Season 3, Episode 10
Brice shook the protein bottle in his hand as he aimlessly looked around the locker room, which had begun to amass a quiet buzz. For the last few minutes, players had trickled in—some wiping the crust from their eyes, others wearing ear-to-ear grins, and a few staring ahead with a thousand-yard look, unsure of what the morning held.
There were perks to being in the first workout group, mandatory for all quarterbacks and true freshmen. Your day was done before everyone else’s, the coaches and trainers weren’t irritated yet, the weight room hadn’t gotten muggy, and by the time they hit the track, outside still felt cool instead of beaten down by the sun. The downside was waking up painfully early and going in blind, unable to ask the previous group what fresh hell the workout was.
Brice didn’t mind. Early mornings had been a staple of his life since he was nine. Football involved a lot of difficult things, but picking up heavy weight and putting it back down wasn’t one of them.
He spotted Kendall quickly—partly because he’d been looking for him all morning. The freshman corner had been noticeably absent from the last player-led workout. Brice wasn’t sure if the news of Brooke’s cameo at the party had made it to him, but as soon as he saw Kendall’s expression, he knew it had. Kendall saw him instantly too, changing direction toward his locker the second he recognized him.
Brice stood, mind already churning for a clever line to get under Kendall’s skin. Should he hint that something happened with Brooke? Or say he could have and chose not to? Maybe telling the truth—that Kendall’s own defensive teammate tried cracking her in the bathroom while she was drunk—would cut deepest. Maybe the truth was the best dagger.
As quickly as the smile started to form on Brice’s face was how quickly Kendall threw the first punch—an audible crack when his fist met Brice’s right cheek. It took a second to register, but when it did, Brice covered up, expecting more, and they came fast—hitting him on the forearm, elbow, anywhere exposed as he backed up against his locker.
Brice finally got his hands on him once the flurry slowed, turning Kendall toward the locker instead and going on the offensive. He ignored caution to using his right hand, raining down punches on the smaller freshman. Around them, players stood frozen—some in shock, others confused, and many hesitant, watching the ferocity and unwilling to risk catching a stray hook.
Brice kept swinging, using his size advantage to keep Kendall at relative bay, but the corner never backed down. Every time Brice landed a solid shot, Kendall charged forward, throwing wild punches into ribs, shoulders, chest—anything he could reach. He didn’t stop. He didn’t seem capable of stopping.
“Break it up!” a coach finally yelled as the locker room door burst open.
…
“Hey, Tom—your wife’s waiting outside.”
Tom’s heart dropped out of instinct, years of habit, before he remembered he had nothing to worry about anymore. Perks of living right. He nodded as his employee walked off, then removed his glasses and set them on the desk before heading outside toward the parking lot.
Liz leaned against her car, a takeout bag on the roof beside her. They both smiled as Tom approached.
“Oh Mamma’s?” Tom kissed her cheek, peeking inside the bag.
“Italian and Veggie,” she grinned. “I couldn’t decide.”
“Thanks, babe,” he joined her against the hood. “Early day for you?”
“No, I’m heading in now,” she sighed. “I just wanted to make a peace offering, and what better way than bread, cheese, and meat?”
“I can think of a few ways,” Tom smirked.
“I’m serious.” Liz stood so she faced him directly. “I said some things that were completely out of line the other day, and I want to apologize. That wasn’t fair to you.”
“I know, hon.” He took her hand.
“But—” she raised an eyebrow, “I don’t think sending Jimmy away solves anything either.”
“You keep saying ‘sending him away’ like we’re throwing him to the wolves,” Tom scoffed. “St. Frances is a great school. A great program.”
“St. Joe’s is a great school and a great program,” she shot back. “And—wild concept—I get to see my son every day.”
Tom paused, not wanting to repeat the mistakes of their last argument.
“Look, I get it. I don’t love this any more than you do. You think I don’t want to spend time with him? Enjoy these last years before he’s off to college? Of course I do. But I can also see that Jimmy needs this. Or at least needs to explore it.”
“And what do you think is going to happen over there?” she asked. “He’s going to magically turn into someone else? He is who he is, Tom. Just like Brice is who he is. Just like Sophie is who she is. And that’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with our kids.”
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with them,” Tom said, rubbing his temples. “But that doesn’t mean they can’t grow. Improve. Forget football—I mean as a person. Maybe some time away from this…from us…”
“So we’re the problem? Or is it me?”
“It’s all of us,” Tom said bluntly. “I want Jimmy to figure out who he is, and I don’t know if he can do that here. And deep down, you know that too. Maybe you’re okay with it because he’s exactly who you wanted him to be.”
…
“I’m serious—I liked it.”
“I don’t know,” Eli laughed. “Maybe I’m not smart enough for those kinds of movies.”
“I doubt that,” Connie smirked.
The two walked side by side down the street, the glow of the busy movie theater fading behind them. Students streamed past in small groups, heading back toward campus. Connie and Eli walked close—close enough to feel it, but not close enough to touch—and Connie quietly appreciated the balance. Their conversation felt easy, light, not forced in the way new interactions sometimes were. Notre Dame’s campus loomed ahead as they drifted toward her dorm.
“I guess this is it…” Eli chuckled awkwardly when they reached the entrance.
“What, because we made out when we met you think it’s that easy? No, sir—this is indeed it.” Connie tried to joke, but she’d thought about that moment more than she liked admitting.
“I don’t know why you keep bringing it up,” Eli teased, hands up. “I’m irresistible. I don’t blame you.”
They laughed, but Eli’s smile softened; he could sense something shift.
“Seriously,” he said, “I don’t judge you for that. I mean—I’m in the same boat.”
“Come on.” Connie rolled her eyes. “It’s different for guys.”
“Not for me,” he replied immediately. “You’re a grown woman. You’re allowed to kiss an attractive guy who’s just so charming.”
“Relax, buddy.” Connie laughed, genuinely this time, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. They stood there, not wanting the night to end—and not wanting it to keep going either, afraid they’d ruin the quiet perfection of it.
Connie opened her mouth, trying to summon the courage to ask him inside. Just a few words. That’s all it would take. Isn’t this part of moving on? No—fuck Brice. This isn’t about Brice. This is about her. She wants this. She needs this.
“Well, I had a good time,” she said instead, leaning in for a light hug. Eli returned it gently, leaving just enough space between them.
Damaged Petals.
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13694
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Last edited by Soapy on 25 Nov 2025, 15:42, edited 1 time in total.
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13820
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Connie needs to go find her a brother. Dude on the basketball team. Real roughneck.
Because someone needs to bat the piss out of Brice. Man is just a terrible human being.
Because someone needs to bat the piss out of Brice. Man is just a terrible human being.
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redsox907
- Posts: 3799
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
oh shit I didn't even pick up that Brooke was the white girl Kendall had been talking too earlier when he took the high road 
Brice gonna Brice at this point
Brice gonna Brice at this point
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 6137
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13694
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
racial
gotta respect the hustle
yessir
a bit harshCaptain Canada wrote: ↑20 Nov 2025, 19:54Boy said a real roughneck
But I do concur, that dude Brice is horrific.
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13694
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 3, Episode 11 (Season Finale)
Brice couldn’t decide between the apple or the banana, so he ended up picking both, placing them on the edge of his tray as he went down the buffet line. The dining hall was quiet, with some of the workers still setting up their stations as the sun began peering through the glass windows. It was finals week, with students just as likely to be coming home from an all-nighter at the library as they were to be waking up for the day.
Brice was an early riser out of habit, even if he had nothing to do for several hours. He opted to get breakfast by himself this morning, convincing himself that it had nothing to do with what had happened in the locker room a few days prior. He just needed some alone time, he told himself—just needed to decompress.
He sat down in the mostly empty dining hall, plugging in his headphones as he scrolled through YouTube to find something to watch, settling on The Club 520 Podcast, hoping for some light humor to raise his mood.
The semester was coming to an end, and with it, he’d be heading back “home” for two weeks. He missed South Bend but dreaded the return as well. Hanging out with his friends would be cool, catching up with some of the bodies he had forgone out of respect for his relationship at the time—meaning he didn’t trust them not to say anything to Connie. But then there was the prospect of potentially running into Connie in such a small town. Having to live with his parents for those two weeks.
There was never any make-up after their last flare-up, just the solemn realization from Brice that they were right and that Purdue was the place for him. No apologies, no hugs. Just his mother helping him pack and his dad cooking steak and eggs that morning.
Brice was lost in thought, not having actually watched a minute of the video playing on his phone, and his omelet was getting increasingly cold when someone stopping in front of his table pulled him back to earth.
“You’re that guy, right?”
Brice blinked as he shifted her face into focus, looking at the dark-skinned girl with braids standing in front of him. He remembered her braids—and that questioning look that always seemed to rest on her face.
“Excuse me?” Brice cleared his throat.
“You’re that guy from the other night,” she said with more confidence this time, tray in hand, "With Brooke?"
“Oh. Yeah.” Brice let out an awkward chuckle, causing his bruised ribs to flare.
“You okay?” she asked, noticing his swollen lip. “You’re on the football team, right?”
“You should see the other guy,” he joked, careful not to laugh.
“I feel like you’ve always got something going,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
Brice examined her more closely this time. She was tall, with an athletic body, but he hadn’t seen her around the athletic facility—or at least didn’t remember her. He glanced at her plate: oatmeal, fruit salad, two slices of turkey bacon, and a single piece of toast.
“I try to live an exciting life,” Brice said, turning it on, flashing his smile. “We only get one, right?”
“Depends on what you believe in,” she shrugged, her words deliberate, never hurried.
“I’m Brice,” he said, standing up, realizing she wasn’t going to serve hers over the net like the others. “Thanks again for the other night.”
She paused, now taking her turn to size him up. She held out her hand, shaking his. “I’m Mel.”
“Where are you—”
“Do you guys all read from the same handbook?” she asked, shaking her head. “I’m from Indy.”
“Fair enough,” Brice laughed. His ribs didn’t hurt as much this time—or maybe he didn’t care. “South Bend.”
“Not quite good enough for Notre Dame?”
“Something like that,” he laughed again, more earnest this time. “There’s also the whole priest, choir boy thing.”
“Good choice,” she said with a smirk as she began to walk away.
“Hey,” Brice called out, surprising himself with how much he wanted the conversation to continue. “Us freshmen—we gotta stick together, right?”
“I’m not a freshman,” she corrected him. “And no, you cannot have my number.”
“What makes you think I was going to ask you that?” Brice held his hands up.
“Come on,” she said, tilting her head as she continued to walk away, “Everyone knows you around here, buddy.”
…
Brice sat back on the couch, arms folded across his chest like he was bracing for impact. Dr. LaPenna clicked his pen once, then set it down on the legal pad beside him—meant to look relaxed, but it only made Brice feel more watched.
“So,” LaPenna said, “There was an incident at practice.”
Brice snorted. “Incident is a stretch. Kendall got in my face, I got in his. That’s football. It was just competitive.”
LaPenna nodded slowly, the way he always did before pushing back. “Competitive can still be emotional. And we’ve talked about—”
“Discipline,” Brice cut in. “Yeah. I know. I’m the fucking worst person in the world and I lack fucking discipline, is that it?”
LaPenna’s eyebrows lifted. “I never said you lacked discipline.”
“You kinda did.”
“I didn’t,” LaPenna said evenly. “I asked whether you felt your emotional responses were getting in your way. That’s not the same thing.”
Brice leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “See, that’s the thing. You say you’re just ‘asking questions,’ but then I walk out of here feeling like I got called out for something. I’m not crazy for noticing that.”
LaPenna didn’t flinch, but something tightened behind his eyes. “Therapy isn’t about calling you out. It’s about helping you understand patterns—how they affect you, where they come from.”
“Okay,” Brice said, spreading his hands. “And I’m telling you—my patterns are getting better. I didn’t just fucking walk up to him and start swinging. I defended myself, and I didn’t even beat his ass like I could have. And outside of football? I’ve been showing discipline. Sexual discipline. Which I don’t think I’ve gotten enough credit for.”
A beat passed. LaPenna shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Credit isn’t the goal here.”
“Maybe not for you,” Brice said. “But for me? It matters. I’m doing the work. I’m trying to grow up. But every time I sit in here, it feels like you’re waiting for me to mess up so you can say, ‘See? There it is again.’”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” LaPenna said, sharper now. “And it’s not what this process is for.”
Brice looked at him long enough that the silence became a third person in the room.
“Well,” he finally said, leaning back again, “whether you meant it or not—I’m maturing. And somebody ought to acknowledge that.”
LaPenna kept his posture still, professional. “Then let’s talk about what that maturity looks like. Beyond fights and who you choose or don’t choose to have sex with. Beyond proving something to me.”
Brice didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward the window, jaw flexing once, the conversation’s fault line finally visible.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Go ahead.”
And LaPenna did—but the distance between them didn’t shrink. It settled in, thin but unmistakable, like a crack they both pretended wasn’t there.
…
“What you getting into after this?”
The question landed like a thud as Brice was already reaching for his shirt, leaving Brooke alone in the small twin bed. She lifted the sheet to cover herself as she sat up, suddenly feeling exposed. She had planned to spend the night—had told her roommates as much.
“Hm,” she muttered, “I don’t know. I don’t really have any plans.”
It was one o’clock in the morning. What other plans could she have?
“Cool, cool, cool,” Brice said, nodding, not bothering to look back as he got dressed. He leaned over and grabbed her clothes, tossing them onto the bed—forever the gentleman. “Want me to walk you to your dorm, or you got it?”
“I got it,” she said, grabbing her clothes, feeling it was the answer he was looking for.
Brice couldn’t decide between the apple or the banana, so he ended up picking both, placing them on the edge of his tray as he went down the buffet line. The dining hall was quiet, with some of the workers still setting up their stations as the sun began peering through the glass windows. It was finals week, with students just as likely to be coming home from an all-nighter at the library as they were to be waking up for the day.
Brice was an early riser out of habit, even if he had nothing to do for several hours. He opted to get breakfast by himself this morning, convincing himself that it had nothing to do with what had happened in the locker room a few days prior. He just needed some alone time, he told himself—just needed to decompress.
He sat down in the mostly empty dining hall, plugging in his headphones as he scrolled through YouTube to find something to watch, settling on The Club 520 Podcast, hoping for some light humor to raise his mood.
The semester was coming to an end, and with it, he’d be heading back “home” for two weeks. He missed South Bend but dreaded the return as well. Hanging out with his friends would be cool, catching up with some of the bodies he had forgone out of respect for his relationship at the time—meaning he didn’t trust them not to say anything to Connie. But then there was the prospect of potentially running into Connie in such a small town. Having to live with his parents for those two weeks.
There was never any make-up after their last flare-up, just the solemn realization from Brice that they were right and that Purdue was the place for him. No apologies, no hugs. Just his mother helping him pack and his dad cooking steak and eggs that morning.
Brice was lost in thought, not having actually watched a minute of the video playing on his phone, and his omelet was getting increasingly cold when someone stopping in front of his table pulled him back to earth.
“You’re that guy, right?”
Brice blinked as he shifted her face into focus, looking at the dark-skinned girl with braids standing in front of him. He remembered her braids—and that questioning look that always seemed to rest on her face.
“Excuse me?” Brice cleared his throat.
“You’re that guy from the other night,” she said with more confidence this time, tray in hand, "With Brooke?"
“Oh. Yeah.” Brice let out an awkward chuckle, causing his bruised ribs to flare.
“You okay?” she asked, noticing his swollen lip. “You’re on the football team, right?”
“You should see the other guy,” he joked, careful not to laugh.
“I feel like you’ve always got something going,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
Brice examined her more closely this time. She was tall, with an athletic body, but he hadn’t seen her around the athletic facility—or at least didn’t remember her. He glanced at her plate: oatmeal, fruit salad, two slices of turkey bacon, and a single piece of toast.
“I try to live an exciting life,” Brice said, turning it on, flashing his smile. “We only get one, right?”
“Depends on what you believe in,” she shrugged, her words deliberate, never hurried.
“I’m Brice,” he said, standing up, realizing she wasn’t going to serve hers over the net like the others. “Thanks again for the other night.”
She paused, now taking her turn to size him up. She held out her hand, shaking his. “I’m Mel.”
“Where are you—”
“Do you guys all read from the same handbook?” she asked, shaking her head. “I’m from Indy.”
“Fair enough,” Brice laughed. His ribs didn’t hurt as much this time—or maybe he didn’t care. “South Bend.”
“Not quite good enough for Notre Dame?”
“Something like that,” he laughed again, more earnest this time. “There’s also the whole priest, choir boy thing.”
“Good choice,” she said with a smirk as she began to walk away.
“Hey,” Brice called out, surprising himself with how much he wanted the conversation to continue. “Us freshmen—we gotta stick together, right?”
“I’m not a freshman,” she corrected him. “And no, you cannot have my number.”
“What makes you think I was going to ask you that?” Brice held his hands up.
“Come on,” she said, tilting her head as she continued to walk away, “Everyone knows you around here, buddy.”
…
Brice sat back on the couch, arms folded across his chest like he was bracing for impact. Dr. LaPenna clicked his pen once, then set it down on the legal pad beside him—meant to look relaxed, but it only made Brice feel more watched.
“So,” LaPenna said, “There was an incident at practice.”
Brice snorted. “Incident is a stretch. Kendall got in my face, I got in his. That’s football. It was just competitive.”
LaPenna nodded slowly, the way he always did before pushing back. “Competitive can still be emotional. And we’ve talked about—”
“Discipline,” Brice cut in. “Yeah. I know. I’m the fucking worst person in the world and I lack fucking discipline, is that it?”
LaPenna’s eyebrows lifted. “I never said you lacked discipline.”
“You kinda did.”
“I didn’t,” LaPenna said evenly. “I asked whether you felt your emotional responses were getting in your way. That’s not the same thing.”
Brice leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “See, that’s the thing. You say you’re just ‘asking questions,’ but then I walk out of here feeling like I got called out for something. I’m not crazy for noticing that.”
LaPenna didn’t flinch, but something tightened behind his eyes. “Therapy isn’t about calling you out. It’s about helping you understand patterns—how they affect you, where they come from.”
“Okay,” Brice said, spreading his hands. “And I’m telling you—my patterns are getting better. I didn’t just fucking walk up to him and start swinging. I defended myself, and I didn’t even beat his ass like I could have. And outside of football? I’ve been showing discipline. Sexual discipline. Which I don’t think I’ve gotten enough credit for.”
A beat passed. LaPenna shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Credit isn’t the goal here.”
“Maybe not for you,” Brice said. “But for me? It matters. I’m doing the work. I’m trying to grow up. But every time I sit in here, it feels like you’re waiting for me to mess up so you can say, ‘See? There it is again.’”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” LaPenna said, sharper now. “And it’s not what this process is for.”
Brice looked at him long enough that the silence became a third person in the room.
“Well,” he finally said, leaning back again, “whether you meant it or not—I’m maturing. And somebody ought to acknowledge that.”
LaPenna kept his posture still, professional. “Then let’s talk about what that maturity looks like. Beyond fights and who you choose or don’t choose to have sex with. Beyond proving something to me.”
Brice didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward the window, jaw flexing once, the conversation’s fault line finally visible.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Go ahead.”
And LaPenna did—but the distance between them didn’t shrink. It settled in, thin but unmistakable, like a crack they both pretended wasn’t there.
…
“What you getting into after this?”
The question landed like a thud as Brice was already reaching for his shirt, leaving Brooke alone in the small twin bed. She lifted the sheet to cover herself as she sat up, suddenly feeling exposed. She had planned to spend the night—had told her roommates as much.
“Hm,” she muttered, “I don’t know. I don’t really have any plans.”
It was one o’clock in the morning. What other plans could she have?
“Cool, cool, cool,” Brice said, nodding, not bothering to look back as he got dressed. He leaned over and grabbed her clothes, tossing them onto the bed—forever the gentleman. “Want me to walk you to your dorm, or you got it?”
“I got it,” she said, grabbing her clothes, feeling it was the answer he was looking for.
Last edited by Soapy on 25 Nov 2025, 15:42, edited 1 time in total.
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13820
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Disgusting human being.
He better stop eyeing that Queen
He better stop eyeing that Queen
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 6137
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
The caping it'll take to explain Brice's morality in this one will be so impressive 
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redsox907
- Posts: 3799
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40