Season Stats 53-73, 469 Yds, 4 TD, INT, Sacked 4x, 14 Car, 65 Yds, 2 TD, fumble (lost) Remaining Schedule vs. Miami of Ohio, vs. #13 UCLA, vs. Illinois, at #9 Oregon, at #12 Nebraska, at Maryland, at #3 Ohio State, vs. #15 Penn State, vs. Michigan State, vs. #19 Indiana
Season 6, Episode 9
The nausea hit before Skylar opened her eyes.
She laid still in the pre-dawn darkness of her childhood bedroom, her hand already moving to rest on the curve of her stomach. The baby shifted beneath her palm, a rolling movement that might have been comforting if her throat wasn't tightening with the familiar warning signs. She counted her breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The technique her doctor had suggested, the one that worked maybe half the time.
This wasn't one of those times.
Skylar pushed herself up, the movement awkward with the weight pulling at her center of gravity. Her feet found the carpet, the same beige carpet that had been there since middle school. The walls still had the faint outline where her One Direction poster used to hang. She'd taken it down sophomore year, replaced it with something she thought was more mature. She couldn't remember what now.
The bathroom was three steps away. She made it in two before dropping to her knees in front of the toilet.
When it was over, she stayed there for a moment, her forehead resting against her forearm on the cool porcelain. The tile pressed into her knees. She should get up. She should brush her teeth, wash her face, start the day. Instead, she sat back on her heels and stared at the small crack in the baseboard that had always been there.
Her phone buzzed from the bedroom. Probably her mom, checking if she was awake. Or maybe one of the pregnancy apps she'd downloaded, sending another notification about fetal development or sleep positions or what foods to avoid. She'd stopped reading most of them.
Skylar pulled herself up using the sink for leverage. The mirror showed exactly what she expected: pale skin, dark circles, hair that needed washing. She turned on the faucet and cupped cold water in her hands, pressing it against her face. The baby kicked, harder this time, and she placed her hand back on her stomach.
"I know," she said quietly. "I'm up."
The toothbrush sat in the holder next to her old retainer case. She squeezed toothpaste onto the brush and worked it through her mouth, trying not to gag. ayo
Back in her room, she pulled on the sweatpants she'd left on the floor the night before. They were getting tight now, the elastic digging into her skin despite being labeled for third trimester. She paired them with an oversized hoodie that Brice had left at her dorm once. She'd grabbed it when she packed up to come home, shoved it in her bag without really thinking about it. Now she wore it more than anything else she owned.
Her laptop sat on the desk where she'd left it, closed but still plugged in. The charger cord was fraying at one end. She'd been meaning to replace it but kept forgetting. Or maybe she just didn't care enough to remember.
Skylar lowered herself into the desk chair, squeaking when she leaned back. The baby pressed against her bladder and she shifted, trying to find a position that didn't make her need to pee immediately.
Through the wall, she could hear her mom moving around in the kitchen. The coffee maker gurgling. Cabinet doors opening and closing. The familiar soundtrack of her parents' morning routine, the one she'd heard every day growing up and thought she'd left behind when she moved out.
She opened the laptop and waited for it to boot up. The screen was smudged with fingerprints. The desktop background was still a photo from spring break in South Padre, before any of this, back when her biggest concern was whether to go out on a Thursday night or save her energy for the weekend.
The login screen appeared. She typed in her password and watched the little circle spin while it loaded. Her email icon already showed forty-three unread messages. She didn't open it.
Instead, she clicked on Chrome and navigated to the Ball State portal. The interface was the same as it had been when she was on campus, but somehow it looked different on this screen, in this room, in this house. Like she was playing at being a college student instead of actually being one.
Her courses were listed on the left side. Introduction to Marketing. Business Statistics. Organizational Behavior. Professional Communication. The names were just words now, disconnected from any sense of purpose or future. She clicked on Marketing first because it was at the top of the list.
The module for this week had already been posted. Three video lectures, two discussion board posts required, one quiz due by Friday.
She clicked play on the first video lecture. The baby settled, the movement quieting to occasional flutters instead of the aggressive kicks from earlier. Skylar kept writing, kept watching the screen, kept moving through the motions of being a student working toward a degree that would matter someday, for something, to someone.
…
Brice's head throbbed before he opened his eyes.
The sheets beneath him were too soft, the thread count higher than anything he experienced before. Sunlight cut through floor-to-ceiling windows, no curtains drawn, and he squinted against it. His mouth tasted like brandy and poor decisions.
He turned his head slowly, the movement sending a fresh wave of nausea through his skull. Serena was beside him, her hair spread across the pillow, one arm tucked under her cheek. She was breathing deep and even, dead to the world.
Brice tried to piece together how they'd gotten here. The party. Leaving with her. Getting in his car. Then what? Fragments floated in his consciousness, disconnected and hazy. Music. Lights. More drinks. Justin's laugh cutting through crowd noise.
He peeled himself out of bed, his legs unsteady. His phone sat on the nightstand, out of battery.
The bedroom door was open. He moved through it, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. The living room opened up in front of him, all marble countertops and leather furniture. Justin was sprawled on the couch, his arm thrown over his face. Two women Brice vaguely recognized were tangled up with him, one with her head on his chest, the other curled against the armrest.
A smile tugged at Brice's mouth despite the hangover. It was coming back now, pieces clicking into place like a puzzle he'd forgotten he was solving.
The steakhouse first. Ruth's Chris, the one downtown. He'd taken Justin there to say thank you for that catch against North Carolina, the one that sealed the game.
Indianapolis. That had been Justin's idea. West Lafayette was dead on a Tuesday, but Indy was only an hour away and neither of them had class tomorrow nor wanted the night to end.
The club was a blur of bass and bodies. They'd found a table in VIP, bottles appearing without them asking because the manager recognized Brice, likely from the Notre Dame. That's where they'd met the two women now passed out on Justin. Brice couldn't remember their names. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. One of them had grabbed his phone and added herself on Instagram, then her friend had done the same.
Then Brice had thought of Serena. He'd texted her, something stupid probably, and she'd responded immediately. He'd sent an Uber to her dorm without asking if she wanted to come.
The suite. That had been his call. They'd been walking past the hotel on the way back to the car, and Justin had made some joke about getting a room, and Brice had just walked in and asked for their best available. The woman at the desk had looked at them like they were insane until Brice put his card down.
Brice moved past the couch, careful not to wake anyone. The kitchen was separated from the main living area by a marble island. He found the coffee maker built into the wall, figured out the buttons after a few tries. The machine gurgled and hissed, filling the silence.
His head pounded in rhythm with his heartbeat. He leaned against the counter and waited for the coffee to brew, watching the dark liquid drip into the carafe. The smell helped, rich and bitter, cutting through the fog in his brain.
When it was ready, he poured himself a cup and took it black. The first sip burned his tongue but he didn't care. He took another, then carried the cup to the window.
Indianapolis spread out below him, the city still waking up. He could see Lucas Oil Stadium in the distance, the dome catching the morning light. Cars moved on the streets below, people heading to jobs that started before nine, living lives that didn't involve waking up in hotel suites they couldn't remember booking.
"That catch was fucking ridiculous," Brice said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Justin definitely came through."
The coffee was still too hot but he kept drinking it anyway. Steam rose from the cup, curling in the air between him and the window.
"It was probably my best throw of the day," he paused, taking another sip. "It wasn’t a very good game."
The city kept moving below him. A bus stopped at a corner, people getting off, people getting on. Life continuing like it always did.
"I sort of knew we’d take a step back after the Notre Dame game but we almost fucked it, bro."
Brice's reflection stared back at him from the window, overlaid against the city. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair sticking up in directions it shouldn't. He looked like shit.
"We’ve got Miami of Ohio next," he said, quieter now. "We need to clean some things up before we head into conference play. The team’s pretty decent, bro. Our running game is a lot better with Justin and we’re playing Corey in the slot more so a lot of easier reads for me. We need to open the offense a bit more though, stop relying on these RPOs or quick game."
Behind him, someone stirred on the couch. Justin mumbled something incoherent. Brice didn't turn around.
"You’d have loved that throw to Justin," he continued. "You use to always cheese that running back wheel route on Madden and shit."
Brice stood there for another minute, watching the city wake up, talking to someone who wasn't there and never would be again.
…
The cafeteria was loud in the way it always was during lunch, in a way that St. Joe’s never was. Nia sat at the end of a table near the back, picking at the pizza on her tray without really eating it.
Damien dropped into the seat across from her, his tray clattering against the table. Zack appeared next to Damien, already halfway through his burger. "Y'all see Avante got suspended?"
"For what?" Damien asked.
"He spat at his girl in the hallway."
Nia tuned them out, her gaze drifting across the cafeteria. Groups clustered at their usual tables. The athletes near the windows. She wondered how he would have fared at a place like John Adams. Who would be part of his friend group? Would it have hardened him? Would he still be the same timid boy that she slowly fell in love with?
A shout cut through the noise.
Nia's head turned toward the sound. Two guys were standing now, their chairs knocked back. One of them shoved the other. The cafeteria seemed to take a collective breath, everyone turning to watch.
"Oh shit," Zack said, standing up to get a better view.
The shove turned into a swing. The punch connected with a crack that Nia could hear even from across the room. What followed was chaos. Bodies surging forward, people yelling, trays clattering to the floor. The lunch monitors were already moving, shouting for everyone to sit down, but no one was listening.
Damien was on his feet now too, craning his neck. "Ain’t that Sharif little brother?"
Nia felt the shift before anyone said anything. The way Damien glanced at her, then at the doors leading out of the cafeteria. The monitors were all focused on the fight now, trying to push through the crowd.
"We out?" Damien asked, his voice casual but his eyes sharp.
Nia looked at Zack, who was still watching the fight like it was pay-per-view.
"You coming?" she asked him. Zack didn’t answer, too consumed by the fight in front of him.
Damien was already moving, his backpack slung over one shoulder. Nia grabbed hers and followed, weaving through the tables. No one stopped them. The monitors were too busy, and everyone else was either watching the fight or recording it on their phones.
The hallway was empty as their footsteps echoed against the tile as they walked toward the side exit. Damien pushed through the door first, holding it open for her.
"That was perfect timing," Damien said, grinning as they crossed the parking lot.
"Yeah," Nia said, adjusting her backpack.
They made it to the street before Damien spoke again. "You trying to come through my spot?"
Nia glanced at him. He was trying to sound casual, but she could hear the intention underneath it. She'd heard it before, in the way he always found excuses to sit next to her, to walk her to class, to text her after school.
"Your spot?" she repeated, a small smile tugging at her mouth.
"Yeah, my crib. My moms is at work till like six. We could chill, watch something, whatever."
"Whatever," Nia echoed, the smile widening slightly.
Damien caught it and laughed. "I'm just saying, it's better than walking around out here. We could order food or some shit."
"Uh-huh."
"What? I'm being for real."
"I know you are," Nia said. "But I'm good. Let's just go to Brian's."
Damien's grin didn't falter. He shrugged, pulling a blunt from his pocket. "Aight, that's cool. Brian's crib it is."
…
Sophie stabbed at the chicken on her plate, dragging it through the pool of sauce without bringing it to her mouth. Across the table, her mom typed on her laptop, the clicking of keys filling the silence. Her dad sat at the head of the table, scrolling through his phone, his plate already empty and pushed to the side.
Sophie pulled out her phone and navigated to Instagram without giving it much thought, the feed refreshing with new posts. A girl from her English class had posted a selfie. Someone else had shared a meme about senioritis. She kept scrolling.
Then she saw it.
Skylar's face filled her screen, glowing and serene in professional lighting. The white dress draped over her very pregnant belly, her hands cradling the curve. The caption was simple: Blessed beyond measure. Baby boy coming soon. And there, in the tags, was Brice's username.
"Holy shit."
Her mom's fingers stopped moving on the keyboard. Sophie looked up to find both her parents staring at her.
"Sophie," her mom said, one eyebrow raised. "What did I tell you about cursing?"
Sophie didn't answer. She turned her phone around, holding it out so her mom could see the screen.
Liz's expression shifted as she processed what she was looking at. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She reached for the phone, and Sophie let her take it, watching as her mom's eyes scanned the post.
"Tom," Liz said quietly.
Tom finally looked up, "What?"
Liz turned Sophie's phone toward him. He leaned forward, squinting at the screen. Sophie watched his face change, watched the moment he understood what he was seeing.
"When was this posted?" he asked.
Sophie took her phone back from her mom, checking the timestamp. "Like, twenty minutes ago."
Her dad picked up his phone again, his thumb moving across the screen.
"Has anyone commented yet?" Liz asked.
Sophie looked. The comments were already piling up. She didn't read them all. She didn't need to.
"Yeah," Sophie said. "A lot of people."
"Did Brice know she was posting this?" Liz asked, directing the question at Tom.
"How the hell would I know?" Tom’s voice had an edge to it now.
"Because you talked to him. You went to see him."
"We didn't discuss her social media strategy, Liz."
Sophie looked between them, the tension in the room thickening with each exchange. This was how it started. This was how the fights always began, with one of them saying something that sounded reasonable but carried weight underneath it.
"I'm just asking if he mentioned anything about going public," Liz said, her voice still controlled.
"He didn't mention it because he probably didn't know," Tom said. "She's clearly doing this on her own."
"Or she told him and he didn't think it was important enough to mention to us."
"Does it matter?"
Liz scoffed. "Does it matter? Tom, she just announced to the entire world that she's having his baby. Yes, it fucking matters."
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