"At what point did you realize you guys might actually win it?"
Brice paused for a moment. "After we beat Michigan State. We were supposed to lose that game. Classic trap game. They had like two or three wins. We came out slow. I threw an early pick. I heard the saxophones for sure."
A smile crept on Brice’s face. He allowed it.
"That Michigan State game was when everything clicked for you personally?" Marc, the writer, asked as he jotted something down on his notes and looked back up. Brice tried to get a peak at them but couldn’t with the way Marc was sitting across from him.
"Yeah, man." Brice glanced toward where Ilyssa sat near the wall, tablet in her lap, but her eyes were on him instead of the screen. "I mean, we'd been building toward something all season, but that game was different. It was like we kept waiting for the other shoe to fall and when it didn’t, it was like 'okay, we might actually do this shit’."
Marc flipped a page in his notebook. "Walk me through that mindset shift."
Brice shrugged his shoulder. "I don’t know, I think when you come out against Notre Dame and win it, it’s like a relief, like you’re a good team. And then you win some more games and it’s like you’re more than just a good team, you could actually do this. So you’re now playing not to lose, not to screw up. Scared of making mistakes. Scared of letting people down. But in that game, after that start, I had a choice. I could shrink, or I could trust my guys and trust myself."
"And you chose to trust."
"I chose to stop being afraid," Brice answered quickly. "Fear makes you small, you know? Makes you play small. A lot of people have a lot to say about how I play and what’s wrong with my game and some of it is definitely fair but it’s also like they’re not out there. They’re not making those plays. They’re not standing in that pocket. I know what it feels like to be that man in the arena like they say. You have to accept that. You have to internalize that and realize you got here for a reason and to trust yourself and to trust that greatness is within you."
Marc was writing faster now, his pen moving across the page in quick strokes. "That's interesting. Because a lot of people would say fear is what drives them. The fear of failure. The fear of letting people down, their teammates."
Brice looked at his hands. "Maybe. It can also paralyze you."
"Has it?"
"Sometimes," Brice had to look up to remind himself of where he was at. In a meeting room. Across from a writer.
Ilyssa shifted in her chair.
"You've been pretty open about working with a therapist," Marc said. "How much did that play into this shift?"
"The funny thing is we don’t talk a lot about football," Brice admitted, "But it helps. I think having a better understanding of who I am, what I want from people, what I think people want from me and understanding my behavior and my thought patterns also applies on the football field whether as a leader or even the tangible stuff. I was carrying around a lot of stuff that was making it hard to just be present. Hard to trust myself."
Marc nodded. "What kind of stuff?"
Brice glanced at Ilyssa again. She was looking at her tablet now.
"Just life stuff," he said finally. "Loss. Grief. Making peace with who I was versus who I thought I needed to be."
"The loss of your brother."
"Yeah, that changed everything."
Marc set his pen down for a moment. "I can't imagine."
"It's funny," Brice continued, "I used to think grief was something you got through. Like a tunnel you walk through and eventually you come out the other side and you're done with it. But it's not like that. It's more like... it becomes part of you. Part of how you see the world."
"Did that change how you approached the championship run?"
Brice thought about it. "I think it made me realize that nothing is guaranteed. You can't take anything for granted. Every game, every play, every moment with your teammates, it could be the last one. At some point, me and Jimmy played our last game together, our last snap together and didn’t even realize it, you know?"
"You’ve also had to deal with grief with the loss of your child’s mother, Skylar Hayes. The trial is coming up. How are you processing all of that?"
"Marc," Ilyssa cleared her throat. Marc was slow to turn his head towards her.
"It’s okay," Brice held up a hand towards Ilyssa, "We can talk about it."
Ilyssa’s eyebrows remained raised but gave a small nod.
Marc returned his attention towards Brice.
Brice took a breath. "I think the entire situation is unfortunate. A life was loss. Really two when you think about it. As far as from my end, it was ugly, you know? Those text messages that come out, they were real. That’s me. That’s how I was. I think it was very sobering to see your reflection like that but also your reflection in front of the whole world. It’s like standing in front of a mirror naked but there’s a million people behind you and you know they’re there and they know you can see them too. They know that you know that they know that you’re this really ugly person deep inside and that’s something I had to accept."
Marc was writing quickly, but his eyes stayed on Brice's face. "That must have been difficult to see played out so publicly."
"It was," Brice rubbed his jaw. "But in a way, I’m glad they did. I think it forced me to look at myself. Really looked at myself and I didn’t like what I saw. I think had those messages not come out, it would have been easier to compartmentalize things or try to find an excuse or a way to mask things. There are no excuses. There are no contexts. It was terrible behavior and now I’m extremely cognizant of how I treat people, how I talk to people. For me, it’s not about being caught or being embarrassed but it’s about being proud of yourself and being proud of the man that you are even when you don’t think the world’s watching.
The room was quiet except for the soft scratch of Marc's pen on paper. Brice could feel his heart beating faster, but not from nervousness. From something else. Something that felt like relief.
"Do you think about her?" Marc asked. "Skylar?"
"Every day," Brice said without hesitation. "I think there’s a tremendous amount of guilt that comes when you lose someone that you weren’t in the best place with. Skylar and I have known each other for our entire lives pretty much. I think about the times that we spent. Some of it good. Some of it bad. Unfortunately, we never got a chance to really work on that. Work on our relationship. We were getting better as co-parents and for me, personally, that’s a big regret that I have. Motherhood is something special. I didn’t make hers easy. I made it a really hard time for her actually. I was never going to be able to undo that, even when she was here but at least there’s the hope that you guys can maybe work on things and apologize and try to mend the relationship and be a better person."
Marc had stopped writing.
"I know some people are going to read this and think it's all PR bullshit," Brice continued. "Obviously, none of this is organic. There’s a lot of money in college football. There’s a lot of money in being a franchise quarterback. It’s in a lot of people’s best interest, including myself, that I clean myself up, clean up the image. For a lot of people, I think I’ll always be that kid that was flipping off Touchdown Jesus and sent those horrible messages to his girlfriend. I think, naturally, people are right to be pessimistic about it. I would be too. I try not to focus on that. I try to focus on being a better person. For me, it’s not about convincing someone or making them believe me. It’s about inspiring someone, even if it’s one person, to be kind. To be thoughtful. To be nice. That’s the win. That’s the goal. I want to spread positivity because the fact of the matter is a lot of people could relate to the negativity and nastiness that was in those text messages. That’s a lot of people’s daily lives. I would much rather them relate to my positivity."
…
Nia sat at the metal table with her hands flat on the surface, waiting, listening to the low murmur of conversations from other tables scattered around the room.
When the door buzzed and opened, she saw them before they saw her. Her mother's hair was pulled back in a way that showed the gray she usually covered, and her father's shirt hung looser on his frame than she remembered.
"Baby," her mother said when she reached the table, her voice catching slightly on the word.
Nia stood and let herself be pulled into the embrace, felt her mother's arms wrap around her back and hold tight. Her father's hand landed on her shoulder and for a moment she let herself sink into it.
Then she pulled back and sat down, and they sat across from her.
"You look good," her mother said. "Are you eating enough? Getting some sleep?"
"I'm fine, Mama." The words came out flat. "How are you guys?"
"We're good," her father said quickly. "We're doing alright."
But she could see it. She could see it in the way his wedding ring hung loose on his finger. She could see it in that half a second it took for a smile to reach her mother’s face.
"The new place is nice," her mother cleared her throat. "Closer to your aunt Denise."
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on the table between them. Around them, other families were having their own careful conversations, their own negotiations with distance and time and the particular cruelty of loving someone you could only see for minutes at a time.
"The lawyer says things are looking good," her mother said suddenly. "They’re feeling good about the jury pool."
Nia looked at her hands. "Mama."
"She says with your age, with the circumstances, there's a chance—"
Nia stood up abruptly, the metal chair scraping against the concrete floor with a harsh sound that cut through the murmur of other conversations. Her parents looked up at her, confusion flickering across their faces.
"Baby, what-" her mother started, half-rising from her own chair.
"I need to go," Nia said, not meeting their eyes.
"Nia, please," her father said, reaching across the table.
"Sit back down, honey," her mother pleaded.
"Guard," Nia called out, turning toward the uniformed officer by the door.
"Nia, don't do this," her mother's voice cracked. "Please, baby, just sit back down. We can talk about something else. We can-"
…
The indoor facility hummed with the sound of air circulation and nothing else. Brice stood at the forty-yard line with a football in his hands, looking down the length of artificial turf that stretched out in front of him like a green carpet under the harsh lights.
He set up in his stance, feeling the familiar weight of the ball in his palm, the laces against his fingertips. Three-step drop. He took the snap from an imaginary center and moved through the footwork, right foot back, left foot back, right foot back, plant and throw to a receiver who wasn't there.
The ball spiraled through the air and hit the net at the far end with a soft thud.
He jogged down to retrieve it, his cleats coming down against the soft turf. When he got back to his spot, he did it again. Same footwork. Same timing. Same release point.
The second throw sailed high and to the left.
"Fuck," he muttered, already moving toward the ball.
He ran it back fifteen more times. The phone in his gym bag buzzed. He ignored it.
Drop back. Plant. Throw.
His shirt was starting to stick to his back. The facility felt warmer than usual. He set up again. This time he worked on his five-step drop. Right, left, right, left, right, hitch up in the pocket, find his target.
The footwork felt heavy.
"Come on," he said to the empty facility.
His phone buzzed again. Then again.
Brice glanced toward his bag sitting on the bench twenty yards away, then looked back at the field. He grabbed the ball and set up again.
This time he worked on his hard count, calling out cadences to ghosts, watching for defensive movement that wasn't there. His voice bounced off the walls and came back to him flatter than it sounded in his head.
Drop back. Plant. Throw.
Drop back. Plant. Throw.
The rhythm became automatic, meditative, the kind of repetition that let his mind go quiet in a way it rarely did anymore. Just the sound of his cleats on turf and the whistle of the ball cutting through air and the satisfying thud when it hit its target.
He lost track of time. Lost track of how many throws he'd made, how many trips he'd taken to retrieve the ball, how many times his phone had buzzed from the bench. He was drenched in sweat now, his shirt clinging to his chest and back, his hair damp against his forehead.
He set up for another five-step drop, this one with a rollout to the right. He was slow getting to his spot in the first rep, thinking too much about his footwork. The second throw felt rush, speeding up when it came time to release the ball. The third attempt felt better but his front foot still landed wrong when he went to plant and throw.
"Another one," he said to himself, jogging back to retrieve the ball.
His phone had stopped buzzing.
Drop back. Plant. Throw.
The ball hit the net dead center with enough velocity to make the whole thing shake.
He allowed himself a small smile as he headed downfield to get it one more time.
…
Brice unlocked the front door to the smell of garlic and herbs drifting from the kitchen. The sound of running water and clinking dishes told him Miss Lafitte was still up, finishing up the evening routine.
He dropped his gym bag by the door and walked toward the kitchen, where Miss Lafitte stood at the sink with her sleeves rolled up, working soap through a large pot.
"Evening, Mr. Brice," she said without turning around. "Miss Serena cooked tonight."
"Yeah, I saw her texts," he said, leaning against the counter. "Smells good."
"Your plate's in the fridge," Miss Lafitte said, rinsing the pot under the hot water. "Want me to warm it up for you before I head to bed?"
"Actually," he said as he watched her work, "Why don't you take the rest of the week off?"
Miss Lafitte's hands stilled on the pot. She turned to look at him, water dripping from her fingers. "The rest of the week?"
"Yeah. Go home tonight.
"I’m okay, Mr. Brice," she smiled, "Thank you."
"I know. Still. Go home. Sleep in your own bed."
"Mr. Brice, it’s only Tuesday."
"I can handle it," he said. "I’ll give you time and a half."
Miss Lafitte dried her hands on the dish towel. "You sure about this?"
"I'm sure."
She studied his face for another moment, then her expression softened into a smile. "Well, if you're certain. Thank you, Mr. Brice. That's very nice of you."
"Just don't answer your phone if I call," he said. "I mean it. You're off duty."
Miss Lafitte laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "I'll try my best not to."
She disappeared down the hallway toward her room. Brice walked to James's room and found him sleeping in his crib. Brice lifted him carefully and settled down on the carpeted floor with his back against the wall.
James stirred but didn't wake, his breathing deep and even against Brice's chest.
"Mr. Brice?" Miss Lafitte appeared in the doorway with her purse over her shoulder. "I'm heading out now. You call if you need anything, you hear?"
"Don't answer if I do," he reminded her. "You deserve the time off."
"Thank you again," she said, her voice soft. "Y'all take care."
He heard her footsteps in the hallway, the front door opening and closing, the sound of her car starting in the driveway. Then the house went quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and James's steady breathing.
Brice looked down at the baby's face.
"You’re stuck with me for a few days," he said quietly. "Figure out how this shit works, huh?"
James made a small sound in his sleep but didn't wake.
"I can’t believe we’re here," Brice continued. "I feel like it always goes like this. Like it’s never simple. It’s never straight. It’s never cookie cutter."
He adjusted his position against the wall, careful not to disturb James.
"Senior year was supposed to be a movie. Turned into a fucking disaster. Ended up at fucking Purdue. Can you believe that?"
The baby's fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt.
"Still managed to get here, though," Brice nodded to himself, "Big Ten Championship. National Championship. Number one overall pick. Potentially. God willing. If he’s even still listening to me these days."
Brice laughed to himself.
"And Serena..." Brice stopped, the words catching in his throat. "It’s fucking insane when you think about it. We weren’t ready but shit, at least Connie was Connie, you know? It’s like no matter what I do, no matter what I decide, life still happens to me. Good or bad. Not that you’re a bad thing in my life."
Brice paused.
"She’s not a bad thing either. I just don’t know if she’s the one. Maybe I do. Maybe I know she’s not. Maybe that’s the problem. I just know she cares about me. I like the way she makes me feel. I like how she stuck with me. I don’t know, I feel like that’s something Connie would have done."
James shifted slightly, his breathing changing but staying steady.
"I don’t know. I feel like the old Brice would have broken shit off already, you know? Thrown a tantrum. Break up with her. Try to fuck one of his girls or something. I’m not doing that but I want to, you know? So does that make this any better? Is this what being a bigger person is about? Am I not supposed to feel it at all? I don’t know."
The room was quiet for several moments. Brice closed his eyes and let himself sink into the stillness, the weight of James against his chest, the familiar ache of talking to someone who couldn't answer back.
He heard soft footsteps in the hallway.
When he opened his eyes, Serena was standing in the doorway with a plate in her hands, steam rising from the food. She didn't say anything, just looked at him sitting on the floor with James.
She moved into the room and sat down cross-legged beside him, setting the plate on the carpet between them. She held out her hands. Brice looked at her for a moment, then carefully transferred James into her arms. She cradled the baby against her chest.
He picked up the fork and took a bite of the chicken. He ate slowly, the three of them sitting together on the floor in the soft light from the hallway, the house quiet around them.
Tell us how you really feel, Tom. Him saying it, then trying to claw it back then doubling down then trying to claw that back too is peak gaslighting.
but the hot dogs are Toms words