Season Stats 111-162, 1116 Yds, 12 TD, 2 INT, Sacked 8x, 42 Car, 289 Yds, 4 TD, 2 fumbles (1 lost) Remaining Schedule vs. Illinois, at #5 Oregon, at #7 Nebraska, at Maryland, at #1 Ohio State, vs. #23 Penn State, vs. Michigan State, vs. #12 Indiana
Season 6, Episode 12
Coach Henson leading the meeting until of Coach Hinshaw was the first giveaway for Brice as he took his usual seat in the quarterback meeting room.
The first play loaded. Second quarter, third and seven. Brice took the snap, dropped back five yards, then seven, then nine. The pocket held. His receivers were still working their routes. He kept drifting, another two steps back, before finally releasing the ball incomplete.
"Stop," Coach Henson said. The image froze. "Someone tell me what's wrong with this picture."
Silence.
"Brice," Henson said. "You want to explain to me why you're in the goddamn parking lot when you've got a clean pocket?"
Brice looked at the frozen frame. The offensive line had held their blocks. The pocket was intact. He'd dropped too deep. He knew it before Henson said anything.
"I was trying to buy time for the routes to develop," Brice said, keeping his voice even.
"Bullshit," Henson clicked to the next play. "Here's another one. Third quarter, second and eight. Clean pocket. And where are you?"
The film showed Brice taking the snap, dropping back, back, back. The pocket collapsed this time, but only because he'd drifted so far that his tackle couldn't hold his block angle.
"That's on you," Henson said, jabbing a finger at the screen. "You're putting your line in impossible positions because you don't trust the pocket."
Brice wrote something in his notebook, the pen moving across the page just to have something to do with his hands. Henson had always been the bad cop. This was part of the routine. Take the beating, nod along, move on.
Another play. Another deep drop. Another incomplete pass.
"Do you see a pattern here?" Henson asked, his voice rising. "Because I sure as hell do. Every time there's pressure, every time you feel a little heat, you bail. You don't trust your protection. You don't trust your coaching. You just run."
The words landed but Brice kept his expression neutral. He'd heard worse from his own father. He'd been yelled at by better coaches than Henson. This was nothing.
Another play loaded. First quarter, first and ten. Brice took the snap, dropped back into a clean pocket, then shuffled backward as a linebacker showed blitz but didn't come. The throw sailed high over his receiver's head.
"There!" Henson shouted, pausing the film. "Right there. You've got all day. Your line is holding. And what do you do? You panic and throw it into the fucking stands."
Brice's jaw tightened. The linebacker had sold the blitz hard. The read had been reasonable. But pointing that out wouldn't help.
Henson clicked through three more plays. Each one showed Brice dropping deeper than he needed to, each one ending with an incompletion or a sack that might have been avoided.
"You’ve got to clean this shit up," Henson said. "This isn't one bad game. This is who you are as a quarterback right now. You don't trust the pocket. You don't trust your line. And until you fix that, we're not going anywhere."
Brice glanced at Hinshaw, hoping for some kind of intervention, some softening of the blow. Some mentioning of the times that the pocket did crash, whether this year or last year when Brice was sacked forty-five times as a true freshman. Hinshaw's eyes were on his tablet. He didn't look up.
The film kept rolling. Another play, another deep drop. This time the pocket did collapse, the defensive end beating his tackle and forcing Brice to scramble.
"I wonder why," Brice muttered.
Henson turned to look at him, his expression flat. "Excuse me?"
"The pocket collapsed on that play," Brice said, "I’m drifting for a reason."
"You dropped back because you were already running before he even got close to you."
"He beat the tackle off the edge. I was reacting to—"
"You were running scared," Henson interrupted. He clicked back a few frames, playing the sequence again in slow motion. "Watch. Your tackle is still engaged. You've got time. But you're already moving backward before the defender even sheds the block."
Brice leaned forward, studying the screen. The tackle was engaged, but barely. Another half-second and the defender would have been through.
"I was trying to anticipate the pocket I would be dealing with, not the pocket I currently have."
"A second is plenty of time to make a throw," Henson said. "If you trust your pocket. But you don't. You see a little pressure and you fold."
Brice looked back down at his notebook, his pen hovering over the page.
Another play loaded. Third quarter, third and long. Brice dropped back into a clean pocket, then drifted backward as his receiver worked against press coverage. The throw came late, batted down at the line.
"Clean pocket," Henson said. "Clean. Pocket. And you're ten yards deep, giving the defensive line a clear lane to bat the ball down. This is fundamentals, Brice. This is shit you should have learned in high school."
Brice's knee started bouncing under the table. He forced it to stop.
The film continued. Play after play, Henson dissecting every deep drop, every backward shuffle, every moment Brice had tried to create space that wasn't there. Some of the criticism was fair. Some of it felt like reaching. But Henson wasn't interested in nuance.
"Here's another one," Henson said, his voice dripping with frustration. "Fourth quarter, we're down by ten, and you've got a chance to make something happen. What do you do?"
The screen showed Brice taking the snap, dropping back into a clean pocket, then immediately bailing to his right as a linebacker showed pressure up the middle. The linebacker dropped into coverage. Brice scrambled for a few yards before sliding.
"That linebacker never came," Henson said. "He was dropping into his zone the whole time. But you panicked. You saw a little movement and you ran."
"I was reading the linebacker," Brice said, his voice tighter now. "He showed blitz. I adjusted."
"You overreacted. And it cost us a down."
"It was third and twelve. I was trying to—"
"You were trying to survive," Henson cut him off. "That's all you've been trying to do this whole game. Survive. Not win. Survive."
The room was silent except for the hum of the projector. Brice could feel the other quarterbacks watching him, their eyes flicking between him and Henson. He kept his gaze on the screen.
Another play. Another deep drop. This time the pocket genuinely collapsed, two defenders converging on Brice from opposite sides. He stepped up, tried to throw, and got hit as he released. Incomplete.
"You know what your problem is?" Henson said, pausing the film on a frame of Brice scrambling away from a clean pocket. "You don't trust yourself. You've got all the physical tools. You've got the arm, the accuracy, the size. But when it matters, when there's real pressure, you fold. You run. You don't stand in there and make the throw. What the fuck is the point of being this big, strong quarterback if you’re going to play like this?"
Brice's jaw clenched. He could feel heat rising in his chest, spreading up his neck.
"I’ll be honest, kid," Henson continued. "I didn’t think you were soft. I was told I was getting a motherfucker that played through a busted knee and a rolled ankle in high school but I guess when you’re not playing The School of the Blind every other week, it hits different."
"You need to drop your fucking nuts, son," Henson scoffed. "You need to hang in that fucking pocket and stop being a scared little bitch."
The room went completely silent. Brice could hear his own breathing, could feel his pulse hammering in his temples. His fingers ached from gripping the pen. Every instinct screamed at him to say something, to push back, to defend himself. But he didn't.
He looked down at his notebook. The page was blank except for a few meaningless scribbles. He picked up his pen and wrote the date at the top, his hand steady despite the rage simmering under his skin.
Shane shifted in his seat. Jeff cleared his throat softly. Lamar's eyes were fixed on the screen like he was trying to disappear into it. Johnny and Nathan sat frozen, waiting. They were all waiting for him to explode.
Brice kept writing. Nonsense words, broken sentences, anything to keep his hands busy and his mouth shut. The pen moved across the page in careful, deliberate strokes.
Henson let the silence hang for another moment, then clicked to the next play.
"Let's keep going," he said.
…
"He's fucking corny as hell," Sabrina admitted, her smile widening. "Like, he tried way too hard with opening the car door and pulling out my chair and kept asking me if I’m alright."
"Red flag," Mel said from across the table, not looking up from her phone.
"That's what I thought too," Sabrina continued. "But once we got past all that, once he relaxed a little, he was actually really sweet. Like genuinely sweet, not performative sweet."
"There's a difference?" Serena scoffed.
"Yeah, like when you can tell a nigga just doing shit because he trying to get you to fuck him," Sabrina picked up her cup again, cradling it in both hands. "But like I don’t think Abdul’s like that, for real. After the date, we just talked and like actual talk, you know? Actually listened, not just waited for his turn to speak."
"That's cute," Serena said. "And honestly, good men are hard to find, especially on campus. Everyone's either a fuck boy or so socially awkward they can't hold a conversation."
Mel scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive.
Serena turned to look at her. "What?"
"Nothing," Mel said, still scrolling through her phone.
"No, what? You clearly have something to say."
Mel set her phone down, her expression flat. "I just think it's funny how we're sitting here talking about good men when you’re dating that guy."
Serena's smile faded, her posture straightening. "You mean your friend?"
"I’m just saying," Mel shrugged. "You need to be careful with him."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Serena's voice had an edge to it now.
"He's not who you think he is."
Serena laughed,. "Girl, I know exactly who he is. I'm not stupid."
"I didn't say you were stupid. I'm saying you should watch yourself with him."
"Why? Because he has a baby on the way?" Serena waved her hand dismissively. "I don't care about that. We're not serious anyway. It's just fun."
Sabrina's eyes widened slightly, darting between them.
"I mean, shit," Serena continued, her smile returning. "I don't mind him having a baby mama if I get a Birkin out of it, you feel me?"
Sabrina laughed, the sound nervous and too loud. Mel didn't laugh.
"This isn't a joke," Mel said quietly.
"Who's joking? I'm being completely serious. I know what this is. He's a good time. That's it."
"He's not a good guy, Serena. I'm telling you, you need to be careful."
"Based on what?" Serena leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "You keep saying that but you're not saying why. He was a good enough guy to hang around with it when he was your friend."
Mel hesitated. She glanced at Sabrina, then back at Serena. "That was before I knew. Before I knew that he had a domestic violence charge against him. From his ex-girlfriend."
Sabrina's hand froze halfway to her mouth. Serena's expression went blank, then hardened.
"What are you talking about?" Serena asked, her voice low.
"His ex. From high school, I guess. She filed a police report against him. There's an article about it online. The charges were dropped eventually, but like clearly something happened."
"Bullshit," Serena said. "We don’t even know anything about that girl or what happened."
"Girl, I’m just telling you what I wish someone had told me."
"You're giving jealous, Mel. That's what this is."
Mel picked up her phone, shoving it into her pocket as she stood up. Her chair scraped against the floor, the sound harsh in the sudden quiet.
"I'm just trying to look out for you," Mel said, her voice tight. "That's all I'm doing. But if you don't want my protection, if you want to ignore what I'm telling you, then go ahead. Do whatever you want."
"Mel—" Sabrina started, but Mel was already moving.
"Just don't come crying to me later when shit goes sideways," Mel said, not looking back as she headed for the door.
The door swung shut behind her. Serena sat frozen in her chair, her arms still crossed, her expression unreadable. Sabrina looked between the door and Serena, her mouth opening and closing without sound.
"Girl," Sabrina said finally. "What the fuck just happened?"
…
"I shouldn't even care," she said, her voice cracking. "That's what makes me so angry. I shouldn't care about any of this."
Dr. Mendel waited.
"She was supposed to be my best friend," Connie continued, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
The words caught in her throat. She looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, trying to force the tears back. It didn't work.
"I keep thinking about all the times she took my side," Connie said. "Every fight I had with Brice, every time things got complicated, she was right there telling me I deserved better. That he wasn't good enough for me. That I should leave him."
Dr. Mendel made a small note.
"And I believed her," Connie's voice rose slightly. "I thought she was looking out for me. But she wasn't, was she? She was just trying to get between us. She was trying to push us apart so she could—"
She stopped, her breath coming faster now.
"So she could take my place," Connie finished. "That's what this was. That's what it's always been. She wanted him. She wanted what I had. And she spent years pretending to be my friend while she was working to destroy my relationship."
"That must feel very painful," Dr. Mendel said quietly.
"It's not even the worst part," Connie said, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "The worst part is that I'm sitting here crying about it. I'm sitting here letting them take up space in my head. I gave up my baby. I moved on. I'm at Notre Dame. I have Eli. I have everything I'm supposed to want. And I'm still here, still crying over them, still letting them affect me."
She grabbed a tissue from the box on the side table, pressing it against her eyes.
"I don't want to care anymore," she said, her voice muffled by the tissue. "I'm so tired of caring. I'm so tired of thinking about them, wondering about them, feeling things about them. I want to not give a shit. I want to be able to hear that Skylar's pregnant and just...nothing. Feel nothing. Think nothing. Move on with my life."
"But you can't," Dr. Mendel said.
"No," Connie dropped the tissue into her lap. "I can't. And that makes me feel pathetic. Like I'm this weak person who can't let go of the past. Like I'm still that scared teenager who didn't know what she was doing."
"You're not pathetic, Connie."
"Then why can't I stop caring?" her voice broke completely now. "Why can't I just let it go? They've moved on. They're together, having a baby, living their lives. And I'm here, crying in therapy about people who clearly don't think about me at all."
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to physically push the tears back.
"Every time I think I'm past it, something happens," she continued. "I see a post on Instagram. I hear someone mention their names. And it all comes rushing back. The hospital. Signing those papers. Giving up my baby, our baby. And now they get to have theirs. They get to keep it. They get to be parents. And I—"
She bent forward, her shoulders shaking, the tissue clutched in her fist.
"I should be happy," she managed between gasps. "I should be relieved that I'm not in that situation. That I don't have a baby at twenty-one. That I'm here, at my dream school, with a guy who loves me. I should be grateful."
"Should," Dr. Mendel repeated.
"I know," Connie sat up, wiping her face again. "I know that's not how feelings work. But I can't help thinking that way. I can't help feeling like I'm failing somehow. Like by being upset, I'm proving that I made the wrong choice. That I'm weak. That I haven't moved on the way I'm supposed to."
"Who says you're supposed to have moved on by now?"
The question hit differently than Connie expected. She looked at Dr. Mendel, her eyes red and swollen.
"Because I should be," she said. "It’s been almost four years now."
"Should again."
"Fine. I want to be over it. I want to not care that my ex-boyfriend and my ex-best friend are having a baby together. I want to not feel betrayed. I want to not wonder if they were together the whole time, if every moment of our friendship was a lie. I want to not feel like the biggest idiot in the world for not seeing what was right in front of me."
Her voice was rising again, the anger mixing with the hurt.
"Because I should have seen it," she continued. "All the signs were there. The way she always wanted to hear about our fights. The way she'd offer to talk to him for me. The way she was always around, always inserting herself into our relationship. I thought she was being a good friend. But she was just positioning herself. Waiting for her chance."
"You're assuming a lot about her intentions."
"Am I though?" Connie leaned forward. "She's pregnant with his baby. That's not an assumption. That's a fact. And the timeline...when did it start? Was it while we were still together? Was it right after? How long was she waiting?"
"Does knowing the answer to those questions change anything?"
Connie sat back, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had come.
"No," she admitted quietly. "It doesn't change anything. It doesn't change what happened. It doesn't change that I gave up our baby. It doesn't change that they're having theirs. It doesn't change any of it."
She looked down at the shredded tissue in her hands, the white paper torn into tiny pieces.
"I just want to stop feeling this way," she whispered. "I want to stop thinking about them. I want to be free of all of it. But I don't know how. Every time I think I've let it go, it comes back. And I'm right back here, crying about people who don't deserve my tears."
"The fact that you're having these feelings doesn't mean you're weak," Dr. Mendel said. "It means you're human. You experienced significant trauma. That's not something you just get over."
"But I want to get over it," Connie said, her voice small now. "I want it to stop hurting. I want to stop caring what they do or don't do. I want to be happy with what I have instead of being angry about what they have."
"Those things aren't mutually exclusive. You can be happy with your life and still grieve what you lost."
Connie reached for another tissue, dabbing at her eyes. Her phone buzzed in her bag. Probably Eli, checking in like he always did.
"Eli's so good to me," she said, almost to herself. "He's everything Brice wasn't. He trusts me. He supports me. He doesn't make me feel crazy or controlled. I should just focus on that. On what I have now, not what I lost."
"Should."
"I know," Connie let out a shaky laugh. "I'm doing it again. But seriously, I have everything I thought I wanted. So why does it still hurt so much?"
Dr. Mendel set down her pen, her expression gentle but direct.
"Because healing isn't linear, Connie. Because betrayal leaves scars. Because finding out that someone you trusted was potentially working against you the whole time is devastating. And because no matter how good your current situation is, it doesn't erase what happened before."
Connie nodded slowly, the tears still flowing but quieter now.
"I'm so tired of being the victim in this story," she said. "I'm tired of being the girl who got hurt. The girl who gave up her baby. The girl who got betrayed by her best friend. I want to be someone else. Someone stronger."
"You are strong, Connie. The fact that you're here, doing this work, facing these feelings instead of running from them, that's strength."
"It doesn't feel like strength."
"Because you're crying?"
"Because I can't let it go," Connie crumpled the fresh tissue in her hand. "Because I'm still letting them affect me. Because even now, knowing everything I know, part of me still misses her. Still misses having a best friend. And that makes me feel stupid and pathetic and—"
"Human," Dr. Mendel interrupted gently. "It makes you human."
Connie fell quiet, her breathing gradually steadying.
"How do I stop giving them this power over me?" she asked finally. "How do I stop letting what they did control how I feel?"
"By acknowledging that what they did was wrong, and that your feelings about it are valid, and that healing takes as long as it takes. Not by forcing yourself to stop caring before you're ready."
"But when will I be ready?"
"I don't know," Dr. Mendel said honestly. "But you'll get there. You're already doing the work."
Maybe its because I haven't been in therapy for a long time but it feels as though Dr. Mendel's go-to line is to humanize Connie. It doesn't feel like she provides much, but maybe I'm just nitpicking.
Brice getting called out put pure enjoyment in my veins. Coach said you're too pussy
Wondering, did Mel find out about the DV charge before or after Brice grabbed her during the argument. Cause they were all friendly friendly until Serena and the IG post
Connie gonna take a short drop and sudden stop soon?
couldn’t be my quarterback. Ain’t nobody ever called Caine Guerra a scared little bitch!