Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Everyone who got outran by slow ass Brice Colton should be cut immediately.

Serena boodaying even though this is exactly what she wanted when she started throating pink meat. Make it make sense.

1,000-yard rusher in the big ten

Is that the old Brice coming out I see?

wait until the front page of the NYT is Brice doing cocaine of Cardi B's fake ass

He can't hangout with his teammates?

[Soapy]

Season 12, Episode 2
“Last rep, last rep, last rep,” Musgrave said, already backpedaling toward the group huddled by the sled.

Brice ran it. Faked the handoff to the imaginary running back behind, rolled right and found Ben standing in for the tight end at eighteen yards.

The field had filled out since morning walkthrough. More jerseys now, more numbers Brice didn’t have memorized yet, coaches stacked three deep along the far hash marks with laminated call sheets clipped to their belts. The media had multiplied too. A cluster of them near midfield, phones out, thumbs moving. A couple of the beat guys had actual notebooks.

The whistle cut through the noise. Two short blasts and the field reorganized itself fast, players jogging to spots like they’d rehearsed it.

Brice peeled off from Jordan and Ben, unclipping his helmet as he walked, helmet coming off in one motion. He ran a hand through his hair, damp with sweat, and grabbed the water bottle sitting on the bench by the sideline cart. Squeezed a stream of it over his head, felt it run cold down the back of his neck and under his collar.

Around him the offense was setting up, coming together in the huddle. Breece Hall. Garrett Wilson. Omar Cooper. Kenyon Sadiq. The offensive line.

The media shifted as well. They stood up straighter. Phones went into their pockets. Arms crossed. Everyone moving to the absolute front of the media section, making sure they had a good view for the first snap.

Zach Parker was already at Brice’s elbow, call sheet in hand.

"Gun Trips Right, Zorro, 96 F Flood."

Brice nodded, working his mouthpiece back in as he listened, eyes tracking the defense setting up across from them. Parker clapped him on the shoulder pad once and stepped back.

Brice pulled his helmet back on, snapped the chinstrap into place, and jogged out to the huddle. He took a knee at the center of it, the offense bending down around him.

"Here we go, here we go. Gun Trips Right, Zorro, 96 F Flood. On one. On one. Ready!"

"Break!"

…

"Check your mirror," Tom said.

Sophie's eyes flicked up to the rearview, then back to the windshield.

"It’s just us."

"Doesn't matter. It should just be a habit at this point."

She rolled her eyes but did it anyway, checking the side mirror before easing the truck out of the lot and onto the empty stretch of road.

She lifted her foot, coasted, then eased back onto the gas. The truck picked up speed, crawling toward the stop sign at the end of the block before she braked again, checked both ways, and turned back into the lot.

His phone buzzed against his thigh. He didn't look at it. It buzzed again by their second loop around the lot and he still didn't look, just laid his hand flat over the pocket like that might quiet it.

Sophie didn't look either. Eyes forward, hands where he'd told her, ten and two.

"So," he said. "How's the summer going so far?"

"Fine."

"Yeah? Just hanging out with your friends?"

"Some."

They looped back into the lot, empty rows of striped asphalt with nobody around to hit. She took the turn wide, then corrected, straightening the wheel.

"Good, good," he said, nodding along. He looked out the window for a second, then back at her. "Listen, about the college visits…"

"It's fine."

"As soon as things settle down a little, we'll go. Things are just a little…you know, right now."

She didn't say anything for a second. Checked her mirror. Signaled before she'd even started the turn back out onto the road.

"You always tell me to stay focused when I'm driving," she said.

"Right."

"So."

He looked at her. She kept her eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel, and didn't say anything else.

"Right," he said again, quieter this time, and let it sit there.

The truck rolled back out onto the road, then looped back into the lot. Neither of them said anything for a while. His phone buzzed a third time. He still didn't check it.

…

The office sat at the end of a long hallway, the kind of building where every door looked the same except for the little brass plates screwed in beside them.

Dr. Marchetti was already seated when he walked in, not behind a desk, just an armchair angled toward a second one across from it, a couch pushed off to the side. She was tall, or read tall sitting down. Dark hair pulled back, simple jewelry, navy blue blazer. She didn't stand when he came in. Just watched him cross the room.

Brice took the open chair. There was a couch in the corner, its practical purpose unclear to him as he sat across from her instead.

"I think we’re looking at a house near here this weekend," Brice said, glancing toward the window. Rooftops and treetops stretched out below. "Heard it’s a good area."

She didn’t follow his eyes to the window.

Brice cleared his throat. Crossed one leg over the other, uncrossed it, planted both feet on the floor instead.

"So how's this usually go? You ask, I answer, we build up to the hard stuff?" He smiled. "Or are we skipping the small talk?"

"Is that what you’re here for? Small talk?"

"Right." He laughed, short, adjusting himself in the chair.

Marchetti sat there, hands folded in her lap, waiting, watching him.

"What do you want out of this?"

Brice opened his mouth, then closed it, then rubbed at the back of his neck. "I mean, I've done this before. In college."

"Okay."

"It was helpful. At times." He shrugged. "Annoying as fuck, other times. You know how it is."

She didn't say anything.

"It wasn't really my choice back then either," he added, laughing a little. "At least not in the beginning. Not court mandated or anything. Just heavily suggested by the coaches when they decided to take me in. I had a little situation towards the end of high school. You probably know that already."

"What do you want from this?" she said again. Same words. Same delivery, like she hadn't already asked it once.

"I don't know. To get better, I guess. To continue to get better. To continue to handle things better."

"Handle what things?"

"Whatever comes up."

"How do you feel you’re handling things right now?"

Brice paused. He looked past her, out the window again, at the rooftops and the treetops and the sun sliding low behind all of it.

She didn't fill the silence for him. She just waited, pen still resting untouched against the notepad on her knee. They sat there for a while.

…

The waiter came by, topping off the water glasses, then hovering near the empty bottle.

"Another?"

"Yes," Britney said, before Tom could even reach for the menu again.

The waiter nodded and disappeared toward the bar.

Britney lifted her glass, tilting it to catch the last inch of red still sitting at the bottom. Tom followed, picking his up too, watching her over the rim.

"To new beginnings," she said.

"New beginnings," Tom held his glass up as well.

They toasted and each took a sip.

"Although," Tom scoffed, "I don’t know what we’re celebrating. She got the house. Twenty-five percent of the business. Full custody. I don’t think I won a single line item."

"Tom."

"I'm just saying, if this is a win, I'd hate to see what losing looks like."

She set her glass down, folding her hands on the edge of the table.

"The fact that it’s over is the win," she said, "That’s what you won. Peace of mind. Not having this shit weighing on you anymore. You get to move on with your life. Stop fighting with your past. That sounds like a win to me."

Tom looked at her.

"And you," he said, tilting his glass towards her.

Britney's eyebrows went up, the corner of her mouth following. "You’re getting soft on me, Thomas?"

"Shut up."

"No, I like it. Say it again. Slower this time."

"Fuck you."

She laughed, reaching for her glass again.

The waiter returned with the second bottle, went through the small performance of showing the label, pouring the taste, waiting for the nod. Britney gave it. He filled both glasses and left.

"So," she said, settling back into her chair, "We go back in session on Monday but I should be done by Wednesday afternoon. Unless I get pulled into that committee I was talking about last week."

"You hear back from Carlisle?"

"Fuck no," she shook her head with a small laugh, "Anyway, that means I’ll probably be back by Wednesday night."

"I’ve got the driving lessons with Sophie on Thursday but after that, I’m free. Murph can hold down the fort on Friday."

"The lake house then?"

"The lake house," Tom raised his glass. She met it.

[Caesar]

Brice trying to fuck on this therapist like he’s Tony Soprano dreaming about Dr. Melfi plot loading

Tom a goofy

[Captain Canada]

She got 25%? Tough look Tom. Bruce shoulda fronted more money for the lawyer

[Soapy]

Brice trying to fuck on this therapist like he’s Tony Soprano dreaming about Dr. Melfi plot loading

Tom a goofy

What Tom do lmao

She got 25%? Tough look Tom. Bruce shoulda fronted more money for the lawyer

he gotta play both sides

[redsox907]

Sophie is almost 18 and doesn't know how to drive? Or am I off on her age lol

Brice used to good ol boy letting him show up drunk to meetings and letting him get by talking about foosball half the time. New girl ain't on the Jets dime, she ain't got time for bullshit

also, Tom gonna be holding that L for a while. If Liz right about him, it's going to drive him to do something stupid again

[Soapy]

Sophie is almost 18 and doesn't know how to drive? Or am I off on her age lol

Brice used to good ol boy letting him show up drunk to meetings and letting him get by talking about foosball half the time. New girl ain't on the Jets dime, she ain't got time for bullshit

also, Tom gonna be holding that L for a while. If Liz right about him, it's going to drive him to do something stupid again

She would be 16/17. Good catch but a lot of people don't drive until they are seniors in high school and it was simply too good of a vehicle, pun intended, to pass up on as a device for her/Tom



definitely a new dynamic with the new therapist

[Soapy]

Season 12, Episode 3
"I don’t know about me adjusting to them," Brice shrugged, "It’s more like them adjusting to me."

Marchetti didn’t write anything down. She just looked at him, pen resting against the notepad, waiting for him to keep going.

"They’ve had, what, three different starters in three years before me. Nobody in that building’s used to having somebody who can actually go out there and lead. Somebody with a little bark.”

“Bark.”

“Yeah.”

“What does that mean to you? Bark.”

Brice shifted in the chair, one ankle crossing over his knee. “You know. Vocal. Not afraid to get in somebody’s face if they mess up a route or miss a check. Command the huddle. Guys respect that.”

“Is that an important attribute to you? As a leader?"

“It’s not just about loud.” He scratched at his beard. “It’s — okay, football’s a physical game. Doesn’t matter that I’m not out there blocking or tackling anybody. You still gotta show the guys that you’re not—”

He stopped.

Marchetti waited.

“That you can hold your own,” he said instead.

“You were going to say something else.”

He laughed, short, looking toward the window. Same rooftops. Same treetops. “You don’t miss much, huh.”

“That’s the job.”

He sat there a second.

“Soft,” he said finally. “I was gonna say that you have to show them that you’re not soft.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not a bad word.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You get guys to run through a wall for you, it’s not because you gave a nice speech. It’s because they’ve seen you take a hit and get back up. Or seen you get in somebody’s face when they need it. It’s respect. And respect on a football team, it’s a little different than like at a job or some shit."

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. More physical, I guess. We’re not just entering numbers on a spreadsheet or figuring out catering orders. It’s some real shit. You gotta be like a man’s man out there."

Marchetti tilted her head slightly. "What does that mean?"

Brice looked at her. "You know what it means."

"What does it mean to you then?"

"I’m not on some like manosphere, red pill soapbox or anything," Brice laughed, "It’s just that people look at that word like it’s a slur. Like being manly or masculine is wrong."

“Does that bother you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

He exhaled, leaning back. “Because I get why. I do. I’m not stupid. I know what that word’s done. How many guys used it as an excuse to be an asshole. How many dads said it to their kids and fucked them up for the rest of their lives because their kid liked to draw instead of play ball. How many guys have said it to girls, to justify — “

He stopped himself again.

“Go on.”

“I’m just saying I get it. I get why it’s got a bad rap. It’s caused a lot of damage. To women. To other guys. Little boys who didn’t do anything wrong except not fit whatever box somebody decided they needed to fit.”

“But.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with the word itself. There’s a time and place for it. A football field’s one of them.”

“Expand on that.”

“What do you mean, expand?”

“You’re drawing a line. Football field, okay to think this way. Everywhere else, not okay. I want to understand where that line comes from. Who decided the football field gets to be the exception.”

Brice thought about it.

“Because it’s a controlled thing. Everybody signed up for it. Nobody’s out there against their will. You know what you’re getting into when you put the pads on. It’s not like some dad calling his six-year-old soft because the kid cried about a scraped knee. That’s fucked up. He ain’t a man yet. Let him cry. He has every right to cry. It hurts. People cry when they’re hurt. But when a grown man puts on a helmet and steps on a field with twenty-one other grown men who also chose to be there, and everybody’s trying to win, yeah. I think there’s a version of that word that’s just true. Where you do need some of that, even if it’s toxic or whatever."

“And you think leadership, in that setting, requires that."

“I think it helps.”

“Helps who?”

“Everybody. Guys need to believe the person in front of them can take the same hits they take. Are willing to take those hits.”

Marchetti wrote something down this time and Brice watched her hand move without being able to read it upside down.

“I’m just saying.” He nodded toward her hand. “I doubt you married your husband if you felt like he couldn’t protect you. Would you have?”

“We’re here to talk about you,” she slowly looked back up. “Aren’t we?”

Brice smiled.

She smiled too. Barely. The pen went back to the notepad.

“So,” she said. “Tell me more about the locker room. You said you missed that. What did you miss about it?”

…

“Three bedrooms down here,” the realtor said, moving through the hallway. “Two more up top. Finished basement’s got a home theater already set up, previous owners left the projector and everything. There’s a room off to the side that’d make a great gym. And obviously,” she gestured toward the sunroom at the back, glass on three sides, "This could be a playroom. Toys everywhere, doesn’t matter, you close the door.”

Brice stood in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets, looking up at the ceiling. Higher than the last place. The kitchen sat behind a half wall, cabinets a color he didn’t have a name for, somewhere between gray and green.

“Not the view we had in Edgewater,” the realtor said, catching him looking around, "but square footage-wise, this blows that one out of the water. And the yard.”

She pointed through the sliding door. “Half an acre. I’m sure the little ones will love that."

James squirmed in the stroller, one arm reaching out toward nothing in particular. Brice unclipped the buckle and lifted him out, settling him against his hip.

“I’m gonna check upstairs,” he said.

Serena nodded, already turning back toward the kitchen with the realtor, who was saying something about the wall separating the two rooms, how it wasn’t load-bearing, how they could open the whole thing up if that was something Serena wanted.

Brice took the stairs slow, James bouncing slightly against him with each step. The carpet upstairs was thick, cream colored, soft enough that he could feel it give a little under his shoes. He found the master at the end of the hall, bigger than the one they had now, windows on two walls.

He set James down in the middle of the floor.

James stayed on his hands and knees for a second, looking up at him, then started moving, palms slapping soft against the carpet. He made it a few feet before pushing himself up onto his feet, wobbling there, arms out.

“There you go,” Brice said, crouching down a little, hands ready but not reaching.

James took a step. Then another, faster, like his legs had figured something out his brain hadn’t caught up to yet. He made it halfway across the room before his knees buckled and he went down onto his hands again, laughing at himself, then pushing right back up.

Brice straightened, walking over to the window. The backyard stretched out below, the grass a little overgrown, a swing set left behind by whoever lived here last. Trees at the edge of the property, thick enough that he couldn’t see the neighbor’s yard past them.

He heard them before he saw them. Serena’s voice, then the realtor’s, coming up the stairs, still talking.

“—thirty minutes to the facility, give or take,” the realtor was saying as they came into the room. “Stadium’s closer, maybe twenty. And the city’s under an hour if you’re not hitting the tunnel at the wrong time.”

Serena stopped near the doorway, watching James make another attempt at a lap around the room, faster this time, arms pumping.

Brice turned from the window. “What about Chatham?”

The realtor’s eyebrows went up slightly, like she hadn’t expected the question. Serena glanced at him.

“Chatham,” the realtor repeated, thinking about it. “Thirty. Maybe thirty-five if you catch traffic on 24.”

Brice nodded slowly. “That ain’t too bad. My therapist, her office is out there."

Serena’s eyebrow lifted.

“Oh,” the realtor said, brightening. “Well, there you go, your whole life’s within thirty, forty minutes of this house. I’m telling you, location-wise, you’re not gonna find better in this range.”

James made it to Brice’s leg and grabbed onto his jeans, pulling himself back up to standing. Brice looked down at him, then over at Serena.

“Let’s put in an offer then,” he said.

Serena smiled, small, and looked back down at James still gripping onto his father’s leg.

…

The fire popped, sending a spiral of sparks up into the dark. Sophie pulled her knees in closer, the sleeves of Cooper’s hoodie bunched up past her fingers. It smelled like him. Whatever cologne he’d put on, way too much of it.

Across the circle, somebody had a speaker going, competing with the crackle of the fire. Priya was laughing at something the guy next to her said, tipping her head back, her cup already empty.

“I’m getting a refill,” Priya said, standing, brushing sand off her jeans. The guy stood up with her. “Anybody need anything?”

Nobody answered. Priya didn’t wait for one anyway, already walking off toward the cooler with him, the fingers interlocking about halfway there.

Gen leaned over to Bridget, said something low that Sophie didn’t catch, and then the two of them were up too.

Sophie watched them go. The dark swallowed them up fast, past the ring of firelight, and then it was just her and Cooper and the fire between them and everybody else scattered off at other bonfires, other conversations, far enough away that they might as well not exist.

She looked over at Cooper. He was already looking at her.

He cleared his throat, and even that felt loud, like it had a purpose.

“I think they want us to kiss,” he said, a short laugh coming out after it.

“Good thing it’s not up to them,” Sophie said.

“Do you?”

She felt the heat come up in her face, faster than she could stop it, and she was glad for the dark and the fire throwing everything into orange and shadow so maybe he couldn’t tell.

He leaned in.

She leaned in too, the sleeves of his hoodie falling back over her hands as she braced herself on the log they were sitting on.

His mouth was warm. Tasted like the tequila and apple juice he’d been drinking. She closed her eyes without deciding to.

Somewhere off to the side, a whoop went up. Then a whistle then another voice joining in.

Cooper pulled back just enough to flip them off without looking at them, his hand coming up lazy, like it barely required his attention, and then he looked back at Sophie.

Sophie laughed, ducking her chin down into the collar of the hoodie, her face still hot. She could hear somebody howling with laughter somewhere near the cooler. Priya’s laugh, unmistakable.

“You guys are so childish,” Sophie muttered toward the dark, though she was smiling when she said it.

…

“—and then, this is the part I love, she actually thought I was serious,” the woman was saying, hand pressed to her chest, the diamond ring catching the light every time she moved.

Serena laughed along with the rest of the table, not entirely sure what the punchline had been. The room was smaller than she’d pictured when Camille mentioned a private room. It didn’t feel private. Servers kept coming through with trays held high, weaving between chairs pulled too close together.

She’d lost count of names after the eighth one. There was a woman named Deanna who was maybe six months along, her hand resting on the curve of her stomach every few minutes like she was checking it was still there. Another one, older, married to somebody on the O-line, who’d barely said two words all night but laughed loud enough to make up for it.

“So how’d you two meet?” The question came from a girl across the table, dark curls pulled into a bun, a glass of something pink in her hand that she hadn’t touched much.

“Purdue,” Serena said. “We went to school together.”

“Oh, that’s cute. What’d you study?”

“Engineering.”

The table made a sound. Small, appreciative, a couple of eyebrows lifting, slightly patronizing.

“Engineering,” the curly-haired girl repeated, like she wanted to make sure she’d heard right. “Okay, Serena.”

Serena felt the shape of a smile settle on her face. “Don’t let it impress you too much. I was hanging on by a thread.”

“You graduated already?”

“Taking a gap year,” Serena took a small sip of her drink. “Getting settled first. I’ll figure the school thing out eventually. Might look at Rutgers.”

Nobody blinked at that. The conversation had already started drifting, somebody bringing up a broker they’d used in Short Hills, somebody else complaining about contractors, and Serena let herself exhale a little, glad the conversation had passed her. It wasn’t long before it found its way back to her, like it had all night.

“Wait,” the pregnant one said, turning back toward her a few minutes later. “Didn’t you just close on something? Camille mentioned it.”

“Montclair,” Serena said. “Still in the process. Should close in a few weeks.”

“That’s a good area.” A few heads nodded around the table.

“We looked at some places closer to the city,” Serena said. “But this felt like a better middle ground. Facility’s close. Stadium’s really close."

“Smart,” someone chimed in.

“Our realtor was talking about getting two places,” Serena went on. “One near the city, one out by the facility. Felt like more of a headache than anything. Two places to keep up with. Maybe later, when things are more settled.”

The table erupted, like she’d said something funnier than she meant to.

“Oh, that’s how you know,” the curly-haired girl said, pointing her glass toward Serena. “That’s how you know she’s with the quarterback."

Serena let the laugh sit on her face and the conversation moved on, sliding toward somebody else’s kid, a school situation, a nanny that hadn’t worked out. Serena picked up her glass and let herself just listen for a while.

A hand landed light on her shoulder. Camille, leaning down, close to her ear.

“Montclair’s a good pick,” Camille said, arms crossed loose in front of her. “Better than good.”

“Thanks. I like it."

“Don’t do the two places thing. Whatever the realtor’s telling you,” Camille’s mouth curved. “I know it sounds smart on paper. Close to the city, close to the facility. But you get a late night, him and the boys, city apartment sitting right there waiting, that’s exactly how it goes bad. They crash there. And it’s never just them.”

Serena nodded slowly, turning the words over.

“Appreciate that,” she said.

Camille nodded back, already glancing toward the main conversation. “Sounds like we need another bottle over here,” she called out, loud enough to carry, “Am I right or am I right?"

[redsox907]

They crash there. And it’s never just them.”

next thing you know Brice is flipping bitches on twin mattresses like he back in Indy with Justin

[Caesar]

On Sophie just learning to drive, it tracks because of Liz. Jimmy didn’t drive (or didn’t really) either. Brice and Tom drove him everywhere. Add in that Sophie’s the girl of the bunch, the youngest and was like 13 when Jimmy got packed out and Liz probably forbade her from driving for control. But now Tom gotta compete for her love because he ripped up the household for Brittany’s coont coont and her star fishing skills so he’s gonna teach her.

Anyway, Cooper. Nice, strong Anglo name. Liz will be proud she is not like her brother.

I don’t know why they giving Serena that advice. Brice probably plotting on the realtor and everything.