ll be in touch.”
…
The DocuSign banner blinked once, then vanished. “Submitted.” The word sat on the screen, small and still.
Brice leaned back, letting out a slow breath. The duffel on his bed gaped open, full of neatly folded shirts. Cardboard boxes lined the wall. He turned his phone face-down on the desk and zipped the bag shut.
The hinges of the door creaked. Jimmy stood there in socks, holding a controller. “You done?"
“Almost.”
Jimmy nodded, dropped to the floor, and fired up the console. The screen bathed the room in pale light, soft music humming through the speakers.
“You hopping on?”
Brice sat beside him. “Yeah.”
When the team selection screen came up, Jimmy smirked. “I know who I'm running with."
Brice grinned faintly. “Yeah?"
Jimmy locked in Notre Dame.
“Fucking dick," Brice said with a small laugh.
Brice’s cursor moved across the screen, pausing over another logo. The click of the controller was the only sound.
"Good choice," Jimmy nodded.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 6137
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
Wrapped up that section with a neat little bow. Interested to see where you decide to take this.
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13820
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Being a criminal, he'd be perfect for Miami. He can reprise Greg Olsen in the new 7th Floor Crew song.
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redsox907
- Posts: 3799
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
bold talk coming from one whose RTG is a literal criminal. Who is still doing criminal things out on probation. On top of playing a role in breaking a womans commitment to God
All Brice did was fuck some hos and ALLEGEDLY commit some DV and battery. Sources are unconfirmed and as far as the letter of the law is concerned, Brice may be a privileged man of questionable morale standing, but not a criminal.
I do not think Brice is going to Virginia doe tbqh. The submitted makes me think he switched up at the last minute.
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13698
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Captain Canada wrote: ↑01 Nov 2025, 12:03Wrapped up that section with a neat little bow. Interested to see where you decide to take this.
redsox907 wrote: ↑01 Nov 2025, 13:05bold talk coming from one whose RTG is a literal criminal. Who is still doing criminal things out on probation. On top of playing a role in breaking a womans commitment to God
All Brice did was fuck some hos and ALLEGEDLY commit some DV and battery. Sources are unconfirmed and as far as the letter of the law is concerned, Brice may be a privileged man of questionable morale standing, but not a criminal.
I do not think Brice is going to Virginia doe tbqh. The submitted makes me think he switched up at the last minute.
The Nooticer strikes again.
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13698
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 3, Episode 1
Connie sat curled in the armchair, one knee pulled close, the other leg stretched out, sneaker barely grazing the rug. The ticking of the clock filled the silence between her words.
“It’s not about Brice,” she said finally. “I just… I don’t feel like going. I’d rather just get to Notre Dame and start over.”
Across from her, Dr. Mendel nodded slowly, setting her pen down on the notepad. “You’ve said that a few times now—‘start over.’ What do you think that means?”
Connie exhaled through her nose, staring at a spot on the floor. “It means being somewhere different. Where people don’t look at me and think about what happened.”
“What happened,” Dr. Mendel repeated softly, not as a question but as a recognition. “You think moving a few miles will leave it behind?”
Connie hesitated, then gave a small shrug. "I don’t know, it feels that way. Sure, some people might still recognize me but like I’ll just be another Asian girl at Notre Dame. I’m sure they’ve got plenty of those."
Dr. Mendel leaned forward slightly. “I think I understand that. But I also think you might be trying to fast-forward through this part of your life. Like skipping chapters you don’t want to read.”
Connie pressed her lips together, her fingers tracing the seam of her jeans. She didn’t respond right away. “Maybe,” she admitted. “But if the chapters suck, why not skip them?”
“Because they still count,” Dr. Mendel said gently. “If you don’t live them—if you don’t process what they meant—you’ll just find them waiting for you somewhere else. Even at Notre Dame.”
The hum of the air conditioner filled the room. Connie’s eyes flicked up, thoughtful but weary.
“I know you’re tired,” Dr. Mendel continued. “You’ve been in survival mode for a long time. But moving forward isn’t the same as running away. There’s work to do right here, too.”
Connie nodded slowly, not in defiance but in quiet agreement. She leaned back, eyes finding the framed art on the wall—an abstract of blurred colors that reminded her of a storm cloud.
“I’ll still probably skip prom,” she said, half under her breath.
Dr. Mendel smiled, just slightly. “That’s fine. Just don’t skip yourself in the process.”
Connie gave a small nod again, the kind that came when she knew Dr. Mendel was right—one she didn’t have the energy to argue with. The clock ticked again. The session had a few minutes left, but neither of them rushed to fill it.
…
Brice sat upright, hands folded in his lap like he was waiting for a job interview. Dr. LaPenna leaned back in his chair. A notepad rested on his knee, pen untouched.
“So,” he said, “how have you been managing your temper lately?”
Brice nodded once, already rehearsed. “Better. Way better, actually.”
“Good. What’s been working for you?”
Brice shrugged. “I just try not to react. Take a breath. Walk away if I have to. The things we’ve spoken about.”
The therapist smiled slightly. “Sounds like you’ve been practicing that.”
“Yeah,” Brice said. “A lot.” He looked toward the window, watching the sway of the parking lot trees. “Even at practice, when guys talk shit, I just… let it go. I just recognize that I have a hard time stopping so I just don’t start. ”
“That’s a mature response,” LaPenna said. “Has it been easy?”
“Not at first,” Brice admitted. “But I’ve learned that if I act calm, people treat me different. Coaches respect it. Teammates too. They’re putting a lot of trust in me so I not only have to earn that but I have to maintain it.”
There was a small pause—LaPenna sensing the performance beneath the polish, Brice sensing he’d said too much.
“Act calm,” he repeated. “You mean… even when you’re not?”
Brice gave a half-smile. “Yeah. Sometimes you just gotta fake it till it sticks.”
LaPenna nodded thoughtfully. “And has it stuck?”
Brice’s eyes flicked back toward him, his expression unreadable. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “For the most part.”
The therapist leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I think that’s a good start, Brice. But real control isn’t pretending not to feel angry—it’s understanding where it comes from. You think you’re there yet?”
Brice glanced down at his watch, already gathering his jacket from the armrest. “Getting there,” he said. “One step at a time, right?”
…
"Man, shut your bitch ass up!" Brice yelled at the freshman cornerback, Kendall, a few yards away. "We’re coming right at you, bitch!"
Coach Henson shook his head and brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth. "I can’t fucking wait for you every fucking time, Colton! You’re done with your little chat?"
Brice gave a thumbs-up and jogged back to the huddle, cupping his hand around the hole in his helmet to hear the play call being relayed in. The new Coach-2-Player system still threw him off—Henson’s voice booming in his ear always sounded like the voice of God.
He relayed the play to his teammates and broke the huddle. As they lined up, he licked his fingertips and scanned the defense, eyes lingering on Kendall before shifting across the rest of the field.
He glanced at the sideline one last time, clapped his hands, and caught the snap. His back foot barely hit the turf before he fired a dart to his tight end, George, who turned upfield and muscled through a tackle for a first down.
"On the ball!" Brice shouted, voice cutting through the air. He tried to process Henson’s words in his ear while barking signals at his teammates. "Indy! Indy! Indy!"
The center snapped it again, and Brice handed off to the sophomore back, Jaheim, for a short gain. Another quick run followed, grinding closer to the sticks. The offense hurried to the line while the defense scrambled to set.
Clap—snap—mesh point. Brice tucked the ball into Jaheim’s stomach, then yanked it back at the last second. He exploded upfield, slipping a linebacker’s grasp and picking up a few extra yards before being whistled dead. He kept running after the whistle, sprinting past Kendall, who swung a lazy hand at the ball. Brice spun the football on the ground and threw up an exaggerated first down signal.
"That’s a first down, you bitch!" he yelled, not naming anyone, but everyone knew who it was for.
"Watch it, five!" one of the refs warned, scooping up the ball.
Coach Henson just shook his head while Coach Odom, across the field, stayed quiet—maybe more resigned than disapproving.
"Get up with me, bitch," Kendall muttered as Brice jogged back to the huddle, ignoring him.
Henson’s voice crackled back through the headset, tearing into him before spitting out the next play: smash concept—Nitro on a hitch, Corey on a corner.
Brice looked toward the sideline, then back at Kendall, who was lined up across from Nitro. The freshman’s chest rose and fell fast, sweat running down the bridge of his nose. Brice saw the irritation in his eyes. He knew that look.
"Ocho! Ocho!" Brice called.
The offensive line looked back, confused—they didn’t know the call. They weren’t supposed to.
"We’re good, we’re good!" Brice said, smiling faintly. "Ready, ready!"
Clap. Pause. Clap again.
Nitro sold the hitch, Kendall throttled down, and Brice pumped before watching Nitro slip right past him. The safety, already rotating toward Corey’s corner route, froze as the ball sailed over his head and dropped perfectly into Nitro’s hands in the end zone.
"What the fuck was that?" Henson’s voice boomed through Brice’s helmet as the offense erupted, chest bumps and helmets clattering.
…
"Y’all tripping," Gabriel said, grinning as he flipped his bottle cap onto the bar counter. "That shit gonna go hard in the season, watch."
"Nah, that celly weak as hell, bro," Artie said, shaking his head.
"Motherfucker, you might not see the field, fuck nigga," Gabriel shot back, setting off another round of laughter. "You better learn what my favorite Gatorade is, hoe."
Brice laughed, taking a slow sip of his beer. The taste was sharp and cheap but clean going down. It had been a long few months of spring football. No nicotine, no weed, no booze, no women. Well, mostly no women. He was still a red blooded teenager after all.
The dim lights and old jukebox gave the place an easy warmth. The bar was tucked off State Street, a worn-down haunt the team had quietly adopted as their own where underclassmen didn’t get carded but if you did get too belligerent, the owners also had a direct line to the coaching staff. It was an imperfect compromise, the Amsterdam of West Lafayette.
The sound of clinking glasses and low music filled the air—country fading into R&B as someone hijacked the playlist. Brice leaned against the wall near the pool table, watching his teammates argue and joke.
A dark-skinned girl with braids walked past, giving him a small look, curious, maybe recognizing him. He met her eyes for a moment before Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder.
"Man, you was fucking cooking Kendall today!"
Brice chuckled, setting his bottle down and joining the conversation, "Just giving you guys a little taste, a little preview on how this season about to play out."
"Goddamn right," Gabriel laughed, "This white boy aight, ain’t he?!"
Connie sat curled in the armchair, one knee pulled close, the other leg stretched out, sneaker barely grazing the rug. The ticking of the clock filled the silence between her words.
“It’s not about Brice,” she said finally. “I just… I don’t feel like going. I’d rather just get to Notre Dame and start over.”
Across from her, Dr. Mendel nodded slowly, setting her pen down on the notepad. “You’ve said that a few times now—‘start over.’ What do you think that means?”
Connie exhaled through her nose, staring at a spot on the floor. “It means being somewhere different. Where people don’t look at me and think about what happened.”
“What happened,” Dr. Mendel repeated softly, not as a question but as a recognition. “You think moving a few miles will leave it behind?”
Connie hesitated, then gave a small shrug. "I don’t know, it feels that way. Sure, some people might still recognize me but like I’ll just be another Asian girl at Notre Dame. I’m sure they’ve got plenty of those."
Dr. Mendel leaned forward slightly. “I think I understand that. But I also think you might be trying to fast-forward through this part of your life. Like skipping chapters you don’t want to read.”
Connie pressed her lips together, her fingers tracing the seam of her jeans. She didn’t respond right away. “Maybe,” she admitted. “But if the chapters suck, why not skip them?”
“Because they still count,” Dr. Mendel said gently. “If you don’t live them—if you don’t process what they meant—you’ll just find them waiting for you somewhere else. Even at Notre Dame.”
The hum of the air conditioner filled the room. Connie’s eyes flicked up, thoughtful but weary.
“I know you’re tired,” Dr. Mendel continued. “You’ve been in survival mode for a long time. But moving forward isn’t the same as running away. There’s work to do right here, too.”
Connie nodded slowly, not in defiance but in quiet agreement. She leaned back, eyes finding the framed art on the wall—an abstract of blurred colors that reminded her of a storm cloud.
“I’ll still probably skip prom,” she said, half under her breath.
Dr. Mendel smiled, just slightly. “That’s fine. Just don’t skip yourself in the process.”
Connie gave a small nod again, the kind that came when she knew Dr. Mendel was right—one she didn’t have the energy to argue with. The clock ticked again. The session had a few minutes left, but neither of them rushed to fill it.
…
Brice sat upright, hands folded in his lap like he was waiting for a job interview. Dr. LaPenna leaned back in his chair. A notepad rested on his knee, pen untouched.
“So,” he said, “how have you been managing your temper lately?”
Brice nodded once, already rehearsed. “Better. Way better, actually.”
“Good. What’s been working for you?”
Brice shrugged. “I just try not to react. Take a breath. Walk away if I have to. The things we’ve spoken about.”
The therapist smiled slightly. “Sounds like you’ve been practicing that.”
“Yeah,” Brice said. “A lot.” He looked toward the window, watching the sway of the parking lot trees. “Even at practice, when guys talk shit, I just… let it go. I just recognize that I have a hard time stopping so I just don’t start. ”
“That’s a mature response,” LaPenna said. “Has it been easy?”
“Not at first,” Brice admitted. “But I’ve learned that if I act calm, people treat me different. Coaches respect it. Teammates too. They’re putting a lot of trust in me so I not only have to earn that but I have to maintain it.”
There was a small pause—LaPenna sensing the performance beneath the polish, Brice sensing he’d said too much.
“Act calm,” he repeated. “You mean… even when you’re not?”
Brice gave a half-smile. “Yeah. Sometimes you just gotta fake it till it sticks.”
LaPenna nodded thoughtfully. “And has it stuck?”
Brice’s eyes flicked back toward him, his expression unreadable. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “For the most part.”
The therapist leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I think that’s a good start, Brice. But real control isn’t pretending not to feel angry—it’s understanding where it comes from. You think you’re there yet?”
Brice glanced down at his watch, already gathering his jacket from the armrest. “Getting there,” he said. “One step at a time, right?”
…
"Man, shut your bitch ass up!" Brice yelled at the freshman cornerback, Kendall, a few yards away. "We’re coming right at you, bitch!"
Coach Henson shook his head and brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth. "I can’t fucking wait for you every fucking time, Colton! You’re done with your little chat?"
Brice gave a thumbs-up and jogged back to the huddle, cupping his hand around the hole in his helmet to hear the play call being relayed in. The new Coach-2-Player system still threw him off—Henson’s voice booming in his ear always sounded like the voice of God.
He relayed the play to his teammates and broke the huddle. As they lined up, he licked his fingertips and scanned the defense, eyes lingering on Kendall before shifting across the rest of the field.
He glanced at the sideline one last time, clapped his hands, and caught the snap. His back foot barely hit the turf before he fired a dart to his tight end, George, who turned upfield and muscled through a tackle for a first down.
"On the ball!" Brice shouted, voice cutting through the air. He tried to process Henson’s words in his ear while barking signals at his teammates. "Indy! Indy! Indy!"
The center snapped it again, and Brice handed off to the sophomore back, Jaheim, for a short gain. Another quick run followed, grinding closer to the sticks. The offense hurried to the line while the defense scrambled to set.
Clap—snap—mesh point. Brice tucked the ball into Jaheim’s stomach, then yanked it back at the last second. He exploded upfield, slipping a linebacker’s grasp and picking up a few extra yards before being whistled dead. He kept running after the whistle, sprinting past Kendall, who swung a lazy hand at the ball. Brice spun the football on the ground and threw up an exaggerated first down signal.
"That’s a first down, you bitch!" he yelled, not naming anyone, but everyone knew who it was for.
"Watch it, five!" one of the refs warned, scooping up the ball.
Coach Henson just shook his head while Coach Odom, across the field, stayed quiet—maybe more resigned than disapproving.
"Get up with me, bitch," Kendall muttered as Brice jogged back to the huddle, ignoring him.
Henson’s voice crackled back through the headset, tearing into him before spitting out the next play: smash concept—Nitro on a hitch, Corey on a corner.
Brice looked toward the sideline, then back at Kendall, who was lined up across from Nitro. The freshman’s chest rose and fell fast, sweat running down the bridge of his nose. Brice saw the irritation in his eyes. He knew that look.
"Ocho! Ocho!" Brice called.
The offensive line looked back, confused—they didn’t know the call. They weren’t supposed to.
"We’re good, we’re good!" Brice said, smiling faintly. "Ready, ready!"
Clap. Pause. Clap again.
Nitro sold the hitch, Kendall throttled down, and Brice pumped before watching Nitro slip right past him. The safety, already rotating toward Corey’s corner route, froze as the ball sailed over his head and dropped perfectly into Nitro’s hands in the end zone.
"What the fuck was that?" Henson’s voice boomed through Brice’s helmet as the offense erupted, chest bumps and helmets clattering.
…
"Y’all tripping," Gabriel said, grinning as he flipped his bottle cap onto the bar counter. "That shit gonna go hard in the season, watch."
"Nah, that celly weak as hell, bro," Artie said, shaking his head.
"Motherfucker, you might not see the field, fuck nigga," Gabriel shot back, setting off another round of laughter. "You better learn what my favorite Gatorade is, hoe."
Brice laughed, taking a slow sip of his beer. The taste was sharp and cheap but clean going down. It had been a long few months of spring football. No nicotine, no weed, no booze, no women. Well, mostly no women. He was still a red blooded teenager after all.
The dim lights and old jukebox gave the place an easy warmth. The bar was tucked off State Street, a worn-down haunt the team had quietly adopted as their own where underclassmen didn’t get carded but if you did get too belligerent, the owners also had a direct line to the coaching staff. It was an imperfect compromise, the Amsterdam of West Lafayette.
The sound of clinking glasses and low music filled the air—country fading into R&B as someone hijacked the playlist. Brice leaned against the wall near the pool table, watching his teammates argue and joke.
A dark-skinned girl with braids walked past, giving him a small look, curious, maybe recognizing him. He met her eyes for a moment before Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder.
"Man, you was fucking cooking Kendall today!"
Brice chuckled, setting his bottle down and joining the conversation, "Just giving you guys a little taste, a little preview on how this season about to play out."
"Goddamn right," Gabriel laughed, "This white boy aight, ain’t he?!"
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 6137
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
That other shoe just raring to drop, huh
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redsox907
- Posts: 3799
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
homie decided to go to Purdue after all huh?
Liz still got her hooks in the youngin, he ain't getting away that easy
Liz still got her hooks in the youngin, he ain't getting away that easy