Los Angeles | 2010
Bradley's POV
After our victory in that final, we were champions, and the thrill of that moment never really faded. It lingered beneath the surface of everyday life. The party hosted at my house that weekend was a blast—loud, celebratory, everything a victory party should be. It also served as a potent reminder that we needed to keep performing at this level, or even better, if we wished to relish this joy once more come next year.
But I also understood the cost. I saw the exhaustion in my teammates' eyes, the lingering aches from a long, hard-fought season. Leading isn't just about pushing; it's about knowing when to pull back. So, in the interest of team camaraderie and long-term sustainability, I eased the pressure of practice.
"Alright, listen up," I'd announced at our last team meeting before the summer break. "We earned this championship. Now, we earn the rest. Official team practices are done until the second half of the summer break. Go have fun. Live your lives. Just don't come back completely out of shape."
I effectively gave the team months to rest and relax. But I myself did not relent. My court became my sanctuary, the familiar rhythm of the ball on the hardwood the only constant. Every morning, every evening, I was out there, pushing my limits, refining my skills, the memory of that final, game-winning jump—and the pain that followed—a constant fuel. It was partly due to my own legs having torn muscles with strict instructions from the doctor to rest for weeks to come. I could walk but any strenuous activity would have long term affects. I heeded the instructions religiously. A dressing down from Mom for being reckless also played a factor in that decision.
Then, something unexpected happened after I had recovered. During my practice sessions, Patrick, David, and Leo started showing up at my house, unannounced, usually on Saturday mornings. "Just making sure we don't go completely out of shape," Leo had said the first time, a basketball already spinning on his finger. They joined in on my practice sessions once a week, pushing themselves, pushing me.
I appreciated that. They had the hard work mentality without my incessant voice having to push them. And as summer stretched out before us, I knew, with a quiet, burning certainty, that we were just getting started.
The months after the championship were different. The intense, single-minded focus that had driven me all year eased, leaving a vacuum. Now that I was free from my own goals for the year, all I had was time. Time I chose to spend with Alex, deepening our understanding and trust in each other. My mom's words echoed in my head—relationships needed nurturing beyond the value people provided to my game. So, I made a conscious effort, taking interest, or attempting to, in things that she wanted us to do.
One Saturday afternoon, we were sitting by my pool, reading. Alex looked up from her book, a thoughtful, slightly mischievous glint in her eye. "So," she began, "I was thinking. You know how you have that... intense reaction to certain creatures?" "You mean my completely rational fear of snakes and spiders?" I countered, already feeling a prickle of anxiety. "Exactly," she said, nodding seriously. "Well, I read about exposure therapy. The theory is that gradual, controlled exposure can lessen phobic responses over time." I eyed her suspiciously. "Where are you going with this, Lexi?" I ended up agreeing to go to the zoo with her, specifically to the Reptilian Exhibits. Her grin was triumphant. "Think of it as a scientific experiment. For your own good."
The day at the zoo was... an ordeal. Every rustle in the simulated jungle environments, every shadow that flickered in a terrarium, sent a jolt of panic through me. Alex tried her best, her voice calm and clinical as she read the informational plaques. "See? This one is a non-venomous corn snake. Completely harmless. Interesting scale pattern, don't you think?" "It's moving," I hissed, my eyes wide, trying to shrink into myself. "Well, yes, snakes tend to do that," she replied, a hint of exasperation creeping into her voice. Her logic was sound on the matter, but my own fears made that trip a little taxing on her own sanity. By the time we reached the tarantula enclosure, I was scared out of my mind, practically hyperventilating. She took one look at my pale, sweating face and sighed. "Okay, experiment concluded," she said, gently guiding me toward the exit. "Data suggests subject requires significant further desensitization. Or possibly sedation." Despite the terror, I somehow pulled through it, mostly thanks to her steadying presence.
Our relationship wasn't just about navigating my phobias, though. We even had a fight during this time. We were studying in her room, the comfortable silence broken only by the scratching of our pens. "Hey," I started, trying to sound casual. "Have you thought any more about maybe joining a club? Or trying out for the debate team? Just to, you know, meet some new people?" Alex stiffened, her pen stopping mid-sentence. "Why?" "No reason," I said quickly. I just... pushed her a little too much to go out and look for friends beyond just our class. "I think it would be good for you." "Good for me?" she repeated, her voice rising. "Or good for you? Are you tired of me hanging around all the time? Is that it? Am I not enough social stimulation for the great Bradley Naird?" "What? No! That's not what I meant!" I protested, blindsided by her sudden anger. She blasted on me, her words a torrent of insecurity and hurt. It wasn't as drastic as last time, but it stung, nonetheless.
Later that evening, after we had calmed down, we talked. Really talked. "I'm sorry I pushed," I said quietly. "I just worry sometimes that you're relying too much on me, and I don't want you to be lonely if I'm otherwise occupied with something." "I was just anxious and overthinking things," she admitted, twisting a strand of her hair. "It's just... putting myself out there is terrifying. What if they don't like me? What if I say the wrong thing?" Ultimately, we decided that I could nudge her, but she was allowed to do things at her own pace. It was a compromise, a sign that we were learning how to navigate disagreements without blowing everything up. We were learning to talk.
School, practice, time with Alex—it was a good, solid routine. But even in the relative quiet, the fun stuff always continued to happen around the Dunphy family.
One afternoon, my phone rang. It was Claire, her voice a familiar blend of desperation and forced cheerfulness. "Bradley, honey? It's Claire Dunphy. I have a small favor to ask. A… basketball emergency." I could practically hear her wringing her hands through the phone. It turned out that Luke and Manny's junior league basketball team was in crisis. Phil and Jay, in a misguided attempt at fatherly bonding, had taken over coaching duties and managed to lose every single game, culminating in an on-court brawl between the two of them during the last one. The team was demoralized, the parents were furious, and Claire was at her wit's end.
"Look, I know you're busy," she pleaded, "but they only have two games left. Could you possibly, maybe, just give them a few pointers? Anything would be better than what Phil and Dad are doing." "Consider it done, Mrs. Dunphy," I said. It sounded like a fun challenge.
So, for the next week, I coached the entire team. It was like herding cats. Luke was more interested in tying his shoelaces together, Manny was trying to write poetry about zone defense, and the other kids were a chaotic mix of enthusiasm and zero fundamental skills. But I did what I do best: I implemented a system. Simple plays, a focus on defense, and relentless conditioning drills (which they hated, but endured).
Somehow, it worked. We ended up helping them win the final two matches of the season, clinching a respectable fifth-place finish. Claire was ecstatic. At the final game, after the buzzer sounded on our win, she ran onto the court, hugged me, and then proceeded to taunt both Jay and Phil relentlessly about their coaching 'skills'. Phil just looked sheepish, but Jay actually looked… impressed.
In the aftermath, talking with Claire, sharing that competitive high of turning a losing team around, I realized that somehow, amongst the entire Pritchett-Dunphy clan, after Alex, I connected the most with Claire. We had the same drive, the same obsessive need to win, the same slightly terrifying intensity when it came to achieving a goal.
When I mentioned that to Alex later, casually mentioning how similar I felt to her mom sometimes, she looked at me weirdly, like I had just suggested her mom was secretly an alien. "My mom?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "Seriously? She's… Mom. Organized chaos in human form." I had to pull out the big guns. "You know you're an exact replica of your mother's competitive spirit, maxed out to a 10, right?" She was bewildered and denied it vehemently. "No way! I'm nothing like her! I'm logical, calm..." "Oh really?" I interrupted, a grin spreading across my face. "Remind me again how much you hate losing at chess and scrabble? And how, every single time you win, you do that little shoulder shimmy and the 'I win, you lose' chant?"
I saw the dawning horror in her eyes as she realized I was right. She did the exact same dance Claire did when she won. Her denial sputtered into an embarrassed silence. Checkmate. Again. For all my troubles I got a pillow thrown at my handsome face along with mutterings of how I shouldn't read into things too much.
The final bell of the school year felt less like a release and more like the starting gun for a different kind of race. Summer. A wide-open expanse of possibilities. My first thought, naturally, was Alex.
"So," I'd asked her as we walked out of school that last day, "what are the plans? Beach? Movies? More exposure therapy at the zoo?"
She'd given me a pitying look. "We're going to Hawaii. For two weeks."
Just like that, my carefully constructed summer itinerary dissolved as I remembered that this too was bound to happen. "Hawaii?" I asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "Can I come?"
She laughed. "Nice try. Family only."
When I asked Dad if I could tag along or if our family could go there as well, I was shut down with a firm rejection from both Dad and Mom.
"Negative, Bradley," Dad had said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "We have a different deployment this summer."
Apparently, we were going to Chicago. News had come that my maternal grandfather was recently brought out of emergency cardiac surgery, so the family was expected to show up. There was no arguing. Duty called.
Chicago in June was a sticky, humid contrast to the dry heat of L.A. The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lilies. My grandfather looked small in the bed, diminished by the tangle of tubes and wires connected to his body. He was a gruff man, a retired engineer who had always seemed more comfortable with blueprints than people. My mom was his second youngest daughter, and her brothers were significantly older. By the time Erin and I came along, all the spoiling and fun a grandfather could have had with grandkids was already splurged on my cousins. I was too mature, even as a kid, to seek him out needlessly, and he wasn't the type to bridge the gap himself. Our relationship was one of polite distance.
Yet when I saw him with all those tubes snaking into his body, I felt a sharp pang of empathy for the pain he was going through.
He, in turn, seemed genuinely happy to see me and Erin. His eyes, usually sharp and appraising, softened when Erin gave him a careful hug. He even managed a weak smile when I told him about winning the championship. "Good... good lad," he'd rasped, his hand briefly squeezing mine.
A few days later, seeking an escape from the hushed atmosphere of hospital visits, I went out to eat with my cousins, Matt and Sarah. They were a few years older, native Chicagoans with an easy familiarity with the city's labyrinthine streets.
"Forget those tourist traps," Matt said, navigating us through a bustling neighborhood. "I know a place. Best Italian beef in the city. No contest."
We turned a corner and stumbled across this niche place, a narrow storefront with faded lettering on the window: 'The Original Beef of Chicagoland.' The air hung thick with the rich, savory smell of slow-roasted meat and tangy giardiniera. Inside, it was cramped, loud, and gloriously chaotic. Orders were being shouted, spatulas scraped against a sizzling flat-top, and the energy was pure, unadulterated Chicago grit.
And then I saw them. Behind the counter, working with a frantic, almost desperate energy, were two guys who stopped me in my tracks. One, older, with weary eyes and a permanent scowl etched onto his face—Mikey. The other, a couple of years older than me, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with intense blue eyes and a shock of messy golden brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat—Carmen, or Carmy, as I knew he would become. Imagine my surprise at discovering yet another show and its characters in real life. The Bear.
"Yo, Mikey! Carmy!" Matt yelled over the din.
Mikey looked up, his scowl deepening momentarily before recognizing my cousins. "Hey, Matt, Sarah. What can I get for ya?" His gaze flickered over to me, suspicious. "Who's the new guy?"
"This is our cousin, Bradley," Sarah explained. "Visiting from L.A."
"L.A., huh?" Mikey grunted, impressed. He turned back to the grill, pointedly ignoring me.
Carmy, however, offered a quick, shy nod. He was meticulously wiping down the counter, his movements precise even amidst the chaos, but I could see the tension between the brothers. He looked to be helping Mikey out, even though the elder seemed to hate his presence in the restaurant. Carmy would offer a suggestion, and Mikey would shut him down with a curt word or a dismissive wave. It was exactly as I remembered it. The simmering resentment, Carmy's desperate need for approval, Mikey's inability to give it. I could see that they would have that fight, the one that would push Carmy to become the greatest chef ever.
"So, Bradley," Mikey said, pulling me back to the present as we waited for our sandwiches. "Heard you're some kind of basketball phenom now?"
"Something like that," I said.
Carmy's head snapped up at the mention of basketball. "You play?"
"Yeah," I replied. "Point guard."
"No kidding?" His face lit up with a genuine enthusiasm I hadn't seen yet. "You follow the Bulls?"
"Of course," I said. "Jordan's the GOAT. No question."
"Damn right," Mikey chimed in unexpectedly from the grill, the first hint of warmth I'd seen from him. "Nobody touches MJ."
"True," I conceded, "but you gotta respect the new generation too. Kobe, LeBron... they're changing the game."
Carmy nodded eagerly. "Kobe's footwork is insane. And LeBron's physicality..."
We made small talk like that for a few minutes while our food was prepared, a brief, surprising island of common ground amidst the simmering family drama. Nothing concrete, just guys talking sports. But watching Carmy, seeing that spark of passion ignite when he talked about something he loved, I felt a strange kinship. He was trapped now, but his escape was coming. And it was going to be spectacular in spite of the harshness of the culinary industry. Carmen would bloom under this pressure.
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And So the timeskip begins