The apartment was small enough that the kitchen counter doubled as the bar and the living room doubled as the dance floor and the hallway doubled as the line for the bathroom. Connie leaned against the wall by the kitchen, a red cup of something she wasn’t sure what it was when it was handed to her, and watched a cluster of sophomores she vaguely recognized from some orientation event scurry past her toward the back bedroom.
She laughed to herself. Quietly. Into her cup.
A few weeks ago, a wild night had been staying up past midnight on Hector and Rosa's porch, telling stories in Spanish she was still only half-catching, and Hector slowly slipping on a tiny cup of aguardiente until Rosa had to take it from him and pour the rest into her own. The roosters had started crowing at four in the morning and they'd all laughed about it and gone to bed and woken up to Rosa already in the kitchen, already cooking, already asking Connie if she'd slept well in a way that meant she knew she hadn't.
She took a sip of whatever was in the cup. Soda, mostly. Some kind of cheap rum underneath it. She set it on the counter behind her and didn't pick it back up.
The crowd around the television erupted. Cheers and groans both. She looked over. The screen was small, mounted on the wall above a bookshelf that had been cleared of books and stacked with coats instead. A huddle of bodies blocked most of it, but she caught the movement through the gaps. A player running. Helmet off. Throwing it onto the field. The crowd on the screen surging around him.
She stepped to the side, just enough to see past someone's shoulder.
His hair was short. Shorter than she'd seen it in years. Like it had been when they first started dating, if you could call it that.
She looked at the score. The numbers sat there at the bottom of the screen, final.
She looked away.
The kitchen counter was sticky under her fingers. She wiped them on her jeans and picked up her cup and set it back down without drinking from it. Somebody bumped past her. She let herself get pushed a step to the left and stayed there, her back against the wall, the noise of the party filling in around her like water.
…
Brice kept giving out half-hugs as he worked his way through the sea of bodies as they were pulling at his jersey, at his neck. He'd turn around, share a moment with them, which is all that they wanted really, and continue on his path.
He'd spotted his father from a few yards' away and yet there were still seemingly dozens of bodies between them. There was an SID next to him, pointing towards the stage. He couldn't see his mother or anyone else, just his dad, all six-foot-four of him, looking around, ostensibly looking for him as well.
Brice wiped away at his face as he picked up his pace, the careful parting of bodies in front of him creeping closer to a half shove.
Tom finally made eye contact and started moving as Brice got through the last cluster of bodies, and then there was nothing between them and Tom got both arms around him and pulled him in and Brice fell within his father's grasp. He pressed his face into his father's shoulder and held on. Tom's hand came up to the back of his head.
His chest shook once.
Tom didn't say anything. He just held him tighter.
A few seconds passed. Maybe more. Brice pulled back and wiped at his face with the back of his wrist and laughed at himself a little, the way you do when you've been caught, and Tom laughed too and grabbed the back of his neck.
"What a fucking game," Tom said. His voice was completely shot.
Brice nodded. He didn't trust his voice either. He looked past his dad and found his mother. She had James balanced on her hip, one hand pressed flat against her own collarbone, and she was crying too. James had his small fist curled into the collar of her jacket, more interested in the noise and the confetti drifting past his face than in any of it.
Brice got one arm around her, careful of James between them, and she held his face in one hand for a second before he reached for his son instead. James leaned toward him without hesitation, already reaching, and Brice pulled him against his chest, confetti catching in the baby's hair.
"Hey, bud," Brice said, his voice cracking on it. He pressed his lips to the top of James's head and held him there.
Liz wiped at her own face and moved to Sophie, who was looking at Brice like she wasn't sure what to do with what she'd just seen.
He shifted James onto one arm and reached for Sophie with the other. She let him hug her.
Serena was a half-step behind all of it. She'd watched him move through his family, watched Tom pull him in, watched his shoulders drop in a way she'd never seen them drop, watched him fold his son into his arms like it was the only place either of them belonged right now. She kept her hands clasped in front of her. She placed a smile on her face and kept it there.
"Awesome job, babe," she stepped in and Brice put his free arm around her and kissed the top of her head, James still balanced against his shoulder.
"You did it."
"Yeah, I guess we did," he said. He was still a little breathless. "Holy fucking shit."
The SID was at his elbow again, patient but running out of it. Behind them, the stage lights were up and the crowd was loud and Brice looked at all of them for one more second, his family standing there in the middle of the field, confetti still falling, his son's head tucked under his chin.
"I'll text you when I'm out," he said. He passed James back to Liz, who took him without a word, adjusting him against her hip.
"Rose Bowl champions," Tom smiled. Already waving him off.
Brice turned toward the stage. Serena watched him go, the crowd swallowing him back up almost immediately. She felt Tom step up beside her, and then Liz on her other side, James's small hand opening and closing at nothing, and the four of them stood there watching the stage, watching him climb the steps, watching him take the hat someone handed him and put it on sideways.
She clapped with everyone else.
…
Tom pulled the salmon out of the oven and set it on the stove top. The skin had crisped up the way he wanted it. He plated the salmon first, then the asparagus, then the rice. He set them on the counter and opened the bottle of wine he'd picked up on the way home.
The front door opened. He heard the keys hit the bowl on the entry table, the coat being hung, the heels coming off.
"Something smells good," Britney called from the hallway.
"Salmon."
"Thank God. I'm starving."
She came around the corner and he turned around. He always appreciated the way she dressed for work. Navy suit. Pearl earrings. The centerpiece around her neck didn’t look expensive, but he knew it was. And those that knew, would know too.
She crossed the kitchen and kissed him. Her hand found his chest, rested there for a second, then she pulled back.
"You haven’t even tasted the food yet. I’m in for a treat tonight."
She rolled her eyes and turned toward the hallway. "I'm going to shower. I smell like parole violations."
"Take your time. I'm finishing up."
She disappeared down the hall. He heard the bathroom door close, then the water start.
He pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet and poured. Set them on the table. Moved the plates from the counter to the table. Adjusted the placement of the silverware. Moved the napkins. Adjusted the silverware again. Picked up his phone, checked it, set it back down.
The shower ran for another few minutes. He stood at the counter and drank a sip of his wine and looked out the window at the parking lot below. Snow had started. Not much. Just enough to dust the cars.
The water shut off. He heard the bathroom door open, then her footsteps moving toward the bedroom.
"So," he called, leaning against the counter with his wine glass. "I was thinking about next week."
"What about it?"
"I'm going to Arizona. For the game."
"Obviously."
He took another sip. "I was thinking you could come."
The footsteps stopped. He could picture her standing in the bedroom doorway, towel in her hand, head tilted.
"To Arizona?"
"Yeah. You've got a few days before the swearing-in. I've been looking at some Airbnbs out there. Nice ones. Pool, fireplace, the whole thing. We could make a week of it. You know. Just relax."
Silence from the bedroom. Then the footsteps started again, coming toward him this time. She appeared in the kitchen doorway in her robe, her hair wrapped in a towel, her face doing something he couldn't quite read.
"Really?" she said. "Isn't that a bit soon?"
"Obviously we wouldn't go to the game or anything."
She stood there. Arms crossed. Robe tied at her waist.
"I didn't mean it like…" He stopped. Started again. "I'm not trying to hide you. I'm not trying to stash you in some Airbnb while I go off and hang out with my…with them. That's not what this is. I just thought—"
He stopped himself again. He let out a breath.
"I think you deserve some time off," he said. "I think we should have some fun. Not that we’re not having fun. Or that I only want you around when I’m having fun. I'm not trying to reduce you to—I'm not—"
Britney laughed.
"Tom."
"What?" he sighed.
"Stick to cooking and screwing. That's what you're good at."
She turned around and walked back toward the bedroom.
He laughed.
He picked up his wine glass and took another drink and stood there in the kitchen, the salmon cooling on the table behind him, the snow still falling outside, and he let himself smile.
…
"It took me a while to settle in," Brice said. He was sitting with one ankle crossed over the other knee, his hands folded on top of it. "Longer than usual. I don't know if I ever really did, or if Georgia just let us off the hook. Because we didn't play well. Offense didn't. I didn't."
LaPenna sat across from him. He didn't say anything.
"First half was rough. We just couldn’t get anything going. They obviously wanted to take away our quick game. RPOs were shot."
Brice paused.
"RPO is like a play where," he began. LaPenna cut him off.
"I know what an RPO is, Brice."
Brice laughed, "Well, they took it away. I don’t know how sometimes, but they somehow did. Like we have this play where it’s a bubble with a seam shot to the tight end. Even if you take that away by overloading the front side, we should have numbers on the backend for the run. Nope. Nothing there."
He uncrossed his legs and recrossed them the other way. The chair creaked under him.
"At one point, I thought we were going to lose. I just remember thinking that after one of our drives. And there was a part of me that was…"
He stopped. Looked at the floor. Looked back up. "Relieved. Like, okay. It's over. The pressure's gone. I can just be done with it."
He let that sit for a second. Then he shook his head.
"Which I know isn't true. Losing a game like that doesn't make the pressure go away. It makes it worse. It makes everything louder. I know the blitz would have been on the way. The draft stuff, the combine stuff, all of it. I know that. I'm not stupid."
LaPenna nodded.
"When do you think the pressure goes away, Brice?"
Brice looked at him.
"A win? Two more wins? A great game next week? The draft? When does it stop?"
Brice opened his mouth. Closed it. He let out a quiet laugh, more air than sound.
"It doesn't."
LaPenna waited.
"It doesn't go away," Brice said. "That's what you're saying. That's the point."
"I'm asking you."
"Yeah. It doesn't go away. If we win next week, it's the combine. If the combine goes well, it's the draft. If the draft goes well, it's training camp. If training camp goes well, it's the season. It just keeps going."
He rubbed his palms together. His foot started moving. He pressed his heel into the carpet.
"So what do I do with that?"
"What do you think?"
Brice leaned back. The chair creaked again. He looked at the ceiling for a second, then back at LaPenna.
"Get comfortable in it, I guess. Stop waiting for it to be over."
LaPenna nodded.
"It's not going anywhere," Brice said. "So I either figure out how to live with it or I don't."
"Or you don't," LaPenna repeated.
Brice let out a breath.
"Easy for you to say."
"It is," LaPenna said. "It's very easy for me to say. That’s why I drive a 2018 Dodge Durango."
"That ain’t a bad car," Brice laughed, "I don’t know. It’s a lot. I’m just tired, man. I’m really fucking tired. It’s like yet another game. Film. Interviews. Press conferences. The actual fucking game and then do it all over again the week after that."
"You don't have to do it all that right now."
"It don’t matter. It’s still going to come. I still have to do it."
"You don't have to do it right now. You can just be tired today."
Brice looked at him. He turned that over in his head for a second.
"That's a cop-out."
"Is it?"
"Yeah. It's a cop-out. The game's still happening whether I'm tired or not. They’re not going to give a fuck about that. My brother fucking died. This fucking girl that I’ve known for damn near half my life who I had a kid with and was just starting to figure out what the fuck alll of that meant or how we were going to co-parent gets fucking killed, by my brother’s quasi girlfriend no less, and nobody gave fuck."
"They didn’t."
"So what am I supposed to do with that?"
"What do you want to do with it?"
Brice dropped his head back against the chair. He stared at the ceiling.
"I want to win," he said. "I want to go out there and win and shut everybody up and prove that I'm the best quarterback in the country and that I deserve everything that's coming to me. That's what I want."
"Okay."
"But I'm tired."
"Both things can be true."
Brice sat there. His foot had started moving again. He didn't stop it this time.
"Both things can be true," he repeated, "I fucking hate when you do that shit."
LaPenna didn’t say anything.
"I don’t know," he ran his hand through his beard, "Maybe I’m just feeling sorry for myself. It was a tough game. A really tough game."
"You’re allowed to do that too."
"I sound like such a pussy sometimes," Brice rubbed his fingertips against his closed eyelids.
"Eh," LaPenna shrugged, "I’m looking at a Grand Cherokee right now so I can’t complain."
Brice peeled his hands away. Looked at LaPenna. LaPenna looked at him. They both erupted into laughter.
