The smell of barbecue smoke and coconut oil hung thick in the September air, mixing with the bass from someone’s speaker pumping music across the lawn. Serena adjusted her pink and green crop top, making sure everything sat right as she surveyed the tailgate spread out before her.
“This what we need to do for all of our outings,” Kennedi appeared at her elbow, balancing a red solo cup and a plate already loaded with ribs. “You know niggas gonna show up if they can get a plate.”
Serena nodded, but her attention had already drifted across the lawn where she had caught sight of a familiar figure near the dessert table. Mel stood with her back turned, laughing at something one of the other sisters was saying.
As if sensing the stare, Mel glanced over her shoulder.
Their eyes met briefly.
Mel’s smile faded almost immediately before she looked away and said something else to the girls around her.
“I can’t believe that bitch got the nerve to show up,” Serena muttered under her breath, her jaw tightening.
“Come on,” Kennedi grabbed Serena’s arm. “Let’s get to eating before all the good mac and cheese gone."
Sabrina bounced over with two plates already balanced in her hands. “Y’all better hurry up! They almost out of everything and kickoff ain’t for another hour.”
Serena let herself get pulled toward the food line, though she could feel her shoulders staying rigid. She loaded her plate with mac and cheese, chicken leg quarter, greens, and cornbread. They found a spot on one of the blankets spread across the grass, close enough to the speakers to feel the bass but far enough to actually hold a conversation. Serena settled between her girls, using their bodies as a shield from having to look in Mel’s direction.
“So,” Kennedi said, taking a sip from her cup, “A couple more of these and then what? You gonna be too good for us regular college students?”
“I don’t graduate for another eighteen months,” Serena shrugged. “I’m going to be right here with y’all next year.”
“Bitch, please,” Sabrina waved her fork in front of Serena’s face. “Soon as that nigga gets drafted, your bags already gonna be packed.”
Serena focused on cutting her cornbread into perfect squares. “We ain’t even talked about all that yet. I don’t know. I might stay in school anyway.”
A silence fell over them.
Serena looked up to find Kennedi and Sabrina staring at each other with identical expressions.
“What?”
That broke the dam. Both of them dissolved into laughter, Sabrina nearly choking on her sweet tea while Kennedi had to set down her plate before she dropped it.
“Y’all are so fucking stupid,” Serena laughed despite herself.
…
Sophie walked between her parents, feeling like a prop in a family photo shoot she hadn’t agreed to. The concrete hallway of the stadium echoed with cheers and the distant thump of the marching band.
“Mr. Colton! Over here!”
“We running it back this year?"
"Where you think Brice getting drafted?”
“Can we get a picture with the family?”
Her father’s smile never faltered as he pivoted toward each request, his arm extending just enough to pull Liz into the frame without actually touching her. James babbled happily on Liz’s hip, oblivious to everything around him.
“Just a few more, folks,” Liz announced warmly. “Need to get to our seats before kickoff. Can’t miss our son running out for the first time as a champion now, can we?”
A stadium employee materialized beside them. “This way, please.”
They were ushered past the general seating, through a door marked PRIVATE, and up a set of stairs. The roar of the stadium dulled into a softer murmur.
The suite door opened to reveal a glass-walled room with leather chairs and catered food spread across polished counters. Ilyssa from CAA stood near a tower of shrimp arranged like a sculpture, flanked by two men in matching navy blazers who looked nearly identical.
“I think this is Beluga,” one of them said, gesturing toward a silver bowl surrounded by tiny crackers. “We had some Sturgeon in Montreal last month. Absolutely amazing.”
All eyes eventually turned toward them and the glad-handing began. Talks of “brand alignment” and “optimizing visibility” floated around the room like another language entirely.
A server appeared beside Sophie with a tray of drinks. “Sparkling water?”
She accepted the glass and drifted toward the window, away from the adults.
Below, the stadium filled like a slow-motion flood. Students in black and gold poured into the student section. The upper deck packed itself row by row until the stadium felt alive beneath her feet.
The opposing team ran out first to a chorus of boos.
Then player introductions began for the returning starters from last year’s team.
Sophie felt it before she even realized she was smiling.
The tunnel smoke exploded across the field.
“And now,” the announcer boomed, “YOUR starting quarterback… BRICE COLTON!”
The stadium erupted.
Thousands of voices crashed together into one overwhelming roar as Brice burst through the smoke with the rest of the team behind him.
“Heisman! Heisman! Heisman!”
Even from the suite, Sophie could feel the energy vibrating through the glass.
She turned back toward the room.
Her parents sat side by side now, though still not touching. Ilyssa stood behind them with her phone already recording. The blazer twins clapped enthusiastically like members of some royal court welcoming their king.
For a second, Sophie let herself get caught up in it too.
Then she caught herself smiling and looked back out at the field.
…
The family area buzzed with postgame energy, parents and friends crowding the concrete corridors while the team buses idled outside.
Brice leaned against the wall, his body aching after taking his first real hits in months.
Serena stood beside him, her hand resting lightly against his forearm. “You sure you don’t need anything? I can run to CVS and get you an ice pack or some Ibuprofen.”
Brice shook his head, letting out a short laugh as the gesture sent a flash of memory through him, bringing him back to late Friday nights, posted up in the parking lot. The way she’d insist on checking his bruises, her fingers gentle against his skin.
“I’m good,” he said.
“You need me to pick anything else up?” Serena asked. “I was probably gonna stop by the house before going home anyway.”
Before Brice could answer, he spotted his family weaving through the crowd toward them.
Liz’s eyes found Serena almost immediately. Something unreadable flickered across her face before the familiar polished smile returned.
Serena noticed them too. “See you tomorrow?”
She started to step away, but Brice reached out and gently grabbed her forearm.
Serena looked at him.
Then toward his family.
She nodded once and stayed beside him.
“How you throw a pick against Indiana State, my boy?” Tom laughed as he pulled Brice into a hug. “How you feeling?”
“They’re on scholarship too,” Brice shrugged with a shake of his head. “Made that dude’s whole fucking season.”
Liz shot him a look before adjusting James on her hip. “I don’t care if you his daddy. Watch your mouth around my baby.”
“He hears worse during your meetings,” Brice grinned as he accepted James from her arms. “Ain’t that right, baby boy?”
Serena stood quietly beside him, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands.
“Hi,” she said finally, extending one toward Liz. “I’m Serena. Nice to meet you.”
Brice cleared his throat. “Sorry, my bad. Everybody, this is Serena. My girlfriend.”
Liz recovered quickly, stepping forward with a warm smile and open arms.
“Serena! I’ve heard so much about you.”
She hugged her tightly, holding the embrace just a second longer than expected before pulling back.
“Brice somehow forgot to mention how beautiful you are.”
Sophie snorted behind her mother.
Brice shot her a look.
Tom stepped forward next, extending his hand toward Serena. “Tom. Good to finally meet you.”
He glanced toward Brice briefly with a small smirk. “You doing alright for yourself, huh?”
Season Stats 29-36, 430 Yds, 5 TD, INT, 6 Car, 50 Yds, TD Remaining Schedule at Wake Forest, at USC, vs. #22 Michigan, at Illinois, vs. #15 Notre Dame, at Rutgers, vs. Northwestern, at Michigan State, vs. Iowa, #13 Nebraska, at Indiana
Season 9, Episode 3
"I guess I should be pissed. A small part of me is," Brice rubbed the back of his neck, "Trying to stay under five for the season so can’t waste them on a team like Indiana State, but it’s also like an objectively good game. I don’t have a lot of those, games in general, left so I don’t know, I guess I’m just trying to take it all in, appreciate it."
LaPenna’s pen hovered above his notepad. “Taking it in how?”
“Like, really being there. Not just going through the motions.” Brice shifted, trying to find the words. “I know how many games I got left. Eleven now, more if we make the playoffs, obviously. That’s it. And I’m standing in the pocket against Indiana-fucking-State, and I’m thinking about how I’m never gonna get this back."
LaPenna set his pen down. "We spoke about this last year a bit. Sort of the winding down of your college career. You know it’s finite."
"Yeah. I mean, you know it is when you first get here, but you think three years is a long time. It is but it’s also not."
"The future is also a lot closer than we think it is."
"It sure as shit is."
"It’s natural to have," LaPenna paused, considering his words. "Some thoughts about the future. Uncertain thoughts."
Brice opened his mouth, then closed it.
LaPenna waited.
“Like, fear?” Brice said after a beat.
"Like fear."
Brice let out a short laugh, running his hand through his hair.
“I’ve never thought about it like that,” Brice said finally. “The plan was always the plan, you know? College for three years—Notre Dame, ideally, but obviously that didn’t work out. Redshirt freshman year, compete for the job, break through, ball out junior year, get drafted. That’s how I always pictured it. Clean. Simple.”
He laughed, but it came out dry and hollow. “But my plans, or I guess my parents’ plans for me have always gone to shit. Nothing ever goes the way it’s supposed to. I was supposed to be at Notre Dame. I wasn’t supposed to—“ He stopped himself. “Life doesn’t give a fuck about what you planned.”
LaPenna nodded slowly. “Does that uncertainty worry you?”
“It didn’t used to,” Brice said. “I used to just go. Whatever happened, happened. But now...”
He trailed off, staring at the carpet. “Now I’m always thinking about the future. What happens if I get hurt? What happens if I don’t get drafted as high as everyone thinks? What happens to James if—“
He caught himself.
LaPenna didn’t rush to fill the silence.
“I guess being a dad,” Brice said quietly. The word felt strange in his mouth, still new enough to surprise him. “That’s what changed. I wasn’t thinking about any of this before James. I was just playing ball, living my life. Now I’m thinking about everything. Every decision. Every game. Every dollar.”
“And that makes you appreciate the present more,” LaPenna said. It wasn’t a question.
Brice nodded. “Yeah. I guess it does.”
…
The paint roller made a soft, wet sound as Connie dragged it up the wall, leaving a streak of pale blue that was barely distinguishable from the white underneath. She dipped it again, pressed out the excess, and went back to work.
The church was small. Smaller than the pictures had made it look on the mission website. One room, really, with a raised platform at the front that served as both pulpit and stage, and rows of mismatched wooden benches that wobbled if you leaned too far to one side. The windows were open, letting in the thick, humid air and the distant sound of chickens scratching in the dirt outside.
Connie rolled another stripe of blue. The paint was thin, watered down to stretch it further. She could tell because she’d already done three coats on this same section of wall and the old color still bled through in patches.
“Más suave, mija,” Rosa called from across the room, where she was kneeling on the floor with a rag and a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing between the floorboards. “Like this.”
She demonstrated with a slow, even stroke of her own rag, and Connie nodded, adjusting her technique.
“Gracias.”
Pastor Hector moved through the space like he’d been doing it for decades, which he had. He didn’t say much. He’d nod at Connie when she arrived each morning, hand her whatever tool she needed without being asked, and then disappear into the back room where the supplies were kept. She’d hear him moving things around in there, organizing, counting, making quiet calculations about what they had and what they didn’t.
Today he’d emerged with a screwdriver and a small wooden stool that had one leg shorter than the others. He sat on the floor near the doorway, turning the stool upside down in his lap, and began working on the leg with the patience of someone who had fixed this same stool many times before.
Connie dipped her roller again.
The summer mission had been different. Mostly college students, a few recent grads, everyone her age or close to it outside of a few elders that led the group. The days were long and hot and exhausting, but the energy had been electric.
This was not that.
This trip had six volunteers. And the youngest besides Connie was a sixty-two-year-old retired schoolteacher named Margaret who droned on and on about her grandkids. The rest were even older, church members from a sister congregation in Ohio who’d been doing these trips for years.
A few kids wandered in and out throughout the day, two boys, maybe eight and ten, who came to help Pastor Hector fix things and then left without saying much once they got a couple of dollars for their efforts. Three older women showed up for the afternoon prayer service, sitting in the front row while Rosa led them through a quiet recitation that lasted maybe fifteen minutes. Then they left too, nodding at Connie on their way out the door.
That was it. That was the congregation.
Connie rolled another stripe. The paint was running low. She’d need to mix more soon.
…
Brice’s phone buzzed on the table,. He glanced at it, then back at the calculus textbook spread open between him and Mel.
“You know,” Mel said, not looking up from her notes, “if you actually studied instead of just pretending to, you might actually learn something.”
“I am studying,” Brice protested, leaning back in his chair. “I’m just also capable of multitasking.”
“Multitasking is why you almost failed Pre-Calc.”
“I didn’t fail though.”
“You barely passed.”
"So I didn’t fail."
The library’s quiet hum surrounded them with the soft clicking of keyboards, the occasional whisper from students at nearby tables, the distant sound of someone printing something. They’d claimed their once usual spot in the back corner of the second floor, the one with the window that overlooked the quad.
Mel’s pencil scratched against her notebook. "That’s because these people treat you like you’re special or something."
Brice looked up. "I am special."
“I am special,” she mocked him. “You have no idea how annoying that game was. This lady was fucking crying, actually fucking crying, when they were doing the introductions of last year’s team."
A laugh escaped Brice’s lips. “That’s just how people are about football.”
“No, that’s how people are about you.” Mel set her pencil down. "It’s like watching a cult form in real time.”
"Yeah, I guess," he nodded, "It can get a lot."
"For Brice Colton?" Mel raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Brice let out a wry chuckle. “With football, it’s fine. I like the pressure. I like people expecting things from me when I’m playing. Means you’re good. They expect you to be good. But everything else? I just seem to always fuck it up and yet people still have these expectations of me that I need to live up to. Every tweet, every interview."
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” Brice tapped his fingers against the table. “I get it, though. At this point, I’m a commodity. A package that needs to be buttoned up and sold to the highest bidder. It’s what I wanted, so I’m not complaining, it’s just not something you think about when you’re ten and watching the draft and wanting to be picked first."
Mel smiled. "You’re human. You’re going to make mistakes. Have they met you?"
"Maybe that’s why," Brice laughed, "It’s like I’ve used up all of the goodwill. At some point, people get tired of your shit and it doesn’t mattter how many yards or touchdowns or games you win. It’s why-"
Brice stopped himself.
"Nia’s lawyers have been reaching out," he continued, "They want me to write like some letter or some shit. On her behalf."
Mel’s eyebrows went up. “Nia? The girl who—“
“Yeah.” Brice nodded.
Mel was quiet for a moment. "Are you going to?"
“No.” Brice shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t told my lawyer yet. I feel like he would tell me not to. I feel like the people at CAA would definitely tell me not to. Probably same with my parents."
“But?”
“But I don’t know.” Brice stared at his hands. “I can’t stop thinking about her showing up at my house that night. Holding James. Crying. Scared out of her fucking mind.”
He paused.
“And she brought him back.”
Mel stayed quiet.
“She was friends with Jimmy too apparently,” Brice continued more softly. “It’s hard to look at somebody like that and think they’re just evil. The women that showed up, something was clearly off with her. I don’t know if she was all the way there."
“She wasn’t a woman, Brice.”
He looked at her.
“She’s not a woman. She’s a girl. An eighteen-year-old girl.”
