Season 4, Episode 8
“So,” Brice said, stretching the word out, “Let’s just say…hypothetically.”
LaPenna didn’t look up from his notepad. “There’s no such thing as hypothetically in here.”
Brice smirked. “You say that every time.”
“And you say ‘hypothetically’ every time,” LaPenna replied with his own smirk. “Go on.”
Brice rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. “Let’s say you’re in a situation where… you’re doing what you’re supposed to do. You’re showing up. You’re taking the hits. You’re making the throws. And other people—”
“Receivers dropping balls. Linemen missing blocks. Guys freelancing instead of doing their job.” Brice shrugged. “Little shit. But it adds up.”
“And this is bothering you,” LaPenna said.
“It’s annoying,” Brice corrected. “Bothering feels a bit dramatic.”
LaPenna nodded, unfazed. “Annoying enough to bring it here.”
Brice exhaled through his nose. “I’m just saying, at some point you gotta demand more, right? Hold people accountable?”
“Do you feel you aren’t allowed to do that?”
Brice scoffed. “No. I’m the quarterback. I can say whatever the fuck I want.”
“Can you?” LaPenna asked gently.
The question sat longer than Brice wanted it to.
“I mean… yeah,” he said after a beat. “But there’s a difference between saying something and…nevermind."
LaPenna waited. He always did.
“Between saying something and being a fucking dickhead,” Brice finished. “The one everyone thinks is an asshole. Or thinks he’s blaming everyone else.”
“And that concerns you,” LaPenna said.
Brice laughed, sharp and defensive. “Jesus, man, you make it sound like I care what they think and I don’t.”
LaPenna didn’t argue. “You do care,” he said simply. “You just don’t like that you do.”
Brice looked away, eyes drifting to the window. Outside, a grounds crew member pushed a cart across the quad, unbothered, methodical.
“I don’t need them to like me,” Brice said. “I need them to play better.”
“Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive,” LaPenna replied.
Brice frowned. “Feels like they are.”
“Why?”
“Because every time you get on somebody, there’s this unspoken thing,” Brice said. “Like, ‘Oh, here he goes again.’ Like I’m being dramatic or pointing fingers.”
“Are you pointing fingers?”
Brice hesitated. “Sometimes.”
LaPenna nodded. “At whom?”
Brice opened his mouth, then closed it. He scratched at the tape residue still stuck to his wrist.
“At them,” he said. “At myself. Depends on the day.”
“That’s honest,” LaPenna said.
Brice shot him a look. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it sound like I’m having some breakthrough.”
LaPenna smiled faintly. “You don’t have to call it that for it to be one.”
Silence settled between them, familiar now, less threatening than it used to be.
“So what,” Brice said finally, “I’m supposed to, what, ask nicely?”
“What happens when you don’t?” LaPenna asked.
Brice leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t know…it was different at St. Joes. Everyone knew who I was before I took a snap and I guess that’s the same here, just in a different way."
“I’m sure you’ve done it a different way as well,” LaPenna continued. “What happened when you maybe took the time to go over their mistakes and provide a helping hand in trying to correct it instead of highlighting it? We’ve spoken about your brother before, how you helped teach him the game, learn the ropes. I’m sure there was some patience there, some care."
“Yeah, I guess,” Brice admitted.
“And it worked, right? He’s a pretty good player from my understand."
Brice nodded.
"Why do you think people respond differently when the approach is different?"
“Because—” Brice stopped himself, annoyed. “Because they don’t feel attacked.”
LaPenna let the words sit.
“So you already know part of the answer,” he said. “You’re not asking how to demand more. You’re asking how to do it without becoming someone you don’t want to be.”
Brice stared at the floor. “I don’t want to be weak or like a pushover.”
“Accountability isn’t weakness,” LaPenna said. “Neither is vulnerability.”
Brice laughed softly. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“I say it like it’s a skill,” LaPenna replied. “One that has to constantly developed and worked on."
Brice leaned back again, this time planting all four chair legs firmly on the ground.
“So what,” he said. “I pull guys aside? Do the whole ‘I believe in you’ speech?”
“You might,” LaPenna said. “Or you might start by asking questions instead of making statements.”
Brice grimaced. “That sounds like some HR shit.”
LaPenna smiled. “It sounds like leadership.”
Brice didn’t respond right away. His jaw worked, the way it did when he was trying not to snap back.
“And if they still don’t execute?” he asked.
“Then you’ve done your part,” LaPenna said. “And you address performance, not character. You demand effort without attacking identity.”
Brice nodded slowly. “Performance, not character.”
LaPenna caught it. “You’re listening.”
“Don’t get excited,” Brice muttered.
LaPenna leaned back in his chair. “You came in asking how to make people better. What I’m hearing is that you’re starting to understand the weight you carry in the room.”
Brice swallowed. “That weight didn’t ask for me.”
“No,” LaPenna agreed. “But you have it.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“So,” Brice said quietly, almost to himself, “if I fuck this up…”
“You will,” LaPenna said without hesitation.
Brice looked up, surprised.
“And you’ll learn,” LaPenna continued. “That’s the work. Not being perfect. Being intentional.”
Brice nodded once, sharp.
“Alright,” he said, standing up. “Cool.”
“Cool,” LaPenna echoed.
…
“Bullshit.”
“The girl from the writing center made it eight, bro,” Conrad nodded with a smirk. “I told you I’m getting the Freshman 25.”
“Even if it’s eight,” Tory conceded, twirling a pen between his fingers, “that’s still a long way from twenty-five.”
They were posted up in the student center, three guys who looked like they’d been pulled straight from frat boy central casting. Conrad leaned back in his chair, hoodie draped over broad shoulders, Tory hunched forward with restless energy, while Eli sat across from them with an open textbook, trying—and failing—to lock in. Around them, the place buzzed: students weaving through with Styrofoam trays from the food court, others clutching textbooks and notebooks from the bookstore, a small crowd forming near the printers as deadlines loomed twenty minutes out.
“What you at, Eli?” Tory asked.
Eli didn’t look up, eyes tracking the same sentence for the third time.
“You know he’s cuffed already,” Conrad said, slapping Eli lightly on the shoulder.
Eli shot him a look but said nothing.
“You were leading at first,” Tory shook his head. “She got you wrapped around her finger like that?”
Still nothing. Eli’s jaw tightened as he stared at the page.
“I need to see this girl,” Conrad said, already pulling out his phone. “I should take offense to that, you know? What, she too good to hang around me?”
“Yes,” Eli said finally, closing the book with a soft thud. He exhaled. “Actually, yes. Matter of fact, I have serious concerns about the mental state of those eight women.”
Tory laughed.
“She’s the Asian girl from—what’s that club she’s in called again?” Tory snapped his fingers, trying to remember.
“Bro, it’s like a fucking hibachi grill over here,” Conrad said. “How the fuck am I supposed to remember which one?”
“Jesus Christ,” Eli muttered as Tory cracked up.
“What?” Conrad shrugged. “It’s true.”
“There she is,” Tory said, turning his phone toward Conrad. “Your boy’s liked every picture she’s posted, so she’s always in my algo.”
“Wait—Connie?”
Eli’s stomach dropped. “You know her?”
“Not like that,” Conrad said quickly. “But I know of her. She went to St. Joe’s.”
“Oh,” Eli said, relief washing over him. The idea of Conrad touching her had sent something sharp through his chest. “Yeah. She’s from here.”
“You’re a bold man,” Conrad said, holding up a hand. “I see why you’re hiding her.”
“What do you mean by that?” Eli shot back, brow furrowing.
“Look, you’re my guy,” Conrad said. “I’m not trying to disparage your girl or anything—”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Eli snapped.
“It’s just, you know… she used to date that football guy. The quarterback at Purdue.”
“Yeah, I know,” Eli said. “She told me. I’d rather that than knowing she ran through the whole football team like some people.”
“Just the receivers,” Tory shrugged. “Top-tier blowjob, though. Would do it again.”
Eli stared at him.
“I’m just saying,” Conrad continued, “it’s bold to date a girl that’s got… a history. Some questionable shit.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Oh.” Conrad hesitated. “She left that part out.”
“What part?” Eli said. “Just spit it out, man.”
“She lied on him. Almost sent him to jail.”
…
Mel sifted through the mail, separating keepers from trash by muscle memory alone. Bills, flyers, coupons—she paused on one envelope, considering whether this week justified a trip to the mall with the girlies. Retail therapy sounded nice. She checked her balance in her head, sighed, and tossed the coupons along with the junk. The rest went into her purse.
When she looked up, he was already coming toward her.
She braced for it—a comment, a bad joke, something slick—but instead his eyes stayed low, music bleeding faintly from his headphones as he passed by without so much as a glance.
“Trying a new tactic?” she called.
He didn’t hear her. They crossed paths in the stream of students moving along the sidewalk, and he kept going. She turned, watching him walk away, then found herself following before her brain had time to catch up.
“Hey.”
She tapped his arm. He startled slightly, pulling one earcup free.
“Oh—shit.”
“Loud enough for you?”
“You sound like my Apple Watch,” Brice said with a crooked smile.
“What are you listening to?” She grabbed his phone before he could react. “Olivia Dean?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “She’s fire.”
“I know,” she said, smiling despite herself. “I just didn’t peg you as an Olivia Dean listener. Or what—this part of the play?”
“You’re the one who came over here,” he said. “Unless I planned all of this.”
“You probably did,” she said, falling into step beside him. “I need to see your Apple Replay now. That’s the only way to prove me wrong.”
“Knock yourself out,” Brice shrugged. “Long as I get to see yours.”
Season Stats 164-234, 1582 Yds, 13 TD, 4 INT, Sacked 23x, 54 Car, 180 Yds, 2 fumbles (2 lost) Remaining Schedule at UCLA, at Iowa, vs. Minnesota, at #9 Penn State, at Illinois, at #6 Indiana
boy heard the whispers and played some legit ball.
Eli's world bout to be rocked. Connie gonna be throwing pussy at Brice in a week. Brice not knowing how to lead without being a dick head tracks with how his parents are too each other
boy heard the whispers and played some legit ball.
Eli's world bout to be rocked. Connie gonna be throwing pussy at Brice in a week. Brice not knowing how to lead without being a dick head tracks with how his parents are too each other
need you an OL, good to see the sack numbers down though