Not surprised Sophie doesn't want to support the golden boy tbqh. Jimmy not wanting to go is surprising tho. Thought he loved big bro
Got a feeling Tom is going to pay for that one later
Damaged Petals.
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redsox907
- Posts: 6338
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
is Brice going to resort to stalking Mel at this point, thirsty ahh
Not surprised Sophie doesn't want to support the golden boy tbqh. Jimmy not wanting to go is surprising tho. Thought he loved big bro
Got a feeling Tom is going to pay for that one later
Not surprised Sophie doesn't want to support the golden boy tbqh. Jimmy not wanting to go is surprising tho. Thought he loved big bro
Got a feeling Tom is going to pay for that one later
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djp73
- Posts: 13239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Damaged Petals.
Much better result on the field, hopefully see more of that and less of the four turnover games.
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 16808
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Life is about growth and evolving #message #nooticer
looking at that upcoming schedule, i'm not sure lmao
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 16808
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 4, Episode 4
Brice had the clip cued up before he even sat down. The second LaPenna closed the office door, Brice rotated his phone sideways and hit play.
“Watch this,” he said, already grinning.
On the screen, Brice drifted from the pocket and flicked the ball into the endzone, hitting the receiver in stride. He lifted his chin toward LaPenna, waiting for the reaction.
LaPenna smiled politely. “It’s a good throw.”
“Good?” Brice scoffed. “That’s an NFL fucking throw."
“It’s impressive,” LaPenna corrected gently. “But before we get into the highlights… I want to check in on how you’re handling everything this week. I’m sure you’ve seen that podcast clip by now."
Brice’s smile faded, just subtly, but he kept his eyes on the phone. “Man, we just scored twenty-eight in a quarter. Why would I waste time on some dudes talking nonsense?”
“You don’t have to waste time on it. But ignoring it isn’t the same as not caring.”
Brice shrugged hard, like he could force the topic off his shoulders. “It’s just some dudes in their mom’s basement talking about someone they wish they were. That’s all people do now—hate to get clicks. I’m not feeding into that.”
“Who said anything about feeding it?”
“You,” Brice shot back. “Every time something good happens, you steer it into the bad stuff. Like, I come in here hyped, and boom—straight to the drama.”
"Therapy isn’t always about making you feel good. It’s about what’s real. And the reality is, you’re about to play the program you were committed to. A program you’ve shared in the past you felt wronged you. The program people still bring up in conversations about you. And two popular podcasters called you overrated, spoiled, entitled—things we’ve spoken about in here."
Brice scoffed again, but deeper this time. “They’re fucking clowns. Who cares?”
“You tell me,” LaPenna said softly. “Who are you trying to convince—me or yourself?”
“I’m not trying to convince nobody shit," Brice scoffed. "I have a shitty game and have to hear about it all week but then when I do have a good game, it’s fucking crickets and people instead want to talk about some shit they don’t even know nothing about."
“That highlight you showed me,” LaPenna said, nodding at the phone, “is part of the story. But it’s not all of it. You had a great game—true. But the moment something uncomfortable comes up, you pivot. You look for something shiny. Something positive. Something you can point to and say, ‘See? I’m fine.’”
Brice crossed his arms. "Ain’t that what I’m supposed to be doing? Isn’t that what you tell your other depressed ass clients that come in here all mopey and shit. To focus on the good things? You think sitting around thinking about every hater makes you better?”
“I think acknowledging what affects you makes you honest,” LaPenna replied. “And I think pretending that Notre Dame doesn’t mean something to you is… a defense. One you’ve used for a long time.”
Brice didn’t answer. His sneaker tapped the carpet—restless, agitated.
LaPenna continued, “This is an emotional week, Brice. And it’s okay if it is. But if you refuse to even look at the emotions involved, you risk them blindsiding you when the game actually starts.”
Brice looked up sharply. “I’m not getting blindsided,” he said. “Not by Notre Dame. Not by anybody.”
LaPenna let the silence linger, giving him space to hear the defensiveness in his own words.
Finally, Brice shoved his phone back into his pocket and sat up straighter, as if locking the conversation into place.
“It’s just another game,” he said, voice cool, decisive. “I don’t even think it’s going to be an emotional game for me, honestly. Might not even talk shit this game."
…
"You’re sorry as fuck, dude," Brice told the defensive lineman, a third-year sophomore from Carmel, as soon as he peeled himself from the floor. He ignored the ache in his right side as he adjusted his helmet. "No wonder motherfuckers be running through Laney’s apartment like the common whore she is."
"Watch it, five!" the official warned. "I’ve already spoken to you about this."
"Yeah, whatever," Brice waved him off, looking toward the sideline for the next play.
The beginning of the game had been a bit of a blur, but the hit — and the sack — seemed to bring everything into focus. Notre Dame had scored on their first drive, and now, facing their first third down of the night, an early punt might trigger the blowout everyone was anticipating.
The ball was snapped a bit to Brice’s right, forcing him to reach out and snag it just in time to see the blitzing linebacker. The offensive line picked it up, giving him enough time to find Nitro across the middle on a drag route for the easy completion and the first down.
The Irish kept at it — bringing extra bodies to the line of scrimmage, sometimes dropping, sometimes blitzing — all to confuse the true freshman. But it didn’t seem to work as Purdue matriculated down the field.
"Throw toward the pressure," his father had always told him, the words ringing in his ears every time Notre Dame sent a corner or a linebacker.
They were on the fifteen-yard line when the first run play was sent in, Brice having led them there. He handed off to Gabriel and carried out his fake, dragging the edge defender with him. He knew it was a touchdown as soon as Gabriel passed the line of scrimmage, and Brice sprinted after him, bumping the defensive lineman from Carmel along the way.
"All fucking day, bitch!" he yelled. "Y’all better get fucking used to this shit!"
…
Brice saw his right guard get taken off his feet, nearly falling backward into his lap. He’d already been sacked twice and wasn’t taking any chances, tucking the ball and heading toward daylight. The linebacker reacted slower than expected, so Brice kept running, making sure he was past the sticks before sliding.
"That’s a first down, you fucking bitch!" he yelled to no one in particular as he signaled the first down. The defensive players surrounded him immediately, blocking his path to the huddle.
"Next one is a flag!" the official barked, inserting himself between them. Brice took his sweet time returning to the huddle, signaling another first down just because.
…
"Goddamn it," Corey slammed his fist into the ground, cursing himself as the defense celebrated around him.
Notre Dame had retaken the lead with their second touchdown of the night to make it 14–10 midway through the second quarter. Brice had thrown Corey the ball on third and six — Corey’s first target of the day — but the linebacker drove on it perfectly, knocking it loose.
"I saw you late," Brice tapped him on the helmet as the punt unit trotted onto the field.
"No fly zone, nigga!" yelled one of the Notre Dame defensive backs.
"Shut your ass up before I go at you all game," Brice shot back. "I don’t even know who you are, kid. You’re not even on the scouting report, bitch."
"Yeah, whatever, hoe-ass nigga," the defensive back clapped, forcing the official to step in.
…
Brice hated the call as soon as it came in — a flood concept he didn’t think would work — and it didn’t. Notre Dame stuck to the receivers easily, jamming everyone into the same small area of the field. Brice took off toward the sideline, eyes downfield, but eventually threw it out of bounds. His momentum carried him into a collision with Coach Marcus Freeman on the Notre Dame sideline.
Freeman held him up and went to pat his helmet, but Brice shoved him away, turning his back on the coach he’d once committed to.
"You’re a fucking snake-ass bitch," Brice muttered, making sure to sneak it in before the official arrived.
Freeman didn’t say anything, only shook his head and focused on his team. He didn’t need to say anything — not yet. Two plays later, on third and six, Brice missed Nitro on a throw that not only would’ve moved the chains but put them in field-goal range with ninety seconds left in the half.
"That’s the Brice I know!" Freeman shouted. Brice didn’t bother turning around this time.
…
Purdue’s defense played better than expected, giving the offense another shot before halftime. With forty seconds left, Brice kept the ball on a scramble, the defense dropping into a soft shell. He angled toward the sideline, got the first down, and — once again — bumped into Freeman.
"Yeah, hoe-ass bitch," Brice tossed the ball to him before turning away quickly, checking the official’s distance.
"Real tough guy," Freeman scoffed, flipping the ball to the official.
Brice started back toward him but Corey stepped in, pushing Brice toward the huddle.
"Focus on the fucking game, bro."
"Man, worry about catching the fucking football," Brice sucked his teeth. "I am focused."
And he was — finding De’Nylon across the middle for nine yards and then firing a rope to Nitro on a deep comeback that set up a field goal, making it 17–13 at halftime.
…
Brice knew he had Nitro the whole way; he just needed to create a better angle and buy him a step. He scrambled right, aware of the rush, and wound up. He didn’t see the completion — he got driven into the turf — but the roar told him all he needed. He got in the defender’s face anyway.
"Y’all picked the wrong motherfucking quarterback," Brice cackled. "I’m really like that."
"Yeah, aight, whatever, bitch," the defender barked back, the referee eyeing both of them. "He’s the one talking!"
"Stop being a hoe," Brice muttered just low enough.
…
"How is that a fucking flag?!" Nitro shouted at the official, hands in the air.
Purdue was deep in Notre Dame territory, having just converted a third down, before a flag was thrown for a block in the back.
"Don’t worry about it," Brice grabbed him, pulling him away, the roles reversed. "We’re good, alright?"
They wouldn’t be. The next pass fell incomplete thanks to immediate pressure, and they settled for a field goal to take a 19–17 lead.
It didn’t last. Notre Dame pinned them deep, and on the first play from their own seven-yard line, trouble hit.
Brice spotted De’Nylon breaking across the second level, but the defensive line was already collapsing on him. His hot read was covered, Gabriel was stuck in traffic, and Brice froze long enough to be shoved into the end zone.
"Fuck," he slammed the ball into the turf as the official signaled safety.
Tie game.
…
Brice rolled right as pressure broke through again. The defense looked like Cover 2, but the linebacker didn’t carry the slot vertical, leaving Corey wide open. It was a fifty-yard throw on the run — but Brice trusted his arm.
He got crushed as he released it. He looked up at the jumbotron as the stadium held its breath. The ball reached Corey, but the corner peeled off and knocked it loose. Brice stayed on the turf longer than he wanted — more dejected than hurt, though he was hurting too. He finally stood and clapped at his teammates.
"Come on, we’re good, we’re good." But he could feel it — the belief draining out of them. Down seven, eleven minutes left, facing third and two.
The next play was signaled in. Brice barked out orders, got under center, took the snap. Notre Dame stayed in two-high, the corner allowing Nitro a free release up the vertical. Brice thought about it — but between the underneath corner, the linebacker’s angle, and the safety capping it, he holstered it.
By the time he came off Nitro, the pocket was collapsing again. The tight end was covered, flats covered, De’Nylon had a 50/50 chance against one of the best corners in the country.
Brice drifted backward, looking for anything, but nothing came. He was swallowed for another sack.
"God fucking damn it, Brice," he cursed himself, ignoring the taunting. "Make a fucking decision, bitch."
…
"Someone fucking block for him!" Tom stood from his seat, hands in the air. He checked the clock — six minutes left — but hope was slipping. "Why are we running deep routes with this shitty ass line?!"
Liz covered her face, unable to watch her son take another hit.
"Come on, Brice," Jimmy muttered, "Get them going."
Sophie glanced up from her phone, a quiet resignation settling over the stadium.
Facing third and long, Brice took another hit but completed the pass to Nitro for a first down. The stadium erupted — more in shock than joy — but erupted nonetheless.
…
"He’s gotta hit that!" a fan down the row shouted, looking at Tom.
Tom didn’t respond, only glared. Brice had just missed a wide-open receiver with a chance to get into the red zone, four minutes left, down seven.
"Get it back, Brice!" Jimmy clapped.
Everyone stood — even Sophie, her phone ignored as she gnawed her fingernail.
Brice seemed unfazed by the miss, relaying the next play. Snap. As usual, his right guard got dumped, forcing Brice left, straight into pressure. He let it go just as a defender drove their shoulder into his chest.
First he heard the crowd pop — he even smiled as he looked upward. Then came the gasp. Then the silence.
Brice stayed down a moment, looking up as Notre Dame players swarmed the ball. The whistle came. They celebrated — returning every insult he’d given them.
Sophie’s hands were over her mouth. Jimmy’s were on his head, looking around in disbelief. Tom slumped into his seat, head in his hands. Liz stayed standing, eyes fixed on her son as he limped off.
…
The Irish touchdown that followed felt like a kick in the teeth after a gut punch. Purdue’s offense peeled itself off the bench, needing to play out a game that felt over.
Brice strapped on his helmet, walked over to George — who’d just fumbled — and grabbed him by the facemask.
"I’m going right back to you right fucking now and all fucking year," he told him. "Get over that shit."
George didn’t speak, only nodded, tears visible behind his visor.
…
"Hoe-ass bitch!" a defender yelled as Brice unstrapped his helmet, staring at the jumbotron replay of the interception. He’d tried to throw it away from the deep safety but the linebacker dropped under it.
It was irrelevant — the game was done — but the defense still celebrated, still taunted. And all he could do was walk over to the sideline.
ND (4-1, No. 14 AP) | 7 | 10 | 2 | 14 | 33
PUR (2-1, 0-0) | 7 | 6 | 6 | 0 | 19
ND QB C.J. Carr (R-Soph): 15-28, 206 Yds, TD, Sacked 7x
ND HB Gi'Bran Payne (R-Sr): 15 Car, 96 Yds, 3 TD
ND LB Taariq Al-Uqdah (R-Sr): 9 Tkl, 2 TFL, Sack, INT
PUR QB Brice Colton (Fr): 25-38, 219 Yds, INT, Sacked 7x
PUR HB Gabriel Joyner (Jr): 15 Car, 77 Yds, TD, 6 Rec, 43 Yds
PUR WR Nitro Tuggle (Jr): 7 Rec, 79 Yds
PUR TE George Burhenn (Jr): 4 Rec, 35 Yds, Fumble
Season Stats 78-108, 849 Yds, 6 TD, 3 INT, Sacked 13x, 30 Car, 111 Yds, 2 fumbles (2 lost)
Remaining Schedule vs. #18 Washington, vs. Maryland, vs. Wisconsin, at UCLA, at Iowa, vs. Minnesota, at #7 Penn State, at Illinois, at #12 Indiana
Brice had the clip cued up before he even sat down. The second LaPenna closed the office door, Brice rotated his phone sideways and hit play.
“Watch this,” he said, already grinning.
On the screen, Brice drifted from the pocket and flicked the ball into the endzone, hitting the receiver in stride. He lifted his chin toward LaPenna, waiting for the reaction.
LaPenna smiled politely. “It’s a good throw.”
“Good?” Brice scoffed. “That’s an NFL fucking throw."
“It’s impressive,” LaPenna corrected gently. “But before we get into the highlights… I want to check in on how you’re handling everything this week. I’m sure you’ve seen that podcast clip by now."
Brice’s smile faded, just subtly, but he kept his eyes on the phone. “Man, we just scored twenty-eight in a quarter. Why would I waste time on some dudes talking nonsense?”
“You don’t have to waste time on it. But ignoring it isn’t the same as not caring.”
Brice shrugged hard, like he could force the topic off his shoulders. “It’s just some dudes in their mom’s basement talking about someone they wish they were. That’s all people do now—hate to get clicks. I’m not feeding into that.”
“Who said anything about feeding it?”
“You,” Brice shot back. “Every time something good happens, you steer it into the bad stuff. Like, I come in here hyped, and boom—straight to the drama.”
"Therapy isn’t always about making you feel good. It’s about what’s real. And the reality is, you’re about to play the program you were committed to. A program you’ve shared in the past you felt wronged you. The program people still bring up in conversations about you. And two popular podcasters called you overrated, spoiled, entitled—things we’ve spoken about in here."
Brice scoffed again, but deeper this time. “They’re fucking clowns. Who cares?”
“You tell me,” LaPenna said softly. “Who are you trying to convince—me or yourself?”
“I’m not trying to convince nobody shit," Brice scoffed. "I have a shitty game and have to hear about it all week but then when I do have a good game, it’s fucking crickets and people instead want to talk about some shit they don’t even know nothing about."
“That highlight you showed me,” LaPenna said, nodding at the phone, “is part of the story. But it’s not all of it. You had a great game—true. But the moment something uncomfortable comes up, you pivot. You look for something shiny. Something positive. Something you can point to and say, ‘See? I’m fine.’”
Brice crossed his arms. "Ain’t that what I’m supposed to be doing? Isn’t that what you tell your other depressed ass clients that come in here all mopey and shit. To focus on the good things? You think sitting around thinking about every hater makes you better?”
“I think acknowledging what affects you makes you honest,” LaPenna replied. “And I think pretending that Notre Dame doesn’t mean something to you is… a defense. One you’ve used for a long time.”
Brice didn’t answer. His sneaker tapped the carpet—restless, agitated.
LaPenna continued, “This is an emotional week, Brice. And it’s okay if it is. But if you refuse to even look at the emotions involved, you risk them blindsiding you when the game actually starts.”
Brice looked up sharply. “I’m not getting blindsided,” he said. “Not by Notre Dame. Not by anybody.”
LaPenna let the silence linger, giving him space to hear the defensiveness in his own words.
Finally, Brice shoved his phone back into his pocket and sat up straighter, as if locking the conversation into place.
“It’s just another game,” he said, voice cool, decisive. “I don’t even think it’s going to be an emotional game for me, honestly. Might not even talk shit this game."
…
"You’re sorry as fuck, dude," Brice told the defensive lineman, a third-year sophomore from Carmel, as soon as he peeled himself from the floor. He ignored the ache in his right side as he adjusted his helmet. "No wonder motherfuckers be running through Laney’s apartment like the common whore she is."
"Watch it, five!" the official warned. "I’ve already spoken to you about this."
"Yeah, whatever," Brice waved him off, looking toward the sideline for the next play.
The beginning of the game had been a bit of a blur, but the hit — and the sack — seemed to bring everything into focus. Notre Dame had scored on their first drive, and now, facing their first third down of the night, an early punt might trigger the blowout everyone was anticipating.
The ball was snapped a bit to Brice’s right, forcing him to reach out and snag it just in time to see the blitzing linebacker. The offensive line picked it up, giving him enough time to find Nitro across the middle on a drag route for the easy completion and the first down.
The Irish kept at it — bringing extra bodies to the line of scrimmage, sometimes dropping, sometimes blitzing — all to confuse the true freshman. But it didn’t seem to work as Purdue matriculated down the field.
"Throw toward the pressure," his father had always told him, the words ringing in his ears every time Notre Dame sent a corner or a linebacker.
They were on the fifteen-yard line when the first run play was sent in, Brice having led them there. He handed off to Gabriel and carried out his fake, dragging the edge defender with him. He knew it was a touchdown as soon as Gabriel passed the line of scrimmage, and Brice sprinted after him, bumping the defensive lineman from Carmel along the way.
"All fucking day, bitch!" he yelled. "Y’all better get fucking used to this shit!"
…
Brice saw his right guard get taken off his feet, nearly falling backward into his lap. He’d already been sacked twice and wasn’t taking any chances, tucking the ball and heading toward daylight. The linebacker reacted slower than expected, so Brice kept running, making sure he was past the sticks before sliding.
"That’s a first down, you fucking bitch!" he yelled to no one in particular as he signaled the first down. The defensive players surrounded him immediately, blocking his path to the huddle.
"Next one is a flag!" the official barked, inserting himself between them. Brice took his sweet time returning to the huddle, signaling another first down just because.
…
"Goddamn it," Corey slammed his fist into the ground, cursing himself as the defense celebrated around him.
Notre Dame had retaken the lead with their second touchdown of the night to make it 14–10 midway through the second quarter. Brice had thrown Corey the ball on third and six — Corey’s first target of the day — but the linebacker drove on it perfectly, knocking it loose.
"I saw you late," Brice tapped him on the helmet as the punt unit trotted onto the field.
"No fly zone, nigga!" yelled one of the Notre Dame defensive backs.
"Shut your ass up before I go at you all game," Brice shot back. "I don’t even know who you are, kid. You’re not even on the scouting report, bitch."
"Yeah, whatever, hoe-ass nigga," the defensive back clapped, forcing the official to step in.
…
Brice hated the call as soon as it came in — a flood concept he didn’t think would work — and it didn’t. Notre Dame stuck to the receivers easily, jamming everyone into the same small area of the field. Brice took off toward the sideline, eyes downfield, but eventually threw it out of bounds. His momentum carried him into a collision with Coach Marcus Freeman on the Notre Dame sideline.
Freeman held him up and went to pat his helmet, but Brice shoved him away, turning his back on the coach he’d once committed to.
"You’re a fucking snake-ass bitch," Brice muttered, making sure to sneak it in before the official arrived.
Freeman didn’t say anything, only shook his head and focused on his team. He didn’t need to say anything — not yet. Two plays later, on third and six, Brice missed Nitro on a throw that not only would’ve moved the chains but put them in field-goal range with ninety seconds left in the half.
"That’s the Brice I know!" Freeman shouted. Brice didn’t bother turning around this time.
…
Purdue’s defense played better than expected, giving the offense another shot before halftime. With forty seconds left, Brice kept the ball on a scramble, the defense dropping into a soft shell. He angled toward the sideline, got the first down, and — once again — bumped into Freeman.
"Yeah, hoe-ass bitch," Brice tossed the ball to him before turning away quickly, checking the official’s distance.
"Real tough guy," Freeman scoffed, flipping the ball to the official.
Brice started back toward him but Corey stepped in, pushing Brice toward the huddle.
"Focus on the fucking game, bro."
"Man, worry about catching the fucking football," Brice sucked his teeth. "I am focused."
And he was — finding De’Nylon across the middle for nine yards and then firing a rope to Nitro on a deep comeback that set up a field goal, making it 17–13 at halftime.
…
Brice knew he had Nitro the whole way; he just needed to create a better angle and buy him a step. He scrambled right, aware of the rush, and wound up. He didn’t see the completion — he got driven into the turf — but the roar told him all he needed. He got in the defender’s face anyway.
"Y’all picked the wrong motherfucking quarterback," Brice cackled. "I’m really like that."
"Yeah, aight, whatever, bitch," the defender barked back, the referee eyeing both of them. "He’s the one talking!"
"Stop being a hoe," Brice muttered just low enough.
…
"How is that a fucking flag?!" Nitro shouted at the official, hands in the air.
Purdue was deep in Notre Dame territory, having just converted a third down, before a flag was thrown for a block in the back.
"Don’t worry about it," Brice grabbed him, pulling him away, the roles reversed. "We’re good, alright?"
They wouldn’t be. The next pass fell incomplete thanks to immediate pressure, and they settled for a field goal to take a 19–17 lead.
It didn’t last. Notre Dame pinned them deep, and on the first play from their own seven-yard line, trouble hit.
Brice spotted De’Nylon breaking across the second level, but the defensive line was already collapsing on him. His hot read was covered, Gabriel was stuck in traffic, and Brice froze long enough to be shoved into the end zone.
"Fuck," he slammed the ball into the turf as the official signaled safety.
Tie game.
…
Brice rolled right as pressure broke through again. The defense looked like Cover 2, but the linebacker didn’t carry the slot vertical, leaving Corey wide open. It was a fifty-yard throw on the run — but Brice trusted his arm.
He got crushed as he released it. He looked up at the jumbotron as the stadium held its breath. The ball reached Corey, but the corner peeled off and knocked it loose. Brice stayed on the turf longer than he wanted — more dejected than hurt, though he was hurting too. He finally stood and clapped at his teammates.
"Come on, we’re good, we’re good." But he could feel it — the belief draining out of them. Down seven, eleven minutes left, facing third and two.
The next play was signaled in. Brice barked out orders, got under center, took the snap. Notre Dame stayed in two-high, the corner allowing Nitro a free release up the vertical. Brice thought about it — but between the underneath corner, the linebacker’s angle, and the safety capping it, he holstered it.
By the time he came off Nitro, the pocket was collapsing again. The tight end was covered, flats covered, De’Nylon had a 50/50 chance against one of the best corners in the country.
Brice drifted backward, looking for anything, but nothing came. He was swallowed for another sack.
"God fucking damn it, Brice," he cursed himself, ignoring the taunting. "Make a fucking decision, bitch."
…
"Someone fucking block for him!" Tom stood from his seat, hands in the air. He checked the clock — six minutes left — but hope was slipping. "Why are we running deep routes with this shitty ass line?!"
Liz covered her face, unable to watch her son take another hit.
"Come on, Brice," Jimmy muttered, "Get them going."
Sophie glanced up from her phone, a quiet resignation settling over the stadium.
Facing third and long, Brice took another hit but completed the pass to Nitro for a first down. The stadium erupted — more in shock than joy — but erupted nonetheless.
…
"He’s gotta hit that!" a fan down the row shouted, looking at Tom.
Tom didn’t respond, only glared. Brice had just missed a wide-open receiver with a chance to get into the red zone, four minutes left, down seven.
"Get it back, Brice!" Jimmy clapped.
Everyone stood — even Sophie, her phone ignored as she gnawed her fingernail.
Brice seemed unfazed by the miss, relaying the next play. Snap. As usual, his right guard got dumped, forcing Brice left, straight into pressure. He let it go just as a defender drove their shoulder into his chest.
First he heard the crowd pop — he even smiled as he looked upward. Then came the gasp. Then the silence.
Brice stayed down a moment, looking up as Notre Dame players swarmed the ball. The whistle came. They celebrated — returning every insult he’d given them.
Sophie’s hands were over her mouth. Jimmy’s were on his head, looking around in disbelief. Tom slumped into his seat, head in his hands. Liz stayed standing, eyes fixed on her son as he limped off.
…
The Irish touchdown that followed felt like a kick in the teeth after a gut punch. Purdue’s offense peeled itself off the bench, needing to play out a game that felt over.
Brice strapped on his helmet, walked over to George — who’d just fumbled — and grabbed him by the facemask.
"I’m going right back to you right fucking now and all fucking year," he told him. "Get over that shit."
George didn’t speak, only nodded, tears visible behind his visor.
…
"Hoe-ass bitch!" a defender yelled as Brice unstrapped his helmet, staring at the jumbotron replay of the interception. He’d tried to throw it away from the deep safety but the linebacker dropped under it.
It was irrelevant — the game was done — but the defense still celebrated, still taunted. And all he could do was walk over to the sideline.
ND (4-1, No. 14 AP) | 7 | 10 | 2 | 14 | 33
PUR (2-1, 0-0) | 7 | 6 | 6 | 0 | 19
ND QB C.J. Carr (R-Soph): 15-28, 206 Yds, TD, Sacked 7x
ND HB Gi'Bran Payne (R-Sr): 15 Car, 96 Yds, 3 TD
ND LB Taariq Al-Uqdah (R-Sr): 9 Tkl, 2 TFL, Sack, INT
PUR QB Brice Colton (Fr): 25-38, 219 Yds, INT, Sacked 7x
PUR HB Gabriel Joyner (Jr): 15 Car, 77 Yds, TD, 6 Rec, 43 Yds
PUR WR Nitro Tuggle (Jr): 7 Rec, 79 Yds
PUR TE George Burhenn (Jr): 4 Rec, 35 Yds, Fumble
Season Stats 78-108, 849 Yds, 6 TD, 3 INT, Sacked 13x, 30 Car, 111 Yds, 2 fumbles (2 lost)
Remaining Schedule vs. #18 Washington, vs. Maryland, vs. Wisconsin, at UCLA, at Iowa, vs. Minnesota, at #7 Penn State, at Illinois, at #12 Indiana
-
Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16972
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
You not slick fn. don’t be surprised when a “Connie” show up at a 3NG party.
Getting sacked 7 times is crazy, maybe if Brice would’ve spent more of his mental energy on speeding up the processor and getting the ball out sooner instead of talking shit to a team putting belt to ass, he wouldn’t have been getting a train run on him in the backfield.
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djp73
- Posts: 13239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Damaged Petals.
Fuckin George
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 16808
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Caesar wrote: ↑01 Dec 2025, 11:25You not slick fn. don’t be surprised when a “Connie” show up at a 3NG party.
Getting sacked 7 times is crazy, maybe if Brice would’ve spent more of his mental energy on speeding up the processor and getting the ball out sooner instead of talking shit to a team putting belt to ass, he wouldn’t have been getting a train run on him in the backfield.
bruh when i saw that fumble
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 16808
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 4, Episode 5
Connie sat curled into the corner of the couch today, legs tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. She looked tired, but not in a defeated way — more like she’d been carrying something around all week and finally set it down.
“I didn’t go,” she said before Mendel could even ask.
Dr. Mendel didn’t react, not with surprise or approval. She just turned her pen between her fingers. “You’d been thinking about it.”
“I know.” Connie chewed her lip. “And then when it got close, I just… I don’t know. I froze. I kept picturing him on the field and it felt—too much."
Mendel nodded, slow. “Too much… what?”
Connie hesitated. “Too much like I wouldn’t be able to trust myself.”
Mendel didn’t rush the next question. “Trust yourself to do what?”
Connie stared at the carpet. “React. Feel things. Like—what if I saw him and it all came back? Not even in a dramatic way. Just… in my face. On my face. And Eli would be right there.”
Mendel waited. “And he doesn’t know.”
“No.” Connie tugged at a loose thread.
Mendel’s voice stayed soft, neutral. “You were afraid your partner would see something you’re not ready to explain.”
Connie nodded quickly, like she wanted to get the agreement out before she changed her mind. “Yeah. Exactly. Because if I’m sitting there, and Brice is down on the field, and something in me… flinches?” She shook her head. “Eli notices everything. He’d ask. And I don’t know how to talk about any of that without feeling like I’m just undoing all the work I’ve been doing to get over this.”
Mendel let that settle. “Does avoiding the game feel like protection?”
“A little.” Connie’s voice got small. “And a little like running.”
“What were you running from?” Mendel asked.
Connie swallowed. “The version of me that still feels something when it comes to him. Even if it’s not love. Even if it’s not… that. It’s history. It’s guilt. It’s whatever the hell it is that makes my stomach twist when someone mentions his name or watch his game from my phone in a bathroom like some creep.”
Mendel tapped her pen once against her notepad. “And you didn’t trust that version of you to stay quiet.”
Connie blinked, eyes glossy. “No. I didn’t trust her at all.”
Mendel leaned back. “Is she dangerous?”
Connie frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“Is she dishonest?”
“No.”
“Is she trying to hurt Eli?”
Connie shook her head again, slower this time. “No. She’s just… scared.”
Mendel offered a small, almost invisible smile. “Then maybe the goal isn’t to silence her. Maybe it’s to get curious about her. She’s carrying something you haven’t finished putting down.”
Connie sat with that, the words landing heavier than she expected. “It just feels like every time I get close to moving forward, something drags me back.”
Mendel scribbled something, then looked up. “Moving forward doesn’t mean pretending the past didn’t happen. It means not letting it dictate your choices without your permission.”
Connie let out a breath. “I’m not there yet.”
“You don’t have to be,” Mendel said. “You showed yourself something important by not going. Now the question is why that felt safer. And what you need so that, eventually, you won’t have to hide from your own reactions.”
Connie’s eyes softened. “That sounds like a lot.”
“It is,” Mendel said gently. “But it’s also how people start telling the truth to themselves.”
…
Brice slouched into the chair the way he always did, like he was settling in to watch film, not talk about feelings.
LaPenna didn’t comment on it. He never did.
“You watched the game yet?” Brice asked, like he was starting the session on his terms.
“I saw parts,” LaPenna said. “I imagine you’ve seen it a few times."
Brice smirked. “Yeah. A couple times.”
There was a beat. LaPenna waited.
“So?” he asked. “How’d it feel, playing against that team?"
Brice shrugged. “It was a good game."
LaPenna raised an eyebrow. “Any other game.”
He shifted, catching the implication. “Look, everyone keeps acting like this Notre Dame thing was some emotional Super Bowl for me. It wasn’t.” He leaned back, cracking his knuckles. “I played hard. I talked some shit. We took a team that’s supposed to be one of the best in the country into the fourth quarter and had a chance to win until the end."
“You talked some shit?” his tone stayed even.
“Yeah,” he almost laughed. “I mean, yeah, it’s football. Get the guys going, make sure nobody’s sleep walking out there."
LaPenna watched him. “It gets you going too.”
“I guess,” Brice gestured vaguely, "It’s part of being a leader, you know, making sure your guys are with you and locked in."
“So you talking trash is leadership,” he repeated, not mocking, just turning the phrase over.
Brice frowned a little, like he could already feel him steering the wheel.
“It is,” he insisted, "Look, I know everyone thinks I’m this fucking mad man but I know that line and I straddle it, pause, and then it gets me going, helps me lock the fuck in."
LaPenna nodded once, as if he was simply taking inventory. “So the things you say out loud—to them—are really meant for you.”
Brice opened his mouth, closed it, then huffed. “I mean… yeah. Sometimes. It’s like… I don’t know. What’s that thing called, actualization? You keep telling the other team they suck, they might believe it. You remind them who they are and you remind yourself, your teammates, who they are too.”
LaPenna didn’t move, but something in his attention sharpened.
“And do you need to tell yourself?” she asked.
Brice stiffened. “Everyone does.”
“Do they?”
He exhaled through his nose, annoyed. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Where you try to make everything sound deeper than it is.”
LaPenna let the silence stretch just long enough to make the point that he wasn’t the one making it deep.
“Brice,” he said gently, “There’s a myriad of things that trash talking can be; fun, engaging, competitive but you described something else — almost like… self-coaching.”
“It’s part of the game,” Brice said quickly. “All the greats do it.”
“Do they?” he asked again, same tone, same softness.
Brice’s jaw worked. “Look, you don’t get it. When you’re out there, and everything’s loud, and you feel everyone waiting to see if you’re gonna fuck up—”
He stopped, realized he’d said too much, looked away.
“You gotta make yourself bigger. Louder. So the nerves don’t… I don’t know. Take over.”
LaPenna stayed still. “So it’s not always confidence.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” he said, “But you said the nerves are there.”
Brice clenched and unclenched his fist. “Every quarterback gets nerves. You’re going to have a shitty game if you’re not nervous.”
“That isn’t what you told yourself on the field.”
He didn’t answer.
“Is it hard,” LaPenna continued gently, “to let yourself admit that the confidence isn’t always there? Even privately?”
Brice swallowed. Looked at the floor. “I don’t… I’m not tryna dissect it like that.”
“I know,” he said. “But you’re doing it anyway.”
He let out a small, reluctant laugh. “Guess you always find a way to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Get in my head.”
LaPenna smiled. “I don’t want to get in your head, Brice. I want you to hear what’s already in there.”
He frowned at that, like he wasn’t sure if he found it insightful or irritating.
He added, “You handled the moment better than you would’ve a month ago.”
He blinked, surprised. “Really?”
“Yes.” he nodded. “You didn’t spiral. You didn’t shut down. You didn’t avoid what happened on the field, even though I can tell part of you wants to.”
Brice sat up slightly, caught between pride and discomfort.
“Look,” he said, needing the last word, “I’m fine. Notre Dame—this whole thing—it didn’t get to me. I wasn’t emotional. I wasn’t controlled by it.”
LaPenna waited.
“It was just another game,” he said finally. “And I’m not gonna let emotions control me.”
He didn’t say anything, but the quiet acknowledgment in his eyes suggested he heard both the conviction — and the tiny, trembling thread beneath it.
And Brice, without realizing it, was hearing it too.
…
Brice closed the door with a satisfied grin on his face, heeding Artie’s advice to limit his “home games” going forward. His roommate was right. As he exited her dorm and glanced at his phone, the text thread already working on another encounter for the night. His body ached with every step toward the staircase, but the temporary dopamine—and the prospect of more—pushed him through it. He stuffed his phone into his pocket, plans locked in for the rest of the evening.
“I can’t say I’m surprised.”
He recognized the voice instantly. He turned to see her holding a white laundry basket in front of her, leaning back to keep its weight balanced against her chest. A smile crept across his face as he walked toward her. “Get that for you?”
Mel paused before handing it over. The relief came immediately as Brice lifted it out of her arms with no effort at all. She seemed suddenly aware of how much bigger he was than her.
“What do you mean by that?” Brice asked as they started down the steps. He let himself fall a few steps behind her—her body reminding him of Connie’s when she’d put on pregnancy weight in all the right places. Brice had loved it and told her as much, but she’d shed it quickly after—depression, borderline psychosis, and all that.
“You know exactly what I mean,” Mel scoffed as they headed toward the laundry room.
“We were studying,” Brice teased. “I’m a great tutor, you know.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said, holding the door open to the terrace that separated the dorm from the laundry building. “I saw you at that event last week.”
“Now who’s stalking who?”
“Clearly you,” she laughed, opening the next door into the laundry room. “I thought you were lost for a second.”
“Why? Because I’m white?” Brice let out a wry chuckle.
“Exactly. You must be confused or something.”
She took the basket back and set it on an empty table. The laundry room was empty—one of the perks of waiting until nightfall, a habit she’d learned over the years. She began separating whites from colors, the irony lost on both of them. “Or are you trying to show your teammates you’re down for the cause?”
“I’m just appreciative of Black culture,” Brice shrugged. “Especially the women.”
“You’re exhausting,” she shook her head. “You people love to come here, make a few Black friends, learn a couple TikTok dances and some rap lyrics, and get to cosplay as some nigga from Gary before going back to Terre Haute and being the good little white boy your daddy raised you to be.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Brice held his hands up, laughing. “I’m from South Bend. Get it right.”
“You might actually be too dumb for me to get mad at you.” Mel tried—and failed—to keep a smile from creeping onto her face.
“How could you be mad at this beautiful face?” Brice said, propping his chin on his palm.
“Keep it moving, white boy,” she scoffed and shooed him with her hands, "Your services are no longer needed."
“See you around,” he smirked, heading for the door.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said without looking up from the clothes in front of her. “Thanks for the help.”
Connie sat curled into the corner of the couch today, legs tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. She looked tired, but not in a defeated way — more like she’d been carrying something around all week and finally set it down.
“I didn’t go,” she said before Mendel could even ask.
Dr. Mendel didn’t react, not with surprise or approval. She just turned her pen between her fingers. “You’d been thinking about it.”
“I know.” Connie chewed her lip. “And then when it got close, I just… I don’t know. I froze. I kept picturing him on the field and it felt—too much."
Mendel nodded, slow. “Too much… what?”
Connie hesitated. “Too much like I wouldn’t be able to trust myself.”
Mendel didn’t rush the next question. “Trust yourself to do what?”
Connie stared at the carpet. “React. Feel things. Like—what if I saw him and it all came back? Not even in a dramatic way. Just… in my face. On my face. And Eli would be right there.”
Mendel waited. “And he doesn’t know.”
“No.” Connie tugged at a loose thread.
Mendel’s voice stayed soft, neutral. “You were afraid your partner would see something you’re not ready to explain.”
Connie nodded quickly, like she wanted to get the agreement out before she changed her mind. “Yeah. Exactly. Because if I’m sitting there, and Brice is down on the field, and something in me… flinches?” She shook her head. “Eli notices everything. He’d ask. And I don’t know how to talk about any of that without feeling like I’m just undoing all the work I’ve been doing to get over this.”
Mendel let that settle. “Does avoiding the game feel like protection?”
“A little.” Connie’s voice got small. “And a little like running.”
“What were you running from?” Mendel asked.
Connie swallowed. “The version of me that still feels something when it comes to him. Even if it’s not love. Even if it’s not… that. It’s history. It’s guilt. It’s whatever the hell it is that makes my stomach twist when someone mentions his name or watch his game from my phone in a bathroom like some creep.”
Mendel tapped her pen once against her notepad. “And you didn’t trust that version of you to stay quiet.”
Connie blinked, eyes glossy. “No. I didn’t trust her at all.”
Mendel leaned back. “Is she dangerous?”
Connie frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“Is she dishonest?”
“No.”
“Is she trying to hurt Eli?”
Connie shook her head again, slower this time. “No. She’s just… scared.”
Mendel offered a small, almost invisible smile. “Then maybe the goal isn’t to silence her. Maybe it’s to get curious about her. She’s carrying something you haven’t finished putting down.”
Connie sat with that, the words landing heavier than she expected. “It just feels like every time I get close to moving forward, something drags me back.”
Mendel scribbled something, then looked up. “Moving forward doesn’t mean pretending the past didn’t happen. It means not letting it dictate your choices without your permission.”
Connie let out a breath. “I’m not there yet.”
“You don’t have to be,” Mendel said. “You showed yourself something important by not going. Now the question is why that felt safer. And what you need so that, eventually, you won’t have to hide from your own reactions.”
Connie’s eyes softened. “That sounds like a lot.”
“It is,” Mendel said gently. “But it’s also how people start telling the truth to themselves.”
…
Brice slouched into the chair the way he always did, like he was settling in to watch film, not talk about feelings.
LaPenna didn’t comment on it. He never did.
“You watched the game yet?” Brice asked, like he was starting the session on his terms.
“I saw parts,” LaPenna said. “I imagine you’ve seen it a few times."
Brice smirked. “Yeah. A couple times.”
There was a beat. LaPenna waited.
“So?” he asked. “How’d it feel, playing against that team?"
Brice shrugged. “It was a good game."
LaPenna raised an eyebrow. “Any other game.”
He shifted, catching the implication. “Look, everyone keeps acting like this Notre Dame thing was some emotional Super Bowl for me. It wasn’t.” He leaned back, cracking his knuckles. “I played hard. I talked some shit. We took a team that’s supposed to be one of the best in the country into the fourth quarter and had a chance to win until the end."
“You talked some shit?” his tone stayed even.
“Yeah,” he almost laughed. “I mean, yeah, it’s football. Get the guys going, make sure nobody’s sleep walking out there."
LaPenna watched him. “It gets you going too.”
“I guess,” Brice gestured vaguely, "It’s part of being a leader, you know, making sure your guys are with you and locked in."
“So you talking trash is leadership,” he repeated, not mocking, just turning the phrase over.
Brice frowned a little, like he could already feel him steering the wheel.
“It is,” he insisted, "Look, I know everyone thinks I’m this fucking mad man but I know that line and I straddle it, pause, and then it gets me going, helps me lock the fuck in."
LaPenna nodded once, as if he was simply taking inventory. “So the things you say out loud—to them—are really meant for you.”
Brice opened his mouth, closed it, then huffed. “I mean… yeah. Sometimes. It’s like… I don’t know. What’s that thing called, actualization? You keep telling the other team they suck, they might believe it. You remind them who they are and you remind yourself, your teammates, who they are too.”
LaPenna didn’t move, but something in his attention sharpened.
“And do you need to tell yourself?” she asked.
Brice stiffened. “Everyone does.”
“Do they?”
He exhaled through his nose, annoyed. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Where you try to make everything sound deeper than it is.”
LaPenna let the silence stretch just long enough to make the point that he wasn’t the one making it deep.
“Brice,” he said gently, “There’s a myriad of things that trash talking can be; fun, engaging, competitive but you described something else — almost like… self-coaching.”
“It’s part of the game,” Brice said quickly. “All the greats do it.”
“Do they?” he asked again, same tone, same softness.
Brice’s jaw worked. “Look, you don’t get it. When you’re out there, and everything’s loud, and you feel everyone waiting to see if you’re gonna fuck up—”
He stopped, realized he’d said too much, looked away.
“You gotta make yourself bigger. Louder. So the nerves don’t… I don’t know. Take over.”
LaPenna stayed still. “So it’s not always confidence.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” he said, “But you said the nerves are there.”
Brice clenched and unclenched his fist. “Every quarterback gets nerves. You’re going to have a shitty game if you’re not nervous.”
“That isn’t what you told yourself on the field.”
He didn’t answer.
“Is it hard,” LaPenna continued gently, “to let yourself admit that the confidence isn’t always there? Even privately?”
Brice swallowed. Looked at the floor. “I don’t… I’m not tryna dissect it like that.”
“I know,” he said. “But you’re doing it anyway.”
He let out a small, reluctant laugh. “Guess you always find a way to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Get in my head.”
LaPenna smiled. “I don’t want to get in your head, Brice. I want you to hear what’s already in there.”
He frowned at that, like he wasn’t sure if he found it insightful or irritating.
He added, “You handled the moment better than you would’ve a month ago.”
He blinked, surprised. “Really?”
“Yes.” he nodded. “You didn’t spiral. You didn’t shut down. You didn’t avoid what happened on the field, even though I can tell part of you wants to.”
Brice sat up slightly, caught between pride and discomfort.
“Look,” he said, needing the last word, “I’m fine. Notre Dame—this whole thing—it didn’t get to me. I wasn’t emotional. I wasn’t controlled by it.”
LaPenna waited.
“It was just another game,” he said finally. “And I’m not gonna let emotions control me.”
He didn’t say anything, but the quiet acknowledgment in his eyes suggested he heard both the conviction — and the tiny, trembling thread beneath it.
And Brice, without realizing it, was hearing it too.
…
Brice closed the door with a satisfied grin on his face, heeding Artie’s advice to limit his “home games” going forward. His roommate was right. As he exited her dorm and glanced at his phone, the text thread already working on another encounter for the night. His body ached with every step toward the staircase, but the temporary dopamine—and the prospect of more—pushed him through it. He stuffed his phone into his pocket, plans locked in for the rest of the evening.
“I can’t say I’m surprised.”
He recognized the voice instantly. He turned to see her holding a white laundry basket in front of her, leaning back to keep its weight balanced against her chest. A smile crept across his face as he walked toward her. “Get that for you?”
Mel paused before handing it over. The relief came immediately as Brice lifted it out of her arms with no effort at all. She seemed suddenly aware of how much bigger he was than her.
“What do you mean by that?” Brice asked as they started down the steps. He let himself fall a few steps behind her—her body reminding him of Connie’s when she’d put on pregnancy weight in all the right places. Brice had loved it and told her as much, but she’d shed it quickly after—depression, borderline psychosis, and all that.
“You know exactly what I mean,” Mel scoffed as they headed toward the laundry room.
“We were studying,” Brice teased. “I’m a great tutor, you know.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said, holding the door open to the terrace that separated the dorm from the laundry building. “I saw you at that event last week.”
“Now who’s stalking who?”
“Clearly you,” she laughed, opening the next door into the laundry room. “I thought you were lost for a second.”
“Why? Because I’m white?” Brice let out a wry chuckle.
“Exactly. You must be confused or something.”
She took the basket back and set it on an empty table. The laundry room was empty—one of the perks of waiting until nightfall, a habit she’d learned over the years. She began separating whites from colors, the irony lost on both of them. “Or are you trying to show your teammates you’re down for the cause?”
“I’m just appreciative of Black culture,” Brice shrugged. “Especially the women.”
“You’re exhausting,” she shook her head. “You people love to come here, make a few Black friends, learn a couple TikTok dances and some rap lyrics, and get to cosplay as some nigga from Gary before going back to Terre Haute and being the good little white boy your daddy raised you to be.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Brice held his hands up, laughing. “I’m from South Bend. Get it right.”
“You might actually be too dumb for me to get mad at you.” Mel tried—and failed—to keep a smile from creeping onto her face.
“How could you be mad at this beautiful face?” Brice said, propping his chin on his palm.
“Keep it moving, white boy,” she scoffed and shooed him with her hands, "Your services are no longer needed."
“See you around,” he smirked, heading for the door.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said without looking up from the clothes in front of her. “Thanks for the help.”
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16972
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Thinking about stuff on her face while thinking about Brice?
I need Mel to shut this shit down. She entertaining this entirely too long
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redsox907
- Posts: 6338
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
Connie gonna fold the first time Brice slides in her DMs again 
Our dude didn't even throw a touchdown against the team that spurned him?
Brice building up this bigger than life ego to make up for the fact he feels alone and abandoned huh. Gotta say, Freeman won that exchange
Our dude didn't even throw a touchdown against the team that spurned him?
Brice building up this bigger than life ego to make up for the fact he feels alone and abandoned huh. Gotta say, Freeman won that exchange