Remaining Schedule at Michigan State, vs. Iowa, vs. #11 Nebraska, at #6 Indiana Season Stats 249-323, 2688 Yds, 30 TD, 7 INT, 56 Car, 310 Yds, 3 TD, Sacked 17x Career Stats 1064-1455, 10992 Yds, 104 TD, 24 INT, Sacked 111x, 362 Car, 1962 Yds, 21 TD Drew Brees School Record for Career Passing Yds 11,792 Yds Julian Sayin B10 Record for Career Passing Yds 11,811 Yds Julian Sayin B10 Record for Career Passing TDs 112 TDs
Season 9, Episode 13
The bag weighed more than it should have.
Connie set it on the counter and the plastic handles cut into her palms before she let go. The guy behind the register didn’t look up right away. He was finishing something on his phone, his thumb moving across the screen.
She waited.
The wash and fold smelled like detergent and a dampness that probably came from too many dryers running at once. Behind the guy, through the open doorway that led to the back, she could see the machines. Three rows of them, half of them spinning, the metal doors vibrating against their frames.
The guy set his phone down. He looked at the bag. Then at her.
“Any specific scent?"
"No," Connie replied.
He pulled the bag toward him and unzipped it. The clothes inside were her mother’s mostly. The dark wash jeans, the cardigans, the blouses that she had tried to pass onto Connie to no avail. Her father’s polo shirts were folded on top, different colors of the same shirt. Connie had thrown in a few of her own things at the last minute. A pair of jeans. Two t-shirts. The sweater she’d worn on the flight back.
The guy pulled everything out and sorted it into two piles on the counter without saying anything. Whites to the left. Colors to the right. He picked up the whites pile and carried it to the scale behind him. Set it down. The digital readout climbed and settled.
“Fourteen pounds,” he said. He wrote something on a slip of paper. Picked up the colors. Set them on the scale. “Twelve.”
He wrote that down too. Came back to the counter and pulled a form from a stack beside the register. He filled in the weights. The date. Asked for her name.
“Connie Gardner.”
He wrote it. Asked for a phone number. She gave it. He wrote that too.
She watched his pen move. His handwriting was small and cramped.
The dryer closest to the doorway stopped. The sudden absence of its hum made the room feel quieter than it was. Then another one started up, and the hum came back.
“You want anything extra?” he asked. “Fabric softener? Starch? Dry cleaning for some of those shirts?”
“No. Just detergent.”
He nodded and checked a box on the form. Folded the paper in half. Tore it along the perforation. Handed her the top half.
“Thursday,” he said. “After three.”
“Thanks,” she replied.
He was already turning toward the back room. He picked up the first pile of clothes and disappeared through the doorway. She heard the sound of a machine door opening, then closing, then the click of a cycle starting.
Connie folded the receipt and put it in her back pocket. She stood there for a second. Another dryer stopped. Someone’s phone rang in the back room.
She turned and walked out.
The air outside was different. Colder. The kind of cold that had some sting to it, the kind that meant October was doing what October did in Indiana and was a constant reminder she wasn’t in Alegria anymore. She pulled her jacket tighter and crossed the parking lot to her mother’s car.
The car was where she’d left it. Third row from the door, between a pickup truck with a dented bumper and a sedan that had seen better years. She got in and sat there with the keys in her lap.
Thursday. After three.
She could go back to school. That was the obvious thing. She’d picked it because that was the agreement. With her counselor. With her parents. With herself.
She could go somewhere else. Another trip. Maybe try a different organization, a different church. Guatemala. Kenya. The Philippines. Places where the work was real and the days were long and the nights were quiet enough that you could convince yourself you were doing something that mattered.
The car was cold. She turned the key.
Three years of Dr. Mendel. Every Tuesday at four. The same office, the same chair. She’d done the work. She’d talked about it. She’d sat in that room and said the words out loud and watched them hang in the air between them and waited for something to shift, for something to release, for the weight of it to lighten by even an ounce.
It hadn’t.
Eli had been good. He’d been kind in a way that felt almost aggressive, like he was trying to compensate for something he hadn’t done. He’d listened. He’d asked questions. He’d held her hand in restaurants and on couches and in beds that weren’t hers. He’d hated Brice with a quiet, steady consistency that never wavered, and she’d let him because it was easier than explaining why she didn’t.
The drive home was six minutes. She knew because she’d timed it once, years ago, when she first started driving her mother’s car. School. Home. Brice’s house. The route to Brice’s house was eight minutes. She’d timed that too.
She pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.
She sat there.
Thursday. After three.
She got out of the car and walked to the front door. Her key turned in the lock. The house was quiet. Her mother was at work. Her father too. The kitchen smelled like coffee that had been sitting too long.
She hung her jacket on the hook by the door and went upstairs to her room. The bed was still unmade from this morning. The suitcase from the trip was still on the floor, half-unpacked, the clothes inside wrinkled from being compressed for too long.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the receipt from her back pocket. She set it on the nightstand and laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling and listened to the house breathe around her.
…
"It’s not like some rug and tug place," Brice shrugged, "I get why they don’t want me to do these deals but hey, free is free. I’m not turning down free."
"I’m sure that made Ilyssa’s day," LaPenna commented, sitting across from Brice in his usual spot, notebook open but the pen resting on the page rather than moving across it.
Brice laughed. “I had already reposted it, so there wasn’t much to say. She already gave me the spiel months ago. Something about brand dilution, market rate… don’t know, man. I stopped listening."
LaPenna’s mouth twitched. “You don’t agree?"
“They’re the experts, so I’m sure they’re right,” Brice shrugged. "But like I said, I like free shit. That’s the whole point of being good at football."
“You get paid a lot of money to play football.”
“Exactly. So I can get free shit too.” Brice grinned. “It’s a win-win.”
LaPenna picked up his pen and wrote something down. Brice watched him for a second, then looked at the window.
“You seem lighter today,” LaPenna said.
Brice looked back at him. “Yeah, I guess."
"You threw two interceptions this week," LaPenna volleyed across to him, "I know that was a concern of yours a few weeks ago."
He uncrossed his leg and sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, I already failed my goal. Five interceptions for the year. And I’m at seven now, so—” He spread his hands. “Who’s counting?”
“You are.”
“I’m not counting anymore. That’s the point. I hit it. Anything past that is just—whatever. It happens. The shit with the Heisman is probably not going to happen. Is the whole season a failure now? Obviously not."
“It bothered me at first. It doesn’t bother me now.” Brice leaned back again. “You yourself said, ‘You’re a first-round pick. They evaluated you before the season. You don’t need to become a different player. You need to be the player they already evaluated.’”
“You have your moments," Brice teased. “So I’m being that player. The one they already evaluated. The one who’s been here since freshman year. The one who won a Rose Bowl and a national championship and threw for however many yards and touchdowns. That guy. He’s still here. He didn’t go anywhere.”
He paused. Let the room breathe.
“Purdue’s undefeated. I’m second in the country in passing yards. I lead in touchdowns. Seven interceptions doesn’t change any of that. It doesn’t change what I am. It doesn’t change where I’m going.”
LaPenna was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Where are you going?”
“First round. Top fifteen. Maybe higher if I keep playing like this.” Brice said it the way someone might say the weather was nice. Matter-of-fact. No bravado. “And being White doesn’t hurt.”
A laugh escaped LaPenna. Brice smiled.
LaPenna shook his head. He picked up his pen and wrote something else down. Brice watched the pen move, then looked back at the window.
“The critics,” Brice said. “The people writing the articles, doing the rankings, breaking down my footwork on Twitter, talking about how I’m always drifting in the pocket. They’re not the ones in the arena. I am. I’ve been called worse than an RPO merchant. I’ve been called a lot worse than that. And every single one of those people would swap places with me in a heartbeat. They’d kill to be where I am. And I’d rather die than live their lives.”
He paused.
“I’m kidding.”
LaPenna laughed again.
…
Bistro 501 sat on the corner of Main and Fifth Street, all brick and warm light and the kind of quiet that cost money. Brice held the door and Serena walked through first, and the hostess looked up from her stand and recognized him right away. He was going to miss that about West Lafayette.
“Reservation for Colton,” he said.
“Right this way, Mr. Colton.”
She led them past the bar, past the couple at the high-top who didn’t look up, past the wine rack that ran floor to ceiling along the back wall. The dining room was dim and warm. The hostess stopped at a table near the window, pulled out Serena’s chair, and set two menus down before disappearing.
Serena sat. Brice sat across from her. The table was small enough that their knees almost touched underneath it.
She picked up the menu and opened it. He watched her.
“You look good,” he said.
She looked up from the menu. The corner of her mouth lifted. “You already said that.”
“That’s how you know I’m not lying."
She laughed and looked back at the menu, but he could see the smile still there, tucked into the corner of her mouth like she was trying to hide it and failing.
The waiter came[color]ayo[/white]. He took their drink order, water for both of them, wine for her, and left.
Serena set the menu down and leaned forward on her elbows. “This place is nice.”
“Glad you like it."
“You been here before?”
“A few times. I signed my second NIL deal to come back to Purdue right in that corner over there," he picked up his water and tilted his head towards one of the private rooms in the back, "I came back with my parents. I think it was after the Notre Dame game last year. My mom really liked the salmon."
“High praise.”
“Coming from my mom, that’s basically a Michelin star. She’s a hard woman to please. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
Serena laughed. The sound of it cut through the low murmur of the dining room.
The waiter came back with the wine. He poured a taste for Serena. She swirled it, smelled it, took a sip, and nodded. The waiter filled her glass and left.
She picked up the glass and held it by the stem. “So.”
“So.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“About what?”
“Anything. Something that happened today that wasn’t football.”
He thought about it. “I had my appointment today. With LaPenna."
“That’s not something I don’t know.”
“Right.” He leaned back in his chair. “Okay. We talked about that treatment facility deal I took."
“The rub and tug?”
"Less work for you."
She laughed again.
The waiter came back. They ordered. She got the salmon, sharing a smile with Brice in the process, and he got the steak, medium rare, because he always got the steak. The waiter took the menus and left.
Serena picked up her wine again. She held it in both hands, the glass resting against her lower lip, and looked at him over the rim.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing. I’m just looking at you.”
“Creepy.”
She set the glass down. “I was thinking about something Sabrina said.”
“This can’t be good."
“Depends. She said I should put pressure on you. About us."
Brice’s water glass was halfway to his mouth. He set it back down. “About us."
“She says I’m doing a lot of wife shit. Stepmom even."
He looked at her. She was watching him with that expression she had, the one that was half-joking, half-not, the one that meant she was testing the water without committing to the dive.
“What did you say?”
“I told her to shut up.”
“Good answer.”
“But.”
He waited.
“But she’s not entirely wrong,” Serena said. She picked up her wine again. Took a sip. Set it down.
"No. She is not."
The food came. The waiter set the plates down then the side dishes arranged between them. He asked if they needed anything else. They said no. He left.
Brice cut into his steak. Serena took a bite of her salmon. She chewed. Swallowed[color]ayo[/white]. Looked at her plate, then at him.
“Oh my God.”
“Told you.”
“This is—” She took another bite. “This is ridiculous.”
“Michelin star.”
“Shut up.”
She laughed and took another bite, and he watched her eat, and there was something about the way she closed her eyes for half a second, the way her shoulders dropped that made him want to reach across the table and take her hand.
He didn’t. He ate his steak instead.
They talked through dinner. About nothing. About everything. About the birthday party. About Sophie’s college visits and how Rutgers had gone and how Serena had taken her to brunch in New York. About the Iowa game on Saturday. About his dwindling college career. About the teams he wanted to draft him. About the team he didn’t. New Orleans chief among them.
"It just always smells like shit."
Serena laughed at that, putting her hand over her mouth because she was still chewing. She shook her head and took another bite, and he continued to watch her.
He’d almost forgotten what this felt like.
The plates were cleared. The waiter asked if they wanted coffee. Serena said yes. Brice said no. The coffee came in a small white cup, and Serena poured cream into it and stirred it with the tiny spoon and took a sip and made a small sound of approval.
She set the cup down and looked at him. The wine had softened something in her face. Her shoulders were lower. Her eyes were warmer. Brice looked away as he took a sip from his water.
"Jimmy's thing is next week," Brice said, remaking eye contact, "I bet you can’t wait to experience all that South Bend has to offer."
"I’m thrilled," Serena nodded with a smile. She picked up her coffee cup. "I've been thinking about that. Your family does something every year, right?"
Brice nodded.
She shook her head slowly. "That’s really nice. I feel like after a while, some people forget, you know? It’s not that they stop caring or that the person didn’t matter but life goes on, I guess. People move on. Don’t want to be reminded, maybe. It just becomes a thing. Something that happened. I think it’s dope you guys aren’t letting that happen."
Brice turned his water glass once on the tablecloth. "Yeah, my mom is good at that kind of thing."
He paused.
"I invited Mel."
The table went quiet. Serena looked at her coffee cup. She picked it up, realized it was empty, and set it back down.
The waiter appeared. "Can I interest you in dessert this evening?"
"No," Serena said. "Thank you."
The waiter gathered the cups and left.
Serena looked at him. "Why?"
"Why that?"
"Why did you invite her?"
"She's been in the grief group with me for two years. She's helped me—"
"Has anyone else from the group been invited?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Brice."
"No."
She laughed once. "Exactly."
"It's not like that."
“It’s not like what?” Serena’s voice stayed low as she pressed her fingertips against the edge of the table. “You’re having a memorial for your brother and you invited that fucking bitch that tried to get you kicked off the team? End your fucking life?"
“Serena.”
“Don’t Serena me. That’s who you think is your fucking friend?"
He set his water glass down. The condensation had pooled around the base, a small wet ring on the tablecloth. He pressed his thumb into it.
“She apologized,” he said.
“You know she didn’t even want me to talk to you? Before any of this?" Serena shook her head, "She said I should be careful. That you weren’t who you were pretending to be. That’s who your so-called-friend thinks you are."
A fork clinked against a plate somewhere near the bar. Someone laughed. The sound felt distant, like it was coming from another room.
“She was wrong,” Brice said. “She knows it. She’s apologized for it."
“To you.”
“To me, yeah.” He turned the water glass again. The wet ring spread. “I can’t tell you to forgive her. That’s not my place. But I’ve forgiven her. And if you gave her the chance, she’d apologize to you too."
Serena let out a breath through her nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s therapist speak.”
The words sat between them.
“She’s my friend,” he said. “She gets it. About Jimmy. About losing someone."
“Then invite someone else from the group. Invite all of them. Make it about the group. Don’t make it about her.”
“It’s not about her.”
“Then why is she the only one coming?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The couple at the table behind Serena had stopped talking. He could feel them listening without looking, the particular quality of silence that meant strangers were paying attention.
Serena leaned forward. "I’m not okay with her being there, Brice. I’m not. This girl clearly wants to come between us."
Brice shook his head. “It’s not like that. We’re just friends."
“This is me, Brice," Serena sucked her teeth. “I know you. Name one woman you’re friends with. One woman you’re close to, that you talk to regularly, that you hang out with, that you’re not related to. One.”
He didn’t answer.
“Name one.”
He looked at her. The candle on the table flickered between them.
“You can’t,” she scoffed. “Miss Lafitte is the only one and believe me, on a bad day for you and on a good day for her, I’m not so sure."
Brice clenched his jaw.
"And Mel’s the one that thinks I’m a monster?"
She didn’t say anything.
The waiter appeared at the edge of the table. He set the check down on the small black tray, the leather folder closed, the pen resting on top. He didn’t ask if they wanted anything else. He didn’t say anything at all. He just set it down and walked away.
The leather folder sat between them. Neither of them reached for it.
The candle flickered. The dining room hummed. The couple behind Serena started talking again.
Brice looked at the check. He looked at Serena. She was staring at the candle, her jaw set, her fingers still pressed against the coordinates tattooed on her wrist.
He didn’t reach for the folder. She didn’t either.
And every single one of those people would swap places with me in a heartbeat. They’d kill to be where I am. And I’d rather die than live their lives.”
Promise you that's not true
Man Serena and Brice just need to end the shit. They don't really like eachother. Just about ready for that shoe to drop. Serena acting like Mel had her head on the guillotine.
