Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Season 5, Episode 5
The bitter acid of vomit scorched Brice's throat as he heaved into the trash can, his knuckles white against the plastic rim. His stomach contracted violently one final time before emptying completely, leaving him gasping and spitting.

"Fuck," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The cool air of the indoor facility did nothing to stop the sweat pouring down his face. Brice straightened up, deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone around him. The hushed whispers and meaningful glances between the coaches and the conditioning staff weren't exactly subtle. He could practically hear their thoughts.

He grabbed his water bottle, rinsed his mouth, and spat again. The metallic taste lingered despite his efforts. His legs felt like they were filled with cement, his lungs burning with each breath. Spring practice was barely a week in, but Brice felt like he'd been through the rigor of a season already.

"Colton! You joining us or what?" Coach Wilson's voice carried across the facility, drawing even more attention to him.

Brice jogged back to the starting line where the other players were already in position.

Lamar, one of the freshman quarterbacks, gave him a sideways glance. "You look like shit, my nigga."

"Oh, do I?" Brice dropped into position, focusing on the line ahead of him rather than the concerned look on his teammate's face.

Coach Wilson's whistle pierced the air, and Brice exploded forward, legs pumping, arms driving. For the first twenty yards, pure adrenaline carried him, putting him neck and neck with the pack. Then reality set in. His lungs screamed for oxygen that wouldn't come. The muscles in his thighs burned with lactic acid. The floor seemed to tilt beneath him.

Don't throw up again. Don't fucking throw up again.

He pushed through the last ten yards, crossing the line a step behind most of the others. Not last, but close enough. Brice bent over, hands on his knees, fighting the urge to vomit again as black spots danced at the edges of his vision.

"Reset!" Coach Wilson barked. "Again!"

Brice straightened up, ignoring the concerned look Lamar and the other quarterbacks shot him. The quarterback room was filled with new faces: veteran transfers from the FCS ranks that were brought in to be backups and two true freshmen in Lamar and Johnny that were practically Brice’s shadow in the football facility, eager to soon follow in his footsteps and lead to Purdue to a ten-win season, their first since 1979. But the man standing in front of them, hungover and out of shape, didn’t look like the Big Ten Freshman of the Year. He rarely did these days.

This time, Brice dug deeper, pushing past the burning in his muscles, the nausea rising in his throat, the dizziness threatening to topple him. He surged ahead of the pack, his competitive instinct overriding his body's protests. He crossed the finish line first, a full stride ahead of everyone else.

"Thanks for fucking joining us, Colton!" Coach Wilson shouted sarcastically.

Brice allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before the reality of having to do it again set in. Four more sprints. He wasn't sure he could make it through one, let alone four. But his mind was made up. He'd finish this workout or collapse trying. Pride and ego. Sometimes that's all you had left.

…

Liz’s fingers moved mechanically across the keyboard, the rhythm of typing a welcome distraction from the thoughts that haunted her quiet moments. The small office had become her sanctuary over the past few months, a place where purpose could temporarily override grief.

Liz paused her typing to rub her eyes. The budget spreadsheet for the summer program blurred before her, numbers swimming together after hours of staring at the screen. She glanced at the digital clock in the corner of her laptop: 11:42 PM. Another late night that would stretch into early morning.

She closed the spreadsheet and saved her work, then pushed back from the desk. Her back ached from sitting too long. The small couch against the wall, once used for quick naps between meetings, had acquired a fitted sheet that remained permanently tucked around its cushions. A folded blanket and pillow sat neatly at one end, no longer hidden away in the cabinet when morning came.

Liz moved to the mini-fridge tucked beneath the bookshelf and pulled out a container of yogurt. Dinner. The small shelf above the fridge held a neat row of protein bars, instant oatmeal packets, and crackers, enough sustenance to avoid going home.

She set up her makeshift bed, smoothing the wrinkles from the blanket. A framed photo of the family sat on her desk, angled away from her sleeping area. She couldn't bear to put it away entirely, but neither could she face Jimmy's smile as she drifted off to sleep.

Liz set her alarm and placed her phone on the small side table she'd brought in weeks ago. Beside it sat a travel toothbrush holder and a small bottle of face wash. The bottom drawer of her filing cabinet now held three changes of clothes and a pair of dress shoes.

She changed into the oversized t-shirt she used as pajamas and settled onto the couch. The office was silent except for the hum of the building's ventilation system. No careful footsteps down the stairs to sneak in a snack after dinner. No doors closing. No hushed conversations between her boys when they thought she couldn't hear.

The silence was both a relief and a torment.

Liz reached for the small notebook on the side table. Her Facebook group had suggested journaling. Most nights, she managed to write something, even if just a few lines. Tonight, her hand remained suspended over the page, unable to translate grief into words.

Instead, she turned off the lamp and lay back, staring at the ceiling tiles illuminated by the glow of emergency exit signs. Tomorrow would be another day of meetings and paperwork. Another day of helping other people's children while unable to save her own. Another day of purpose without peace.

Sleep, when it finally came, was a mercy.

…

Tom's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. A text from Liz, her name illuminating the screen for a moment. He glanced at it, then turned back to the pot of pasta he was stirring. The water boiled violently around the noodles, steam rising to fog the kitchen window that looked out onto the darkening backyard.

Sophie sat at the kitchen table, her algebra textbook open beside her, pencil moving across the notebook page.

Tom drained the pasta, the scalding steam warming his face. He ladled marinara sauce from a jar over the noodles, added a slice of garlic bread from the oven, and set the plate in front of Sophie.

"Thanks," she said without looking up from her homework.

Tom poured two fingers of Woodford Reserve into a tumbler and sat across from his daughter, not bothering making a plate for himself. He took small sips, watching Sophie eat with careful bites like she always did, even when she was a toddler.

The antique clock that hung in front of the staircase ticked loudly in the silence. No television, no music, no conversation. Just the scrape of Sophie's fork against the plate and the occasional clink of ice against glass when Tom took a sip.

His phone buzzed again. He ignored it.

Sophie finished her pasta, pushed her plate away slightly, then returned to her algebra problems. Tom watched her, noting how she'd grown taller over the past year, how her features were sharpening, baby fat giving way to adolescence. She looked more like her mother with each passing day.

After completing the last problem, Sophie stood and carried her plate to the sink. She washed it thoroughly, along with her glass and fork, then placed them in the drying rack. Tom finished his whiskey as she packed up her schoolwork.

"I'm going to finish my history paper," she said, zipping her backpack.

Tom nodded.

Sophie paused beside his chair, then leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. "Night, Dad."

He watched her climb the stairs, her socked feet silent on the carpeted steps. The house settled back into its emptiness after she disappeared from view.

Tom stood, rinsed his glass, and placed it in the sink. He grabbed his phone, shoving it into his pocket without checking the messages. His keys jangled as he snatched them from the hook by the door. He shrugged into his coat, the leather cool against his skin, and stepped out into the night.

[redsox907]

Tom bout to either follow his sons footsteps and fall into some pussy to relieve his grief

or he bout to join the club

whole family needs therapy

poor soph. Dad's an alki and Mom hates her father. One brother is content to bury his feelings in pussy and booze, the other literally buried

[Caesar]

Time for Brice to man the fuck up. We grow tired of this pity party. We know this ain’t got nothing to do with Jimmy and everything to do with it making him confront that he’s a piece of shit.

Liz filing for that divorce in two months. We see the play.

[djp73]

Any big names transfer in?

[Soapy]

Tom bout to either follow his sons footsteps and fall into some pussy to relieve his grief

or he bout to join the club

whole family needs therapy

poor soph. Dad's an alki and Mom hates her father. One brother is content to bury his feelings in pussy and booze, the other literally buried

why is he getting packed out lmao

Time for Brice to man the fuck up. We grow tired of this pity party. We know this ain’t got nothing to do with Jimmy and everything to do with it making him confront that he’s a piece of shit.

Liz filing for that divorce in two months. We see the play.

They are Catholic, though

Any big names transfer in?

It's Purdue, y'all.

[Soapy]

Season 5, Episode 6
Nia watched the fish struggle against the current, their bodies twisting and thrashing as they fought their way upstream. There was something hypnotic about their determination, something that made her forget she was supposed to be conjugating French verbs in Sister Margaret's second-period class.

"I might need to start charging a fee to park out in my spot," a familiar voice called from behind her.

She didn't need to turn to know who it was. Brian's footsteps crunched on the gravel as he approached, the faint scent of weed already announcing his presence before he came into view. When he did, he was holding a half-smoked joint between his fingers, wisps of smoke curling up into the spring air.

"Want a hit?" he held it out to her,.

"I’m good," Nia shifted slightly on the concrete ledge where she sat, making room beside her without consciously deciding to do so.

Brian took the invitation, easing himself down next to her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his arm.

"Of course," he said with a shrug, taking another drag. "Though I should probably warn you. This shit’s pretty addicting.."

Nia rolled her eyes. "You sound like Nancy Reagan."

"I’m not talking about the weed," Brian laughed, "I'm talking about this shit. The freedom. Once you realize you can do whatever you want, whenever you want... that's the real addiction."

"Is that what you think? That we can just do whatever we want?"

"Why not?" Brian leaned back on one hand, studying her face. "What's stopping you?"

"Reality," Nia said flatly. "Life. Everyone else. Fate."

"Fate?" Brian snorted.

"You don't believe in fate?" Nia turned to face him, suddenly curious despite herself.

"Nah," he took another hit, holding the smoke in his lungs before releasing it slowly. "I think we make our own destiny. Whatever happens in life, we chose it. Whether intentionally or not."

"That's bullshit," Nia sucked her teeth. "Some things just happen. They happen whether you want them to or not, whether you're ready or not."

Brian was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching hers. "Like what?"

The question hung between them, and Nia felt the weight of his absence pressing down on her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs like it always did when she thought about him too much. She turned away, focusing on the struggling fish again.

"I’m just saying," she lied. "Life is life. It happens whether you want it or not."

"Life is what you make it," Brian said, his voice softer now. "That's the whole point. You're the author of your own story."

"And what if someone tears out your pages?"

Brian's shoulder brushed against hers as he shifted. "Then you write new ones."

Nia felt her throat tighten. It sounded so simple when he said it like that. So possible. She wondered what Jimmy would think of this, if he had decided his fate by playing football, by his action on that specific play when he got hurt, what he would say if he were sitting here instead. But Jimmy would never sit here. Jimmy would never say anything again.

"Easy for you to say," she finally replied. "You're like grown. Free to do whatever you want."

"Everyone's got expectations," Brian countered. "I just choose which ones matter to me."

A fish leaped particularly high, clearing one level of the ladder before landing with a splash in the next pool up. Nia tracked its progress, envying its clear purpose, its unwavering drive.

"What about you?" Brian asked, nudging her gently with his elbow. "What do you want? Not what your parents want, not what your friends want or what you think they want you to want. What do you want?"

The question caught her off guard. What did she want? Before Jimmy died, she'd had answers. College, maybe journalism, maybe photography. A life beyond South Bend. But now? Everything felt muted, distant, like trying to see through foggy glass.

"I don't know," she admitted.

Brian nodded as if this was a perfectly reasonable answer. "That's okay too. Not knowing is part of the journey."

The bell from St. Joseph's rang in the distance, marking the end of second period. Nia would normally feel a twinge of guilt whenever she heard it while skipping, but instead, she felt a strange sense of calm sitting here, watching the fish fight their way upstream.

"You heading back?" Brian asked, stubbing out what remained of his joint on the concrete.

Nia shook her head.

Brian's smile returned, slow and pleased. "See? Freedom. Told you it was addicting."

…

Davis drummed his fingers against the polished surface of his desk, his gaze fixed on the manila folder splayed open before him. Attendance logs, performance metrics, incident reports, all neatly organized and telling the same story.

"I appreciate you making time for this, Doc," Davis said as Dr. LaPenna settled into the chair across from him.

LaPenna adjusted his glasses, his expression neutral. He tried to avoid the athletic center for obvious reasons. "How can I help?"

Davis closed the folder and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "I'll be direct. We’re worried about Brice. He’s showing up to practices hungover, sometimes still drunk."

"I see," LaPenna's voice remained measured/

"We've given him some latitude, given the circumstances with his brother, and he’s not the only player we’ve had showing up like this, it is college football after all but we’re just concerned that this could become a…long term problem."

LaPenna nodded slowly, his fingers laced together in his lap. "I understand your concerns."

"We all love Brice," Davis continued. "We just need to know if this is just a phase he's working through or if we've got a bigger issue on our hands."

LaPenna seemed to consider his words carefully, the silence stretching between them. "You know I can't share the specifics of our sessions."

"I'm not asking for details," Davis countered. "I need to know if we should be worried. If he's a danger to himself or others."

"Brice is processing grief," LaPenna finally said. "He's using substances to self-medicate, which isn't uncommon. But based on our sessions, I don't believe he's self-destructive."

Davis studied the therapist's face, looking for any hint of doubt. "You're sure about that?"

"As sure as I can be," LaPenna replied. "Grief isn't linear, Davis. It's messy, unpredictable. Brice is struggling to find his footing, but I believe he wants to succeed."

Davis leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. "This is a big year for Brice. For all of us."

"I understand the stakes," LaPenna said. "I'm working with him. He's making progress, even if it's not visible in his performance yet."

Davis tapped the folder with his index finger. "Progress would be him showing up ready to work."

"He's a nineteen-year-old who lost his brother," LaPenna reminded him gently. "He's not just a football player."

"No," Davis agreed, his voice softening slightly. "But we’re paying him a shitload of money to play football."

LaPenna nodded. "Believe me, Brice, out of all of the kids I’ve met with, is uniquely equipped to turn that switch on when he needs be. He’ll be ready when you need him to do the football things you value so much."

"That's all I'm asking," Davis said, watching as LaPenna sat up. "We're on the same side here."

LaPenna paused at the door. "Are we?"

Before Davis could respond, LaPenna was gone, leaving him alone with the folder of concerning reports and no clear path forward.

…

Brice slouched in the worn armchair, pretending to read the playbook open on his lap. He'd positioned himself with a clear view of Room 204, his gaze darting up every few minutes to check the hallway. The student center hummed with the usual afternoon traffic as study groups huddled around tables, lone students with headphones creating their own isolation, the occasional professor hurrying through with coffee in hand.

He flipped a page he hadn't actually read, then glanced at his watch as his leg bounced with nervous energy.

A group of girls he recognized passed by, one of them offering him a smile that he lazily returned.

And then, there she was. Mel walked through the double doors, wearing jeans and a faded purple hoodie. She didn’t notice him at the end of the hall as she pushed through the door, disappearing inside.

Brice closed the playbook and leaned forward, elbows on knees. Just walk in, sit down, listen. LaPenna would be pleased. He’d surely earn some brownie points with Mel. Hell, maybe he'd even feel better afterward. Wasn't that the point of these things?

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Brice paused, fishing it out, the screen illuminating with a new message. The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile as he read it. He glanced once more at Room 204, the closed door suddenly seeming like a reprieve rather than a challenge.

He slung his backpack over one shoulder and headed for the exit, his thumbs tapping out a quick reply. Each step away from Room 204 felt lighter, the invisible weight on his chest easing. This was better. Something fun, something easy. Something that wouldn't force him to sit in a circle and talk about things he didn’t want to talk about. He already had his fill of that with his weekly meeting with LaPenna.

As he pushed through the double doors into the spring afternoon, Brice felt his phone buzz again. Another message, another smile. Another night he could lose himself in something, someone, that wouldn't ask anything of him except his presence.

The grief group and Mel faded from his thoughts as he jogged down the steps. Tonight would be simple. Tonight would be mindless. Tonight would be exactly what he needed. Or at least that's what he told himself as he crossed the quad, the late afternoon sun warming his face, the promise of distraction pulling him forward like gravity.

[djp73]

taking the path of least resistance

[redsox907]

Brice isn't self destructive? The same dude that punched his coach in high school?

still not sure where you're going with keeping Nia around. Brice gonna smash her too and that's what finally makes him stop being destructive? Don't think so, but it'd be wild lmao

[Caesar]

LaPenna with the worst read of a therapy patient in the history of therapy or reads. Brice might be the most self destructive person in Indiana.

Brian reads as like 38 years old and that makes those interactions feel pedophile-y I know he's not but still.

Brice trying to traumatize another woman of color while he cries on her shoulder with Mel.

[Captain Canada]

This explosion will indeed be nuclear.