Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Season 4, Episode 20
"Welcome," said a woman with gray-streaked hair and a cardigan that somehow screamed 'I want to hear about your feelings' more than Dr. LaPenna. She gestured toward the rows of chairs arranged classroom-style. "Find any seat you'd like."

At least it wasn't the circle he'd been dreading. No need to hold hands and sing kumbaya. Brice slid into a chair near the back, a few heads turning as he sat down, recognition evident on their face.

The room was dimly lit, like they were afraid bright lights might spook the grieving. Brice shifted in his seat, his promise to LaPenna suddenly felt silly and non-binding.

"We’ll get started in a few minutes," the facilitator began, uncapping a dry-erase marker. "But first, I see some new faces..."

Without hesitation, Brice stood, the chair scraping loudly against the linoleum floor. A few more heads turned. The woman paused, marker hovering over the whiteboard.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Wrong room."

It wasn’t even a good lie, everyone in the room knowing who he was, what had happen but in the end, it didn’t matter. He was already moving towards the exit, pushing through the door into the brightness of the student center hallway. The relief was instant as he pulled out his phone, scrolling through his recent message, through names of girls he barely remembered. Sorority girls, girls from class, girls whose numbers he got at parties. He typed the same text to slew of them.

Whoever answered first would be how he spent the next few hours.

…

"Nia, your work has always been exemplary. This..." she gestured to the exam, "This isn't like you."

Nia stared at the test through half-lidded eyes. The questions she'd left blank stared back, accusing her of something she couldn't name. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, nodding mechanically as if her body was responding on autopilot while her mind remained elsewhere.

"I know it's been difficult since Jimmy's passing," Mrs. Harding continued, her voice softening. "Everyone is still processing what happened. I know you two were good friends."

The mention of his name should have provoked something—tears, anger, anything—but Nia felt hollowed out, like someone had scooped her insides clean.

"I'm willing to let you retake the test next week," Mrs. Harding said, leaning forward slightly. "But Nia, have you considered talking to someone? The school counselor has been meeting with many of Jimmy's friends."

Friends. The word felt inadequate, incomplete. They'd been friends for as long as she could remember and for a while, that was enough but the stolen looks, the extended hugs, the feeling in her stomach when he walked into a room had slowly been turning their relationship into something different, something deeper. She always felt that they would have end up together, one of those couples that people talked about as making sense, as being inevitable. In the end, it wasn’t.

"I'm fine," Nia said flatly, the first words she'd spoken since entering the classroom. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, like it belonged to someone else.

Mrs. Harding sighed, removing her reading glasses. "Your other teachers have noticed the same pattern. We're concerned."

Nia gathered her backpack, mechanically zipping it closed.

"I'll study for the retake." The words came out empty, rehearsed.

"Nia—"

"Thank you for the opportunity, Mrs. Harding."

"Sometimes the hardest part is just showing up," Mrs. Harding called after her. "That's what I tell all my students. You've been showing up, Nia. That counts for something."

Nia paused at the door, her hand on the handle. For a brief moment, something cracked in her carefully maintained vacancy, a flash of the grief she kept locked away, threatening to spill out. She pressed her lips together, forcing it back down where it belonged.

"See you tomorrow," she said, and stepped into the empty hallway.

…

"I'm still mad at him," Sophie said, fiddling with a loose thread on her jeans. "And I know that sounds terrible because my brother is dead, and I'm supposed to be sad, which I am, but I'm also just... mad."

Dr. Fieldstone sat across from her, legs crossed at the ankles, no notebook in sight.

"There's no rulebook for grief, Sophie. Anger is a perfectly natural response."

Sophie leaned back in the oversized chair that seemed designed to make teenagers feel small. This was her fourth session since Jimmy died, and she wasn't feeling any better. Not even a little.

"Everyone keeps saying it gets easier with time," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "But what if it doesn't? What if this is just... it? Forever?"

Dr. Fieldstone tilted her head. "What do you think 'better' would feel like?"

Sophie stared at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. "I don't know. Not this."

"And what is 'this'?"

"Like I'm drowning. All the time." She swallowed hard. "Everyone's walking around like the world's still turning, but it's not. It stopped the moment Jimmy—"

Dr. Fieldstone waited, giving her space.

"I think I need to just accept that this is permanent," Sophie finally said, her voice steadier. "That's why I want to be more like Brice."

"Your older brother?"

"Yeah," Sophie's mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. "Brice doesn't feel things. Not really. He just... moves on. Always has."

"What makes you say that?"

Sophie laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You should have seen him with Connie. He got her pregnant when they were younger, you know. My parents think I don't know, but I heard them talking. They shipped her off somewhere, made her give up the baby, and he just... kept going. Football games, parties, whatever. Like nothing happened."

Dr. Fieldstone's expression remained neutral.

"And the crazy part is she still loves him. After everything," Sophie shook her head. "He's got this... armor. People just bounce off him. Nothing sticks. Nothing hurts. He just doesn’t care and moves on through life."

"And you want that armor?"

"Wouldn't you?" Sophie's eyes were suddenly fierce.

Dr. Fieldstone sat her glasses aside. "Sophie, what you're describing isn't armor. It's isolation. And based on what you've told me about Brice in our sessions, I'm not sure he's as unaffected as you think."

"Trust me, he is," Sophie's jaw tightened. "He was back at Purdue right after the funeral, like nothing happened, playing in games, celebrating with his teammates."

"People grieve differently—"

"That's what everyone says when they don't want to admit someone's a sociopath," Sophie cut in. "I've lived with him my whole life. Brice only cares about Brice."

Dr. Fieldstone leaned forward slightly. "Have you talked to him about how you feel?"

"Why bother?" Sophie stared at her hands. "He wouldn't get it anyway. It's like he's made differently than the rest of us. Mom and Dad don't see it because he's their star, but Jimmy was starting to see through it too. He’s not what people think he is."

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away angrily.

"I'm so tired of feeling everything all the time," she whispered. "I just want to turn it off. Like he does."

Dr. Fieldstone handed her a tissue. "Feeling nothing isn't strength, Sophie. It's surrender."

"Maybe surrender is better than this."

"I don't think your brother feels nothing," Dr. Fieldstone said carefully. "I think he might just be better at hiding it."

Sophie crumpled the tissue in her fist. "Then maybe he can teach me how to hide it too."

The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence that followed. Sophie knew her time was almost up, but for once, she didn't want to leave. Outside this room was a world without Jimmy, a house full of ghosts pretending to be a family.

"We’re good for next week?" Dr. Fieldstone asked gently.

Sophie nodded, gathering her backpack. "Not like it's helping," she muttered, but she knew she'd be back anyway. This was the only place where she could say what she really thought without someone telling her to be strong or to think about how everyone else was suffering too.

As she reached for the door handle, Dr. Fieldstone spoke again. "Sophie? That armor you think your brother has? It comes with a price. Remember that."

[djp73]

These petals been through a hail storm

[Caesar]

Everyone in this bih in therapy and all they asses need to be sectioned. Don't know how old Sophie supposed to be but by season 7-8, she gonna be getting trains run on her at this rate. Trying to be like Brice? Yeesh.

Brice just needs to accept he's a POS and go full Manziel. Live your truth, fn.

[redsox907]

waiting for the update where Liz and Tom are in couples therapy at this point

Sophie needs to just confront Brice to air it out. Cause with Jimmy gone, they all they got. Cause their parents ain't shit

also, tough L.

inb4 Brice slips up and knocks up a sorority girl

[Soapy]

These petals been through a hail storm

it aint called slightly worn petals

Everyone in this bih in therapy and all they asses need to be sectioned. Don't know how old Sophie supposed to be but by season 7-8, she gonna be getting trains run on her at this rate. Trying to be like Brice? Yeesh.

Brice just needs to accept he's a POS and go full Manziel. Live your truth, fn.

We're pushing therapy in 2026 to our bredrens and em.

Also, the Sophie comment



wishing a train on a 14 yo is crazy

waiting for the update where Liz and Tom are in couples therapy at this point

Sophie needs to just confront Brice to air it out. Cause with Jimmy gone, they all they got. Cause their parents ain't shit

also, tough L.

inb4 Brice slips up and knocks up a sorority girl

Now that's going too far. Liz and Tom just waiting it out until the last one out the crib

[Caesar]

Also, the Sophie comment



wishing a train on a 14 yo is crazy

Wishing is a stretch and we said years from now. I'm just throwing up the red flag for Liz and Tom to watch out for when she heads off to college (if she makes it without eating a whole bottle of the industrial strength pain killers probably still sitting in their house from Jimmy's dead ass) because that'd be the Brice version for a woman.

[Soapy]

Season 4, Episode 21 (Season Finale)
"So," Davis said, leaning forward over his half-eaten club sandwich, "How’s the Colton kid doing?"

LaPenna chewed slowly, buying time. He'd been in this position before.

"You understand I can only speak in generalities," LaPenna said, dabbing a napkin to his lips.

Davis nodded too quickly. "Of course, of course. Just looking for a general temperature check with, you know, everything going on. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t check on our players."

The dining hall's noise provided a buffer as LaPenna considered his words carefully.

"I can say that Brice is developing self-awareness," LaPenna offered finally. "He's beginning to see the connection between his actions and consequences."

Davis perked up. "So he should be fine, right? Don’t have to worry about him over the break, put a chaperone on him?"

"He's recognizing patterns," LaPenna clarified. "The harder part is getting him to implement changes."

Davis nodded thoughtfully, then casually dropped what LaPenna knew was the real purpose of this lunch. "You know, we've got a few other players I think could benefit from your approach. Kids with similar intensity issues."

"I'd be happy to discuss openings in my schedule," LaPenna said, maintaining eye contact. "Though my methods require patient buy-in. Can't force progress."

"Naturally," Davis said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "We appreciate your discretion with these matters. The university values partners who understand the delicate balance we're maintaining."

LaPenna nodded, feeling the familiar ethical tightrope beneath his feet.

"With Brice," LaPenna added, "Patience is key. He's carrying more than just the pressure of the game."

Davis's eyebrows raised slightly. "Oh?"

LaPenna waved his hand dismissively. "This is an important time in a young man’s life. It's an adjustment for everyone."

As Davis launched into a story about another freshman's homesickness, LaPenna silently reminded himself why he'd chosen this path: to help young men like Brice, not to serve as intelligence officers for athletic departments. But rent didn't pay itself, and private practices didn't build themselves on principle alone.

The balance, like everything in therapy, was a work in progress.

…

"Yeah, the defense we're facing is tough, but we've been preparing well. We’re definitely looking forward to this great opportunity," he nodded, maintaining eye contact with the reporter despite the harsh lights beating down on him.

For the third day in a row, Brice had been performing. Bowl week meant endless appearances, team events, media scrums. His teammates called him a natural, slapping his back as they moved between obligations.

In the team dinner that night, Brice laughed at Gabriel's impression of their offensive coordinator. He posed for selfies with the cheerleaders who'd made the trip. He went through the first fifteen scripted plays once more with Coach Henson.

"Hitting the hot tub, five?" Abdul asked, several other freshmen hovering nearby.

"Think I'm gonna crash early," Brice said, offering a tired grin. "My feet are tired as hell from all that walking today."

They bought it. Everyone bought it.

Twenty minutes later, he stood outside room 714, knocking twice before using the keycard. Skylar opened the door before he could swipe it, her hair cascading over bare shoulders, the hotel robe cinched tight around her waist.

"I was wondering who the hell was knocking," she said, stepping back to let him in. "Wasn't sure if you'd make it tonight."

"Yeah, almost didn’t," Brice dropped his team backpack by the door, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that had built there throughout the day.

Skylar grabbed a bottle from the nightstand, ice clinking in her own glass. "Sounds like you need a drink."

"I’m good," Brice shook his head, already moving toward the bathroom. "Need a shower."

He stood under the scalding water longer than necessary, letting it pound against his neck and shoulders. When he finally emerged in a cloud of steam, Skylar had dimmed the lights and turned on some reality show with the volume low.

Brice slid under the covers, still warm from the shower. He didn't speak as Skylar set her glass aside and turned toward him. Her fingers found their way to his damp hair, stroking gently as she had each night since she'd arrived.

"I saw your interview today," she murmured. "You were good."

Brice closed his eyes, focusing on the gentle pressure of her fingertips against his scalp.

"It's all bullshit," he whispered.

"I know," she said softly.

The first tear slipped out before he could stop it. Skylar didn't comment, just continued the rhythmic motion of her hand through his hair.

…

"Eli, this is my mom and dad," Connie said, trying to keep her voice steady as she stood in her living room, Christmas tree twinkling in the corner. Her fingers lightly squeezed Eli's arm, both for his reassurance and her own.

"It's great to finally meet you both," Eli said, extending his hand. "Connie talks about you all the time."

Her father's handshake was firm but brief. "Good to meet you too, Eli. Heard you're studying engineering?"

"Yes, sir. Mechanical engineering. My dad’s a contractor so always had an interest in engineering, figured I’d get into business with him when I’m done."

The conversation moved to the dining room, where Connie's mother had prepared a holiday spread that would have fed twice their number. Connie watched as Eli complimented the food, asked about family photos on the wall, and offered to help clear plates between courses. He was doing everything right, being attentive, polite, engaging. Yet she couldn't miss the cautious glances her parents exchanged, the careful way they phrased questions about his family, his plans after college.

"So you met in Professor Harmon's class?" her father asked, his tone casual but his eyes assessing.

"Yeah, we were paired for a project," Connie answered before Eli could, the truth not as polished, not as varnished. "

Her mother smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "That's nice. How long has it been now?"

"A couple months now," Eli replied.

"Not rushing into anything, I hope," her father said with a forced chuckle.

The comment hung in the air. Connie felt heat rising to her cheeks. They hadn't been this protective, this scrutinizing with Brice. No, they'd welcomed him immediately, charmed like everyone else.

"Dad," she said quietly, a warning in her tone.

"Just making conversation, honey."

But it was what everyone was thinking. Connie could feel it in the room, the ghost of her ex hovering between them all. The way they'd all fallen for his charm, his confidence, his promises. The way they'd comforted her after, assuring her none of it was her fault, while silently wondering how they'd all missed the signs.

Later, as Eli helped her father bring firewood in from the garage, Connie caught her mother studying him through the window.

"You don’t have to analyze everything he does," Connie said quietly.

Her mother turned, surprised. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to."

Her mother sighed, placing a hand on Connie's shoulder. "We just want you to be careful, sweetie. You've been through a lot."

"I know what I'm doing, Mom."

The words came out more defensive than she'd intended, but she didn't apologize. Instead, she busied herself arranging cookies on a platter, mentally filing away the familiar frustration. Dr. Mendel would probably say something about how healing wasn't linear, how trust took time to rebuild, both trusting others and trusting herself.

When Eli and her father returned, laughing about something, Connie felt a small wave of relief. This was progress, at least. She handed Eli a mug of hot chocolate, their fingers brushing.

"You good?" he whispered.

"Yeah," she replied with a smile that felt almost genuine.

As they gathered around the fire, Eli's arm draped casually around her shoulders, Connie let herself relax into the moment. Her parents might need time, but she had plenty of that to give. For now, she was here with someone who looked at her like she was the only person in the room, someone who listened when she spoke, someone whose touch didn't leave her second-guessing.

The rest would come. Or it wouldn't. Either way, she was moving forward.

…

The first light of dawn filtered through the bare windows of the Colton house. Tom stirred, feeling the familiar weight of morning and the emptiness beside him. Liz lay with her back to him, her breathing soft and even. He shifted closer, his hand finding the curve of her hip beneath the blankets.

She tensed immediately. Without turning, Liz gently took his hand and moved it away, pulling the blanket tighter around herself like armor. Tom watched the back of her head for a moment, noting the slight defensive hunch of her shoulders.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet, too quiet for a holiday morning. No excited voices, no rushing feet on the stairs. Just the low hum of the heating system pushing against the December chill.

After a few minutes, Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed. He dressed methodically — sweatpants, t-shirt, socks — each movement practiced and efficient. Liz remained motionless, though he knew she was awake.

Downstairs, the living room stood in stark contrast to the neighbors' homes. No tree, no lights, no stockings. Just Sophie curled in the corner of the couch, her face illuminated by the flickering glow of early morning cartoons, the same spot where he would find Jimmy.

Tom paused at the entrance, watching his daughter. She didn't acknowledge him, though her eyes flicked briefly in his direction before returning to the screen.

In the kitchen, Tom moved on autopilot. Eggs cracked against the bowl's edge. Bread into the toaster. Coffee grounds measured precisely. The routine required no thought, which was a mercy. Thinking led to places he wasn't prepared to visit this morning.

He set a plate at Sophie's place at the table, arranging the fork and knife, poured a glass of orange juice. The food steamed slightly in the cool air of the kitchen. Tom took his coffee to the counter and waited.

After a minute, Sophie appeared in the doorway. She glanced at the plate, then at him, her face carefully neutral. Without a word, she slid into her chair and began to eat, her movements small and contained, as if trying to take up as little space as possible.

Tom watched her over the rim of his mug. Her dark hair fell forward, shielding her face.

When she finished, Tom set his empty mug in the sink. He crossed to Sophie, placed a kiss on the top of her head, her hair smelling of the strawberry shampoo he used to bathe her with, and headed for the door. He felt her eyes on his back as he shrugged into his coat, but neither broke the silence.

[Soapy]

Also, the Sophie comment



wishing a train on a 14 yo is crazy

Wishing is a stretch and we said years from now. I'm just throwing up the red flag for Liz and Tom to watch out for when she heads off to college (if she makes it without eating a whole bottle of the industrial strength pain killers probably still sitting in their house from Jimmy's dead ass) because that'd be the Brice version for a woman.

[Caesar]

Calling your side bitch/ex's best friend to cry into her lap is arguably the craziest fucking work I've ever seen in one of these. And evidence that Brice is a sociopath because she's going to assume he wants something serious and he's gonna break that poor girl like he did Connie.

Connie's parents know she about to get knocked up again because she crazy and wants to replace the baby she had to give up.

Tom going fuck around on his grieving wife on Christmas. Lord almighty.

[Soapy]

Calling your side bitch/ex's best friend to cry into her lap is arguably the craziest fucking work I've ever seen in one of these. And evidence that Brice is a sociopath because she's going to assume he wants something serious and he's gonna break that poor girl like he did Connie.

Connie's parents know she about to get knocked up again because she crazy and wants to replace the baby she had to give up.

Tom going fuck around on his grieving wife on Christmas. Lord almighty.

He can't be going to work out to distract himself? Or drive around? smh