Weak-spined individuals. #NotMyQB
And this is dude that I was supposed to believe ain’t beating his mentally ill girlfriend?
Brice gonna walk but he need to be in Michigan City like he John Dillinger.
Damaged Petals.
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13834
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Brice gonna walk but he need to be in Michigan City like he John Dillinger.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 6139
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
This man really might be worse than Royce and Kam put together 
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13713
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
who among us
Captain Canada wrote: ↑17 Oct 2025, 12:48This man really might be worse than Royce and Kam put together
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13713
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 2, Episode 3
Brice returned to his room with his cereal bowl in hand, eating a spoonful as he sat at his desk. The faces on his monitor were familiar as he watched the livestream, feet propped on the desk. He was supposed to be there, front and center, blue and gold all around him. Instead it was Eric with a huge smile on, the iconic ND logo on his hat answering a reporter’s question.
Eric had called that morning to say Notre Dame — close to signing the number-one class in the country — had increased their NIL offer and that he was seriously considering them. Brice knew what that meant. Eric was flipping from Ohio State to Notre Dame; the call was courtesy. Brice bit his tongue, told him he was happy and should take it. Part of him wondered what would have happened if he’d told Eric he wasn’t comfortable with it — if Eric shouldn’t take the spot, money maybe freed up by Notre Dame no longer having to pay him.
Curtis followed, wearing a black-and-yellow Iowa hat; Marcos stuck with Marshall. Brice closed his laptop after that, watching the dwindling milk in his bowl and then staring out the window. He re-opened his laptop, exited the stream, and logged into the school portal to do his work — suspension still in place. Another day trapped in his room with nothing but his thoughts, his worries, and his anger.
…
“Can I borrow this top?”
Connie nodded without looking up as Skylar held a blue crop top to her chest in front of the mirror.
“Are you going to Rashon’s thing this Friday?” Skylar asked.
“What do you think?” Connie raised an eyebrow. “And girl, you’re going to be freezing in that.”
“I can wear a cute jacket,” Skylar shrugged. “I don’t think it’s going to be a bunch of St. Joe’s people there.”
“They all know each other,” Connie said.
“So what, you’re going to hide in here for the rest of your life?”
“That sounds about right,” Connie returned to the schoolwork on her laptop.
“Bitch, you’re so fucking dramatic,” Skylar flopped onto the bed.
“You think I wanted to switch all my classes to virtual? To miss senior year stuff? You don’t know what it’s like to walk into a room and know exactly what everyone is thinking.”
“I mean, girl, come on. You had to know what would happen,” Skylar said without irony.
“Weren’t you the one who told me to follow through? You said no one would believe me if I didn’t,” Connie shot back.
“I thought you were a better liar,” Skylar scoffed. “But really, Con — you’re going to have to move on. If you keep hiding, it proves you were lying.”
“They already don’t believe me, so it doesn’t matter,” she sighed.
“Want my advice?” Skylar didn’t wait. “You walk in, tell them you were mad at Brice, you got carried away. Admit it, apologize, move on.”
“Isn’t that like filing a false police report?”
“They don’t want more work,” Skylar said. “They’ll be mad as hell at you, but you can’t go to ND anyway, right? Might as well get a fresh start.”
“What?”
“Do you really want to go to the same school as Brice?” Skylar said. “If I were you and had your grades, I’d be applying to Michigan, Stanford, Duke — anywhere. Don’t stay in South Bend, Con. Trust me.”
…
“Come in,” Britney said to the knock on her office door, setting down her pen.
It wasn’t an assistant with paperwork or a detective checking details.
“You have a minute?” Tom asked, standing in the doorway.
Britney nodded, not trusting her voice yet. She moved the mouse on her monitor, stalling, buying time to collect herself. When she looked up, she motioned toward the chair. As he sat, she caught the faint scent of his cologne. He hadn’t changed it.
“How can I help you, Mr. Colton?”
“Come on,” Tom offered a small, tired smile. “We don’t have to be like this.”
“I’m trying to make things aboveboard,” she said, hands open. “As I told your wife, I’m not at liberty to discuss an open investigation. If you have questions, the sheriff’s department is your best source.”
“Liz didn’t send me,” Tom said. “So you can drop the act, Britney. It’s just us.”
She paused, the word landing differently now.
“My hands are tied,” she replied. “This isn’t some special office probe. These were parents bringing serious allegations. I can’t just throw them away because someone asks.”
Tom leaned over the desk. “Look — I know things didn’t end well for anybody.”
Britney’s jaw tightened as she touched the faint line on her finger where a ring might have been, fingertips finding nothing.
“That’s a bit of an understatement, Tom,” she interrupted, voice flat. “Things seemed to end well on your side. It always does.”
He winced at the jab but kept his posture steady. “Let’s not make this personal, OK? We both made a mistake. It played out differently for us, but that shouldn’t have anything to do with my son.”
“I have to investigate all serious allegations, Tommy,” she said, voice steady. “I don’t get to pick and choose.”
“I know.” He exhaled, and for a moment his face softened. “I’m not saying don’t look into it. I want you to. It’s just—timing couldn’t be worse. He was supposed to sign with Notre Dame this morning. If we don’t clear this up, there’s a real chance my son — who’s worked his entire life for this — loses that. He’s made mistakes, sure. But he’s never hurt her. You know Brice. You know he’s not capable of this.”
Brice returned to his room with his cereal bowl in hand, eating a spoonful as he sat at his desk. The faces on his monitor were familiar as he watched the livestream, feet propped on the desk. He was supposed to be there, front and center, blue and gold all around him. Instead it was Eric with a huge smile on, the iconic ND logo on his hat answering a reporter’s question.
Eric had called that morning to say Notre Dame — close to signing the number-one class in the country — had increased their NIL offer and that he was seriously considering them. Brice knew what that meant. Eric was flipping from Ohio State to Notre Dame; the call was courtesy. Brice bit his tongue, told him he was happy and should take it. Part of him wondered what would have happened if he’d told Eric he wasn’t comfortable with it — if Eric shouldn’t take the spot, money maybe freed up by Notre Dame no longer having to pay him.
Curtis followed, wearing a black-and-yellow Iowa hat; Marcos stuck with Marshall. Brice closed his laptop after that, watching the dwindling milk in his bowl and then staring out the window. He re-opened his laptop, exited the stream, and logged into the school portal to do his work — suspension still in place. Another day trapped in his room with nothing but his thoughts, his worries, and his anger.
…
“Can I borrow this top?”
Connie nodded without looking up as Skylar held a blue crop top to her chest in front of the mirror.
“Are you going to Rashon’s thing this Friday?” Skylar asked.
“What do you think?” Connie raised an eyebrow. “And girl, you’re going to be freezing in that.”
“I can wear a cute jacket,” Skylar shrugged. “I don’t think it’s going to be a bunch of St. Joe’s people there.”
“They all know each other,” Connie said.
“So what, you’re going to hide in here for the rest of your life?”
“That sounds about right,” Connie returned to the schoolwork on her laptop.
“Bitch, you’re so fucking dramatic,” Skylar flopped onto the bed.
“You think I wanted to switch all my classes to virtual? To miss senior year stuff? You don’t know what it’s like to walk into a room and know exactly what everyone is thinking.”
“I mean, girl, come on. You had to know what would happen,” Skylar said without irony.
“Weren’t you the one who told me to follow through? You said no one would believe me if I didn’t,” Connie shot back.
“I thought you were a better liar,” Skylar scoffed. “But really, Con — you’re going to have to move on. If you keep hiding, it proves you were lying.”
“They already don’t believe me, so it doesn’t matter,” she sighed.
“Want my advice?” Skylar didn’t wait. “You walk in, tell them you were mad at Brice, you got carried away. Admit it, apologize, move on.”
“Isn’t that like filing a false police report?”
“They don’t want more work,” Skylar said. “They’ll be mad as hell at you, but you can’t go to ND anyway, right? Might as well get a fresh start.”
“What?”
“Do you really want to go to the same school as Brice?” Skylar said. “If I were you and had your grades, I’d be applying to Michigan, Stanford, Duke — anywhere. Don’t stay in South Bend, Con. Trust me.”
…
“Come in,” Britney said to the knock on her office door, setting down her pen.
It wasn’t an assistant with paperwork or a detective checking details.
“You have a minute?” Tom asked, standing in the doorway.
Britney nodded, not trusting her voice yet. She moved the mouse on her monitor, stalling, buying time to collect herself. When she looked up, she motioned toward the chair. As he sat, she caught the faint scent of his cologne. He hadn’t changed it.
“How can I help you, Mr. Colton?”
“Come on,” Tom offered a small, tired smile. “We don’t have to be like this.”
“I’m trying to make things aboveboard,” she said, hands open. “As I told your wife, I’m not at liberty to discuss an open investigation. If you have questions, the sheriff’s department is your best source.”
“Liz didn’t send me,” Tom said. “So you can drop the act, Britney. It’s just us.”
She paused, the word landing differently now.
“My hands are tied,” she replied. “This isn’t some special office probe. These were parents bringing serious allegations. I can’t just throw them away because someone asks.”
Tom leaned over the desk. “Look — I know things didn’t end well for anybody.”
Britney’s jaw tightened as she touched the faint line on her finger where a ring might have been, fingertips finding nothing.
“That’s a bit of an understatement, Tom,” she interrupted, voice flat. “Things seemed to end well on your side. It always does.”
He winced at the jab but kept his posture steady. “Let’s not make this personal, OK? We both made a mistake. It played out differently for us, but that shouldn’t have anything to do with my son.”
“I have to investigate all serious allegations, Tommy,” she said, voice steady. “I don’t get to pick and choose.”
“I know.” He exhaled, and for a moment his face softened. “I’m not saying don’t look into it. I want you to. It’s just—timing couldn’t be worse. He was supposed to sign with Notre Dame this morning. If we don’t clear this up, there’s a real chance my son — who’s worked his entire life for this — loses that. He’s made mistakes, sure. But he’s never hurt her. You know Brice. You know he’s not capable of this.”
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 6139
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
Damn, father AND son throwing dick around?
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13834
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Damaged Petals.
Just a terrible family all around. Dios mio
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redsox907
- Posts: 3803
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Damaged Petals.
I'm so confused. If it was a thing before Lizzy, then doubtful she knows Brice. So Tom and Lizzy split, Tom got with Britt and she got to know the kids, then Lizzy did something to bring them back together? Messy is an understatement regardless.
where you think son learned it? Watching pops lay out wood like he was building a house
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13713
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
We all make mistakes
To clarify, Tom, while with Liz, had an affair with Britney. Britney's husband split (its why she was rubbing her empty ring finger), Tom and Liz got back together.redsox907 wrote: ↑20 Oct 2025, 18:48I'm so confused. If it was a thing before Lizzy, then doubtful she knows Brice. So Tom and Lizzy split, Tom got with Britt and she got to know the kids, then Lizzy did something to bring them back together? Messy is an understatement regardless.
where you think son learned it? Watching pops lay out wood like he was building a house
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 13713
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Damaged Petals.
Season 2, Episode 4
Jimmy could feel the coach’s eyes travel up and down as he entered the room, suddenly self-conscious about whether he actually looked all of the six feet listed on his recruiting page. He remembered his father’s advice as he shook the man’s hand—eye contact, firm grip, slight nod, smile only if offered one.
“You’ve been hitting the weight room!” Coach Ford patted his shoulder. “One-seventy?”
“One eighty-three, sir,” Jimmy replied, sitting in the empty chair near Coach Lanovoi’s desk.
“He lives in that weight room,” Lanovoi added, leaning back in his chair, pen spinning lazily in his hand.
“You don’t have to sell me on this one,” Ford laughed, still examining Jimmy. He was broader than the last time Ford had seen him at a camp that past summer.
The next fifteen minutes went the way his brother and father said they would. They would try to make conversation, talked about culture, facilities, family atmosphere. They would tell him what they could offer, what they envisioned him becoming. He was told how to act—interested but not desperate, humble but confident. Ask the right questions. Don’t ask certain ones. It was all a song and dance, but for Jimmy, the novelty hadn’t yet worn off.
“I don’t need to tell you how much of a priority we’re going to make you for the next eighteen months,” Ford said. “We’re two days from the end of the early period, and I’m sitting here with a kid who won’t sign for two years. That should tell you what we think of you. Coach Odom, our staff, we see you as someone we can build around. A dynamic chess piece. Hell, even the defensive guys want a look at you.”
Jimmy couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his mouth. He’d met with other schools before—Notre Dame, Indiana, Wisconsin, even an Ohio State camp in Chicago—but this one felt different. Maybe Ford was just better at selling it, but what he was saying, Jimmy was buying.
“I’ll let you get going,” Ford smiled. “You strike me as a man of few words. That’s good. You’re a lead-by-example type. We need those.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jimmy stood, shaking both coaches’ hands.
“Oh,” Ford said, snapping his fingers. “How’s your brother’s recruiting going? He sign anywhere yet?”
There it was. There it always was.
...
“Coach, I’ve got Cordale on the line.”
Coach Freeman nodded as his assistant shut the door. He picked up the receiver, pressing the blinking red button.
“Cordale, how’s it going, buddy?”
“I’m good, Coach,” came the voice on the other end. “I thought about our convo last night, talked with my dad—we’re ready to make the move.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Freeman said, typing as he spoke. “We really think you can help us close this class out the right way. Be that next great quarterback at Notre Dame.”
“We’re ready to sign, Coach,” the kid said again, firmer this time.
“How about this,” Freeman replied. “Give me thirty minutes and I’ll call you back. Just need to finalize a few things to make sure we’re good to move forward.”
He hung up just as his assistant poked her head back in.
“Get me someone from the St. Joe’s DA office,” he said.
...
The skyline outside wasn’t quite Chicago or even Cleveland—just the pale sprawl of a Midwest city at dusk—but it gave her something to look at. The last streaks of daylight bled into glass towers as Britney poured the rest of the bottle into her glass.
Her laptop sat open, inbox full. Emails read, none replied to. She took a slow sip as her phone lit up again. Another missed call. Another voicemail.
She flipped it face down and shut the laptop.
The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the city through the window. She tilted her head back, letting the wine linger on her tongue before swallowing, the corner of her mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Outside, the skyline blurred into night. Inside, she poured herself another glass.
Jimmy could feel the coach’s eyes travel up and down as he entered the room, suddenly self-conscious about whether he actually looked all of the six feet listed on his recruiting page. He remembered his father’s advice as he shook the man’s hand—eye contact, firm grip, slight nod, smile only if offered one.
“You’ve been hitting the weight room!” Coach Ford patted his shoulder. “One-seventy?”
“One eighty-three, sir,” Jimmy replied, sitting in the empty chair near Coach Lanovoi’s desk.
“He lives in that weight room,” Lanovoi added, leaning back in his chair, pen spinning lazily in his hand.
“You don’t have to sell me on this one,” Ford laughed, still examining Jimmy. He was broader than the last time Ford had seen him at a camp that past summer.
The next fifteen minutes went the way his brother and father said they would. They would try to make conversation, talked about culture, facilities, family atmosphere. They would tell him what they could offer, what they envisioned him becoming. He was told how to act—interested but not desperate, humble but confident. Ask the right questions. Don’t ask certain ones. It was all a song and dance, but for Jimmy, the novelty hadn’t yet worn off.
“I don’t need to tell you how much of a priority we’re going to make you for the next eighteen months,” Ford said. “We’re two days from the end of the early period, and I’m sitting here with a kid who won’t sign for two years. That should tell you what we think of you. Coach Odom, our staff, we see you as someone we can build around. A dynamic chess piece. Hell, even the defensive guys want a look at you.”
Jimmy couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his mouth. He’d met with other schools before—Notre Dame, Indiana, Wisconsin, even an Ohio State camp in Chicago—but this one felt different. Maybe Ford was just better at selling it, but what he was saying, Jimmy was buying.
“I’ll let you get going,” Ford smiled. “You strike me as a man of few words. That’s good. You’re a lead-by-example type. We need those.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jimmy stood, shaking both coaches’ hands.
“Oh,” Ford said, snapping his fingers. “How’s your brother’s recruiting going? He sign anywhere yet?”
There it was. There it always was.
...
“Coach, I’ve got Cordale on the line.”
Coach Freeman nodded as his assistant shut the door. He picked up the receiver, pressing the blinking red button.
“Cordale, how’s it going, buddy?”
“I’m good, Coach,” came the voice on the other end. “I thought about our convo last night, talked with my dad—we’re ready to make the move.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Freeman said, typing as he spoke. “We really think you can help us close this class out the right way. Be that next great quarterback at Notre Dame.”
“We’re ready to sign, Coach,” the kid said again, firmer this time.
“How about this,” Freeman replied. “Give me thirty minutes and I’ll call you back. Just need to finalize a few things to make sure we’re good to move forward.”
He hung up just as his assistant poked her head back in.
“Get me someone from the St. Joe’s DA office,” he said.
...
The skyline outside wasn’t quite Chicago or even Cleveland—just the pale sprawl of a Midwest city at dusk—but it gave her something to look at. The last streaks of daylight bled into glass towers as Britney poured the rest of the bottle into her glass.
Her laptop sat open, inbox full. Emails read, none replied to. She took a slow sip as her phone lit up again. Another missed call. Another voicemail.
She flipped it face down and shut the laptop.
The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the city through the window. She tilted her head back, letting the wine linger on her tongue before swallowing, the corner of her mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Outside, the skyline blurred into night. Inside, she poured herself another glass.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 6139
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Damaged Petals.
I already know the exact character type you're building for Britney. You ain't slick.