Damaged Petals.

[djp73]

this is for you djp

[Soapy]

Season 4, Episode 14
LaPenna let the silence sit longer than usual.

Brice stared past him, eyes fixed somewhere over LaPenna’s shoulder, jaw tight like he was holding something in place with his teeth. He hadn’t slouched into the couch the way he normally did. He sat upright, hands clasped, elbows resting on his thighs. Like he was waiting for instructions.

“Sometimes,” LaPenna said gently, “After a loss like this, it can help to add another layer of support. Grief counseling. A space that’s specifically for—”

Brice didn’t say anything, his face remaining neutral as he looked past LaPenna.

"You just never expect it with someone like him, you know?"

LaPenna leaned back slightly, giving the words room. “Tell me about that.”

Brice exhaled through his nose. "He just always did the right thing, you know? Like if karma is real, if God is real…any of it, really, he’s the last one that should get punished or something like this happen. He never did anything wrong and if he did, he owned up to it."

His hands tightened together.

“When we were kids,” Brice continued, “He used to rat on himself. Like, deadass. He’d break something and just go find my mom and tell her. I used to think he was stupid for that.”

“And now?” LaPenna asked.

Brice’s lips pressed together. “Now I think he was…brave or honest or both, I don’t know."

The word hung there, heavier than the others.

LaPenna nodded slowly. “It sounds like you admired that about him.”

“Yeah,” Brice said. "I mean, I never looked up to him because he was my younger brother but maybe I should have, you know? I was just always proud of him, always felt good about him and how he’d turn out. Sophie, sometimes I worry about her, you know, making sure she doesn’t fall with the wrong crowd or her first boyfriend is a piece of shit or something like that. With my dad, you know, we’ve all got our weaknesses and my mom can be a ticking time bomb but with Jimmy? Nah, he’s always going to be fine. Or at least I thought he was."

LaPenna watched him carefully.

"He didn’t deserve this," Brice managed to push out.

“No,” LaPenna agreed softly. “He didn’t.”

Another stretch of silence. Brice’s breathing was steady, but his leg had started bouncing, subtle and uncontained.

Brice swallowed again. “He was going to be special,” he said. “Not just on the field. Like… as a person.”

LaPenna smiled faintly. “It sounds like he already was.”

Brice’s jaw trembled for half a second before he clenched it down. He nodded once.

They sat there, the room quiet except for Brice’s uneven breathing. LaPenna didn’t rush him. Didn’t fill the space. Just stayed.

…

The funeral home smelled faintly of polish and flowers, something clean layered over something that wasn’t. Liz sat upright in one of the padded chairs, a tissue folded neatly between her fingers, nodding as the funeral director spoke. She kept her eyes on him, asked the right questions, clarified dates and costs, wrote things down when he slid a brochure across the desk.

“We have a few options that families usually gravitate toward,” the director said gently, hands folded. “This one is solid oak. Traditional. This one—” he turned the page “—is a little simpler.”

Liz leaned forward, squinting as if the choice required careful study. “He wouldn’t want anything flashy,” she said, her voice wavering just enough that she dabbed at her nose.

Behind her, Tom drifted.

He hadn’t meant to wander, not consciously. His feet just carried him away from the desk, away from the soft voices and the word options, toward the caskets lined along the wall. They sat there like furniture in a showroom, lids closed, polished until they reflected the overhead lights.

As he passed one, his hand brushed against the wood.

He didn’t pull it away.

The surface was cool, smoother than he expected. He kept walking, fingers trailing for a second longer than necessary, then dropping to his side. The conversation behind him blurred into a low hum.

This shouldn’t be happening.

His mind refused to settle, jumping instead—months back, years back. Jimmy in the backyard, helmet too big, insisting despite being a few years younger, he could play on Brice’s team. He thought about the decision not to say anything before the Minnesota game. About Brice lighting up the stadium, smiling on the sideline, celebrating his best game while his brother was already gone. The thought tightened his chest.

Was that protecting him? Or was that cowardice? Once again, putting football before family.

He replayed every choice like game film: the summers spent training instead of resting, the talk about St. Frances that never went anywhere, the pride he felt watching both boys compete. Maybe if he was at St. Frances he never would have gotten injured. Maybe the surgery would have went differently. Maybe the blood clots would have never happened.

He stood there, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on nothing, wondering for the first time if being steady, being tough, had been a mistake.

“Tom?”

Liz’s voice cut through it.

He flinched, turning too quickly, the room snapping back into focus—the desk, the director, Liz’s red-rimmed eyes watching him with concern.

“They’re asking if you want a viewing,” she said softly.

Tom swallowed, nodded once. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough but controlled. “Yeah. We should do that.”

He stepped back toward them, hands shoved into his pockets, the weight still there but buried again where no one could see it.

…

“I don’t really understand why this is hitting me like this,” she said. “I mean—I didn’t even know Jimmy like that.”

Dr. Mendel waited, the way she always did, giving the sentence room to breathe.

“He was just… around,” Connie continued. “Quiet. Polite. Always sort of trailing behind Brice. ‘Brice’s brother.’ That’s literally how I thought of him. I don’t think I ever had a real conversation with him.”

“And yet,” Mendel said gently, “it’s affecting you.”

Connie nodded, eyes fixed on the rug. “Yeah. And that makes me feel shitty. Like I’m appropriating grief or something.”

“What do you think you’re actually grieving?” Mendel asked.

Connie opened her mouth, then closed it. She frowned, frustrated. “I don’t know. That’s the thing. I keep telling myself it doesn’t make sense.”

“Sometimes feelings don’t arrive with a logical explanation,” Mendel said. “They just show up. Our job is to listen to what they’re pointing at.”

Connie swallowed. “I think part of it is… how young he was. How unfair it feels.”

Mendel nodded once. “Unfair how?”

Connie’s jaw tightened. She hesitated, then rushed ahead, as if afraid she’d lose her nerve.

“It should’ve been Brice.”

The words landed heavy between them.

Connie’s eyes widened immediately. “I don’t mean—I don’t wish—” She shook her head hard, tears springing up.

“God, that sounds awful. I don’t want Brice dead. I don’t. I swear.”

“I hear that,” Mendel said calmly. “Keep going.”

“It’s just—” Connie pressed her palms into her eyes, her voice cracking. "You hear people talk about him, all the posts are just like he was just this perfect kid that didn’t bother anyone, no one ever had anything bad to say. And then there’s Brice."

Mendel leaned forward slightly. “So the unfairness isn’t about Jimmy alone.”

Connie shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “It’s about him always getting away with everything. And I hate myself for thinking that. I really do.”

“What do you hate about it?” Mendel asked.

“That it still matters to me,” Connie whispered. “That even now, even after everything, my brain still organizes the world around him.”

She laughed weakly through her tears. “I keep telling myself I’ve moved on. I have a boyfriend. I’m in college. I’m doing all the things I’m supposed to be doing. And then this happens and suddenly I’m sitting here thinking about what Brice deserves and what he doesn’t and—”

She covered her face.

“I don’t want to care anymore,” she said muffled. “But I do.”

Mendel let the silence stretch, not rushing to fix it.

“It sounds like Jimmy’s death stripped away some of the distance you thought you’d built,” she said softly. “Not because you loved Jimmy—but because he was part of a system that shaped you. A story you’re still untangling.”

Connie lowered her hands, eyes red. “So what does that make me?”

“Human,” Mendel said without hesitation. “Someone who hasn’t finished grieving a relationship that took up a lot of space—power, imbalance, love, loss. Those things don’t disappear just because we want them to.”

Connie nodded slowly, wiping at her cheeks. “I feel disgusting.”

“Shame often shows up when we tell ourselves we’re supposed to feel differently than we do,” Mendel said. “What would it sound like to tell yourself: This feeling makes sense, even if I don’t like it?”

Connie thought about it. Her shoulders sagged.

“Scary,” she admitted. “But… maybe less lonely.”

Mendel offered a small, steady smile. “That’s usually where the work begins.”

…

Liz slept in Jimmy’s room that night.

She hadn’t planned to. She’d told herself she would go back to her own bed once the house settled, once Tom stopped pacing, once the noises of the day finally bled out of the walls. But sometime after midnight, she found herself standing in the doorway, fingers resting on the frame, looking at the room like it might disappear if she didn’t keep eyes on it.

Everything was still exactly where he’d left it. Liz sat on the edge of the mattress at first, just for a moment, she told herself. Just to breathe. Then the moment broke.

She curled onto her side, knees drawn up, clutching his pillow to her chest like it could anchor her. The sobs came hard and ugly, ripping out of her before she could soften them. She pressed her face into the fabric, muffling the sound, her body shaking as wave after wave crashed through her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, to no one and to him. “I’m so sorry.”

The door creaked softly.

Sophie stood there, barefoot, hair tangled, eyes red and swollen. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She crossed the room and sank to the floor beside the bed, sitting with her back against the mattress.

Liz’s hand dangled off the edge, searching without looking. Sophie took it, holding it tight with both of hers, then leaned her head against the side of the bed, her cheek pressed near where Liz lay.

They cried like that together—Liz above, Sophie below—two different kinds of broken, stitched together by the same loss. Sophie reached up with her free hand and brushed her fingers along her mother’s arm, slow and rhythmic, the way Liz used to do for her when she was little and couldn’t sleep.

Neither of them spoke.

The room held them. The silence did, too.

[djp73]

:damn:

[redsox907]

death of his brother going to compel Brice to stop being a POS in his honor?

Jimmy

[Caesar]

Smoking on that Jimmy pack.

Connie a real one for saying Brice should've been the one to get packed out.

[Soapy]

:damn:

death of his brother going to compel Brice to stop being a POS in his honor?

Jimmy

or leads him further down a hole and delays his redemption arc? we shall see (i legit haven't wrote it out yet lmao)

Smoking on that Jimmy pack.

Connie a real one for saying Brice should've been the one to get packed out.

smh jimmy was a good boy, doesn't deserve this

doesn't mean Brice does either. she lowkey worse than him for wishing that.

[Soapy]

Season 4, Episode 15
Coach Hinshaw didn’t notice him at first.

That wasn’t unusual, some quarterbacks liked to slip into the meeting rooms early, liked the quiet before the day filled up with voices and corrections but this was different. The building still had that half-asleep feel to it, lights humming softly, custodial carts squeaking somewhere down the hall. Hinshaw was balancing a coffee and a stack of laminated install sheets when he passed the quarterback room and saw the glow.

The screen was on.

Brice sat alone in the front row, hoodie up despite the heat, remote resting on his thigh. He wasn’t taking notes. He wasn’t rewinding obsessively the way he usually did. The film just played. Snap, drop, read, throw. Again. Again.

Hinshaw stopped walking. Brice didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge him. His foot bounced lightly against the floor, not anxious, just… there. Hinshaw felt something tighten in his chest. He backed out of the doorway without a word.

Coach Henson was already in his office, dry erase board half-filled with red zone concepts, phone tucked between shoulder and ear.

“He’s here,” Hinshaw said.

Henson covered the receiver. “Who?”

Hinshaw didn’t need to say the name. "Brice."

Henson exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding it longer than he realized. “By himself?”

“Yeah.”

Henson hung up, rubbed his face with both hands. “Jesus.”

They didn’t argue about what to do next. Henson went straight down the hall to Coach Odom’s office. Odom was standing when they came in, sleeves rolled up, first cup of coffee already practically finished.

“He’s here,” Henson said.

Odom nodded once. “I figured.”

He walked into the quarterback room alone, the others waiting by his office.

Brice finally turned when he heard the door close. He didn’t stand.

“Coach,” he said. His voice sounded flat, like it was coming from somewhere else.

Odom took the seat beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He didn’t look at the screen.

“You don’t have to be here,” Odom said. “You know that.”

Brice nodded. “I know.”

“We don’t expect you to play this week,” Odom continued. “Or next. Or anytime soon. We’ll handle it however you need.”

Brice stared forward. “Missing the game isn’t gonna bring my brother back.”

Odom didn’t say anything.

“The funeral’s in the morning,” Brice said. “Only things I need—don’t make a big deal about it. No announcements. No patches. And I need help getting from South Bend to State College.”

Odom finally looked at him. The kid’s eyes were glassy but dry, unfocused like he was watching himself from a distance.

“You sure about this?” Odom asked gently.

Brice shrugged. "Yeah, I am."

Odom didn’t argue. He just nodded. “We’ll get you there.”

…

The house felt smaller than Brice remembered. It had only been a few months but yet he felt like a stranger in his own home. If he could even call it that anymore. Brice sat at the kitchen table, hands folded, staring at a spot in the wood where Jimmy had burned it once with a hot pan when the two of them tried to surprise their parents with breakfast in bed. No one had ever sanded it out.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tom said, for the third time.

Brice didn’t look up.

“I mean it,” Tom continued. “You’re not doing yourself any favors. Some things are bigger than football. You can’t play your way out of this, son.”

That finally got Brice to laugh. It came out sharp and humorless. “Is that what you think?”

Tom stopped moving. “I think you’re hurting.”

Brice leaned back, chair creaking. “It’s too late for that.”

“For what?”

“For anything else,” Brice said. “This is who I am.”

Tom’s voice cracked despite his effort. “Your life has value without—”

“No,” Brice cut in. “It doesn’t.”

Tom stared at him.

“Football’s the only thing I’m good at,” Brice went on. “The only way I know how to be something. Jimmy looked up to me because of it. If I stop now, then what was any of it for?”

Tom swallowed hard. He wanted to say Jimmy loved you anyway. Wanted to say you don’t owe him this. Wanted to say I’m your father.

But none of it landed.

They sat there, two men staring at the same table, each convinced the other was already lost.

…

The church was full long before the bells finished their low, deliberate toll. Cars lined the street in uneven rows, stretching farther than Connie had expected. People stood in the vestibule, pressed shoulder to shoulder, murmuring in hushed voices, programs folded and unfolded between restless fingers.

It startled her how many people had come.

Politicians she recognized from yard signs and local news segments sat stiffly in the front pews. Men in tailored suits spoke quietly to one another, their voices clipped, respectful, already arranging condolences into neat sentences. There were boosters, donors, alumni. Pillars of the community. People whose presence made things official. Important. Unavoidable.

It hit her all at once, a sharp, unwelcome clarity. This was the unspoken part of her life with Brice—the world he came from, the expectations that lived just beneath the surface. The reality that when they were teenagers, scared and cornered, the decision hadn’t really been theirs at all.

She hated herself for thinking it, for letting the thought bloom even now, in this place. She shoved it down immediately, filed it away with everything else she had promised herself she would unpack later with Dr. Mendel. Not here. Not today.

Connie sat alone near the back, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her parents hadn’t come. They’d said it was better this way, citing old wounds, old lines that had never really healed, not wanting to be a distraction, all of which landed like an accusation. She filed that way for Dr. Mendel too.

The service unfolded in the quiet rhythm of Catholic ritual. The incense hung faintly in the air, sweet and heavy. Latin responses murmured back and forth like something learned by muscle memory more than belief. Connie let it wash over her without grabbing onto any one moment. She didn’t trust herself to linger.

Jimmy’s picture rested near the altar. A school photo—too recent, too alive. His smile was shy, uncertain, like he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to take up space. Connie felt something twist in her chest. She realized then that she hadn’t known him at all, not really. Just fragments. Passing hellos. A shadow trailing behind Brice.

Brice’s brother.

Her gaze drifted forward before she could stop it.

Brice sat near the front with his family, unmistakable even in a dark suit that tried and failed to make him blend in. He looked older than she remembered. Not physically—something else. Like the weight of him had shifted inward. People approached him steadily, one after another, hands clasping his shoulder, shaking his hand, leaning in to speak quietly. He stood when he needed to, nodded when expected, thanked them with a steadiness that bordered on impressive.

He played the part well. He always had. She told herself she would avoid him. She had rehearsed it. Slip out quickly. No scenes. No reopening wounds that still bled if pressed too hard.

Then Brice looked back.

Their eyes met across the rows of mourners, across months of silence and years of shared history neither of them had survived intact.

He didn’t look surprised.

Neither did she.

Something in her shifted. A quiet decision, made without words. She waited until the final prayer ended, until people rose and began to move, the tight order of the pews dissolving into soft chaos. She approached him slowly.

He noticed her when she was a few feet away. For the first time that morning, his composure faltered—not dramatically, just enough for her to see it. His shoulders dropped a fraction. His mouth parted, then closed again.

“Connie,” he said.

“Brice,” she replied.

That was all, at first.

“I’m sorry,” she said then. It felt inadequate the moment it left her mouth, but it was true in every way that mattered.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

They stood there, suspended in the space between everyone else’s grief. The noise around them dimmed, softened. Connie noticed his hands—how still they were, clenched just slightly, like he was holding himself together by force alone.

“He was… good,” Brice said finally. His voice wavered, just barely. “Jimmy always did the right thing.”

She nodded. “I know.”

His breath caught then. Just one sharp inhale, too sudden to control. His face folded in on itself, grief breaking through the practiced calm like a crack in glass. Tears came fast, unexpected, betraying him.

Brice bowed his head.

Connie stepped closer without thinking. She placed herself between him and the rest of the room, her back to the congregation, her body a shield. She didn’t touch him at first. She didn’t say anything.

She just stood there.

His shoulders shook once, twice. A sound escaped him, small and broken. Connie stayed where she was, steady, familiar. Like she always had been. Like she knew how.

After a moment, she rested her hand lightly on his arm.

He didn’t pull away.

…

The car waited outside, idling quietly at the curb. The driver stood beside it, respectful, eyes downcast. Time pressed forward whether any of them were ready or not.

Brice still wore his suit. The tie hung slightly loosened now, his jacket folded over one arm. The sunlight made everything look too sharp, too real.

Liz stood in front of him, hands gripping his lapels like if she let go, he would disappear.

“I need you,” she said. Her voice broke on the words. “I can’t—we can’t do this without you.”

Brice didn’t answer right away. He looked at her face, at the red-rimmed eyes, the exhaustion etched into every line. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Tom stood a few steps back, sunglasses hiding what little composure he had left. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at Brice. His silence wasn’t anger. It was surrender.

Brice didn’t look at him either.

“I’ll fly back tonight,” Brice said quietly to Liz. It was the best he could offer. The only thing he had.

Liz shook her head. “That’s not—” She stopped herself, swallowing hard. “I need you here.”

Before Brice could respond, Sophie stepped forward, reaching for her mother's arm.

“Mom,” Sophie said softly.

Liz didn’t turn at first. Sophie tugged again, firmer this time. Liz finally looked down at her, confusion flickering across her face.

“He can’t stay,” Sophie said. Not accusing. Not pleading. Just stating a fact.

Liz stared at her, stunned. Sophie glanced at Brice then. Their eyes met briefly. There was no blame there. Just understanding. Maybe even pity.

She knew. Whatever their mother needed, whatever any of them needed, he didn’t have it to offer.

Sophie gently pulled Liz away, guiding her back a step, then another. Liz resisted at first, then sagged into her daughter, sobbing openly now.

Brice watched them for a moment longer. He didn’t move toward them. He didn’t reach out. There was nothing he could give.

He turned and walked toward the car. The driver opened the door. Brice paused, just for a second, then stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a soft, final sound.

As the car pulled away, Brice stared out the window, the town blurring past. The church disappeared from view. So did the house. So did the version of himself that might have stayed.

[redsox907]

we won't mention Connie slowly folding in honor of Jimmy.

[Soapy]

we won't mention Connie slowly folding in honor of Jimmy.

tough scene brudda, tough scene

[Soapy]