You see you wouldn't ask why the rose that grew from the concrete had damaged petals. On the contrary, we would all celebrate its tenacity. We would all love its will to reach the sun. Well, we are the roses. This is the concrete. These are my damaged petals. Don't ask me why. Ask me how.
Season 4, Episode 1
Brice bumped his head to the beat blasting through his headphones as he looked in the mirror he had hung up in his locker, adjusting the sleeve on his left arm. He ran his fingers down his chest, smoothing his jersey, still getting used to the new number.
The locker room was quiet, an anxious feeling simmering as players stood in front of their respective lockers, getting ready.
"Yo, B," Walter said, nudging Brice's leg. Brice lifted one earcup.
"Get these boys ready, man."
"Sounds like a job for one of the captains," Brice smirked, dropping the headphone back over his ear.
Walter shook his head and returned to his ritual, flipping open his pocket notebook. He probably wouldn’t play—something would have to go terribly wrong for that—but he prepared anyway.
Brice grabbed his helmet and tapped Walter’s shoulder, heading toward the middle of the locker room. He could feel eyes shift toward him, not realizing how much he’d missed that feeling.
"Hey, everybody on me," he clapped.
Players drifted toward him—not with the urgency he was used to from St. Joe’s. Here, he was just another freshman. They didn’t owe him anything. Not yet.
"I’m gonna be honest with you guys, and with all due respect to everybody that played last year… y’all didn’t do shit."
A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd—mostly among newer players. A few veterans stayed stone-faced.
"If you think I’m gonna stand here and tell you this is our chance to announce ourselves to the world? I’m not. We sucked last year. And everyone expects the same shit tonight. One game ain’t changing that."
The laughter died. Jawlines tightened.
"Tonight is about the first fucking step to being a real football team," Brice went on. "Defense—hit everything moving. If it ain’t black and gold, put him in the fucking medical tent and get their mommas out on that field. They don’t respect you. This is a free dub on their schedule. They already lined up their hoes and ordered the Henny. They think they’re beating the breaks off us and going back home to fuck their bitches. Is that who you are? A warm-up, Demarco?"
The junior defensive tackle shook his head.
"Ryan, you a good little appetizer?"
"Fuck no, nigga!" the corner said.
"Didn’t think so. Y’all get us the ball back. And offense?" Brice grinned. "Daddy’s home, bitches. Let’s go win a fucking game."
…
Connie shifted uncomfortably on Eli's lap, the plastic lawn chair creaking beneath their combined weight. The tailgate sprawled across the parking lot outside the stadium, a sea of navy blue and gold. The September sun beat down on her bare shoulders, warming her skin as Eli's arm wrapped tighter around her waist.
"You good?" Eli whispered against her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
"Yeah, just getting comfortable," she said, settling back against his chest.
She took a sip from her red solo cup, the cheap beer bitter on her tongue. Around them, Eli's friends from his dorm laughed loudly, passing around a plate of burned hot dogs and chips. Music blared from speakers set up on the back of someone's pickup truck, the bass vibrating through the asphalt.
"So we walk in, crash on the couch and like ten minutes later, Eli gets up like 'hey, this isn’t our dorm'" said Tyler, one of Eli's roommates, as he recounted a story she had already heard him tell a few times already.
Everyone laughed, and Connie smiled along, though her mind kept drifting. Her fingers itched toward her pocket where her phone sat heavy like a stone. She'd promised herself she wouldn't check, but her hand moved of its own accord, sliding her phone out just enough to glimpse the screen.
Her stomach clenched. She shoved the phone deep into her pocket. She had told herself that she wouldn’t check. She had tried to delete the app but even that felt like an admission. An admission that she still cared. That she missed him. She tucked the thought away and tried to burry it, just as she had her phone into her pocket.
"Hey," Eli said, nudging her gently. "You sure you good?"
She blinked, forcing a smile as she turned back to the conversation. "Sorry, just thinking about that Chem quiz on Monday."
"No school talk!" shouted Maria, raising her cup. "Go Irish!"
Connie laughed and raised her cup too, the plastic edges sticky against her palm. "Go Irish," she echoed, focusing on the weight of Eli's arm around her waist, the sound of the Notre Dame fight song starting up nearby, the smell of grilled meat and spilled beer.
"You're coming to the party at Zahm after, right?" asked Tyler.
"If we’re not passed out," Eli answered for both of them, his fingers tracing small circles on Connie's hip.
She nodded, trying to anchor herself in this moment, with these people, her new life. Not back there. Not with him.
…
Brice stared up at the jumbotron as he walked to the sideline. He could’ve sworn he saw a crease—then it vanished, and so did the ball.
"Two hands on the football," Coach Hinshaw reminded.
Brice nodded, stripping his helmet off and accepting the supportive pats from teammates. Three plays into his career, and he’d already coughed it up.
"Can’t get much worse, right?" he told Ryan, last year’s starter, now his backup.
…
"Remember to protect the football and give the guys enough time up front pre-snap," Coach Henson told Brice through his headset as the quarterback formed circles with his right finger, hurrying the sideline to send in the play call.
The play was sent in and Brice relayed the play call to the rest of the offense before lining up a few yards behind the center. He read the leverage on the slot corner first, leaning inside and providing a free release for the out route but Brice didn’t trust the depth of the route to get into the endzone. He looked at the two linebackers, both in a relaxed stance. George, the tight end, had an over route right over the top of them and was lined up against the safety whose foot was the goal line. If they clear, I’m throwing it, he told himself.
The ball was snapped. They blitzed. He threw it. Touchdown.
…
"Fuck yes," Connie quietly muttered to herself, although loud enough to get the attention of Eli who turned his head.
"You good?" he asked for what felt like the umpteenth time that day.
"Yeah," Connie cleared her throat as she held her phone up, "I was just waiting on this shirt to be back in stock and it is."
"I’m sure you’ll look great," Eli gave her a wink before returning his attention to the beer pong game in front of them.
…
Brice could feel the defensive tackle coming off his block just as Brice had cleared the line of scrimmage, only one hand on the football. He thought about tucking the football and going to the ground but instead he opened his stride, realizing that the gap wasn’t closing as he took off. He veered away from the oncoming linebacker, running for a few more yards before sliding down.
"First down!” he signaled as he popped back up, tossing the football to the official, "Can’t fucking stop me!"
"You trash as fuck, five!" yelled one of the defenders.
"Get my dick out of your mouth, bitch," Brice turned around to address him, "It’s your momma’s turn, today."
"You scary as fuck sliding and shit, pussy," added another defender who bumped him on the way to the endzone.
"Your momma ain’t. I give her that long dick and she doesn’t run from it," he cackled, amusing himself, unaware that Coach Henson had been trying to get his attention in the headset for the past few seconds.
It took an offensive lineman to pull Brice towards the huddle as he snapped back into his reality and looked towards the sideline, asking them to send the play call back in. They hurried to the line, the play clock now dwindling down.
Brice was just catching his breath when the ball was snapped and the read was simple, the outside receiver — brought in on a reduced split — being wide open as they ran across the field. Brice threw the pass without much thought, his easiest throw of the day but his heart dropped as instead of seeing the receiver’s hands pluck it from the air, it sailed into the secondary.
"Fuck," he muttered to himself just in time as it landed into the waiting arms of the defender.
…
"Third and inches from the Wake Forest 12-yard line and the Boilermakers have a chance to extend their lead before the half with four minutes left. Colton in the gun, gets the snap, hands it….FUMBLE! The ball is loose and the Demon Deacons say they have it and it looks like they do!”
…
"Bro, I’m waiting on you!"
"How the fuck are you waiting on me? You have to meet me at the mesh point!" Brice shouted back as the two players continued their argument onto the sideline.
"You’re the one making the read, bro," Gabriel shook his head.
"Whatever," Brice tapped him on the chest as the rest of the offense joined them on the bench, "That shit over with. We need to get fucking points, man."
…
Brice was the first to the locker room, going in straight from the failed fourth down conversion where he tried to keep it and pick it up with his legs. College speed was different, he was quickly learning.
He threw his helmet into his locker as he took a seat, tapping his cleat against the floor as the locker room slowly grew in noise as players filled in. Walter, whose locker was next to him, took a seat, his jersey still clean. Things hadn’t been great but they hadn’t been disastrous either so an appearance wasn’t likely for him.
"Come on," Walter told him, "You ain’t no use to us feeling sorry for yourself. You don’t got that luxury, bro."
Brice didn’t say anything, too frustrated to speak. He sat up, grabbing his helmet as he walked over to where the offensive line was sitting, orange peels already piling in front of them.
"What are you guys seeing out there?" Brice asked, taking a knee as he placed a hand on his center’s shoulder.
…
The look was similar to what they had scored earlier in the game but instead it was out of a split backfield with the slot receiver, Smith, running the over route while the two running backs flared out. The ball was on the five-yard line so Brice was pretty confident he’d get some sort of man concept and once again, if the linebackers vacated the middle of the field, it’d be a race to the middle and he trusted his guy to get it done.
The ball was snapped and once again the linebackers blitzed, leaving the middle of the field wide open. Brice was drifting back as he let the ball go, weary of taking another hit. Still, he expected an easy completion as Smith was even more open than George was. Instead, the ball sailed behind him, losing some of the zip due to Brice falling backwards.
"Fuck," Brice muttered to himself as the ball landed in the endzone incomplete.
On the next play, Wake Forest blitzed again, this time it was picked up as the inside linebacker and the slot corner failed to get home. Brice had time to find the outside receiver on the slant and the ball felt good when it left his hand this time but the creeping inside linebacker made him try to fire it low and away, too low as it landed near the receiver’s feet.
Two easy touchdowns, two incompletions instead with a tied ball game and thirteen minutes left.
The offense came out in a split backfield again, sending Merriweather in motion, creating the one-on-one matchup they wanted on the front side.
At least that was the intention but the safety didn’t go with the motion, instead, he stood right there in the window that Brice had wanted to throw.
Brice tried to fire it in anyway, relying on his velocity to get it in there before the safety could react and he did, getting it past him but the receiver had already over ran the ball and beaten the corner so badly that he was in position to make a play. He tipped the ball into the air and right away, Brice knew it.
…
"You can’t throw a fucking redzone pick, Brice!" Connie cursed her phone as sat on the toiler, the blue screen illuminating her face.
…
"Touchdown Purdue on the handoff to Jaheim Merriweather!"
…
Brice jogged back onto the field for third and goal, headset buzzing with the play call—simple handoff.
But when he got to the huddle and peeked towards the defense, bringing in their heavy personnel, he thought differently.
He checked out of it.
Coach Henson practically jumped out of his shoes on the sideline.
"NO—NO—NO—NO—"
But the play clock was under six. They had no choice but to let it ride.
Ball snapped. Immediately messy. Brice scrambled right, planting and firing low to the tight end. Completion. A yard short. The likely outcome of the simple handoff.
Coach Henson met him at the numbers.
“You do not check out of a fucking play!"
Brice kept walking, chest rising and falling.
Coach Odom grabbed his arm as he passed.
“If you’re gonna change it,” he said quietly, “Make damn sure you’re right.”
Brice swallowed hard and nodded.
…
Brice crashed face-first onto his bed the second he stepped into the room. His phone buzzed somewhere in his backpack. He ignored it. His whole body felt hollowed out. Like someone had scooped the insides out of him and left the shell. Another buzz. Then another.
Then an email notification pinged: FILM UPLOADED – WAKE FOREST / OFFENSE / BROADCAST COPY
Brice stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then pushed himself upright, limbs heavy. He dragged his laptop onto his lap, clicked the link, and watched the screen fill with the first frame.
Season Stats 31-43, 249 Yds, TD, 2 INT, Sacked 6x, 13 Car, 42 Yds, 2 fumbles (2 lost) Remaining Schedule vs. Indiana State (FCS), vs. #1 Notre Dame, vs. #12 Washington, vs. Maryland, vs. Wisconsin, at UCLA, at Iowa, vs. Minnesota, at #11 Penn State, at Illinois, at #14 Indiana
Last edited by Soapy on 27 Nov 2025, 05:56, edited 1 time in total.
Man got as many turnovers after one game as Caine got after 7. This is the difference between getting it out the mud and being born with a silver spoon in ya mouth. But buddy does wear #5 so it's clear he's half the man that Caine is.
Man got as many turnovers after one game as Caine got after 7. This is the difference between getting it out the mud and being born with a silver spoon in ya mouth. But buddy does wear #5 so it's clear he's half the man that Caine is.
Brice hangs his head and needs OL to drag him off the field in frustration
What is this?
You should give us a scoring summary too
my guess is he was pouting after throwing the red zone pick
rough game to start, but dub is a dub.
Connie playing herself
It's fixed, I forgot to remove it. Some inside baseball on how I do this: I record the game and as things happens, I write down some notes, such as "Brice hangs his head and needs OL to drag him off the field in frustration" with a time stamp so that I can react to the game in real time but then flesh out the scenes. I ended up removing that scene for one with Connie in the bathroom reacting to his pick instead and forgot to remove it.
