Dying to Live

[Caesar]

Showdown

The lights felt heavier tonight.

Royce stood near the thirty, helmet in hand, his gloves already taped, forearms wrapped, breath steady but deep. The turf under his cleats vibrated—not from nerves, but from the thunder of a hundred thousand voices rattling against the concrete bones of Tiger Stadium.

LSU was 10–0. Ranked second in the country. Georgia was 9–1, fourth, but clawing for a shot at redemption and playoff relevance. This wasn’t just a game. It was the game. And everyone knew it.

Royce wasn’t looking at the scoreboard. Or the sidelines. Or the TV cameras camped like vultures near midfield.

He was watching Georgia.

Red jerseys across the field, stretching in tight formation. Disciplined. Fast. Physical. He’d studied them all week. Knew the sets, the schemes, the audibles. Knew that their quarterback—Ryan Puglisi—liked to drift left when pressured, liked to check down off bootlegs, liked to challenge the flat when he thought the linebacker had stepped too far inside.

Royce wasn’t stepping anywhere. Not unless he wanted to.

He took a breath through his nose. Let the noise settle around him.

Jay jogged up from behind, knocking his knuckles against Royce’s backplate. “They ain’t ready.”

Royce didn’t look at him. Just nodded. “They never are.”

Puglisi finished his last warm-up toss near the Georgia sideline and glanced across the field. Just for a second. Just enough.

Royce stared back, flat and still.

Then came the drums.

The tunnel roared as LSU’s captains stepped out. The band’s cadence picked up, the gold and purple crowd surging like tidewater. Helmets strapped. Pads buckled. Ten and oh marching into the night.

Royce didn’t blink. He slipped his helmet on, snapped the chinstrap, and flexed his fingers once.

The season hadn’t peaked yet.

This was the part where it sharpened.

He stepped toward the sideline, crowd boiling behind him, and muttered beneath his breath:

“Let’s get it.”

And Tiger Stadium shook as the Tigers took the field.

…

First and ten. Georgia near their own forty. First drive of the night.

Tiger Stadium was loud—but not chaotic. Not yet. The fans were waiting. LSU’s defense wasn’t.

Royce crouched at the second level, just off the hip of the defensive end. He’d seen the formation twice on film—12 personnel, motion to twins left. Georgia liked to run off play-action here, trust Ryan Puglisi’s arm to open things up early.

Let ’em.

Royce tightened his gloves, felt his breath slow behind the face mask.

Ball snapped.

Puglisi turned, faked the handoff—and Royce was already moving. No hesitation. No wasted steps. He knifed through the crease between guard and tackle, untouched, reading the mesh before it even finished.

Puglisi turned back toward the line and froze.

Royce hit him clean. Wrapped and drove.

The crowd surged as Puglisi dropped—shoulder-first, the air knocked out of him on impact. No fumble. No theatrics. Just a quarterback stuffed five yards behind the line.

Royce popped up and let the moment breathe.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t point.

Just stared at the Georgia sideline for a beat before walking back toward the huddle, slow and certain.

Kolaj slapped the back of his helmet. Da’Shawn was already waving to the crowd, pumping both fists.

Royce didn’t join in.

It was first and ten.

Now it was second and fifteen.

There was more to take.

…

“Eight-forty-six to play here in the first quarter, and after a bruising sack by Royce Lafitte and a pair of stalled plays, Georgia’s drive stalls out at their own 37-yard line. It’ll be fourth and 17, and here comes the punt team.”

“That’s what we talked about, T.J.—LSU’s defense setting the tone early. Lafitte with the exclamation point, and Georgia forced to surrender field position. You don’t see that often from the Bulldogs this early in a game.”

“Back to receive for LSU is cornerback and return specialist Ashton Stamps, standing around his own 20… Georgia’s punt team set… clean snap…”

“High spiraling kick, drifting left… Stamps tracking it—he’ll let it bounce, and it takes a Georgia roll inside the fifteen… finally downed at the eleven-yard line.”

“But that’s a win for the Tigers’ defense, no question. They flip the field early, take the juice right out of Georgia’s opening script. Now we get to see if Rickie Collins and this LSU offense can strike first.”

“LSU ball, 8:32 to go in the first, game still scoreless… but the crowd already making it feel like the fourth quarter. Stay with us—this one’s just getting started.”

…

“Collins in the gun, first and ten from the LSU 40—Tigers trying to flip the field after that defensive stand. Ball is snapped—play action to Durham—Collins drops back—pressure coming off the edge!”

“He’s gotta get rid of it—"

“He fires over the middle—picked off! Intercepted by Kevin Hoag at the 48!

“Oh no—he read it the whole way! Stepped right into the passing lane!”

“Hoag returning it now—down the sideline, inside the thirty—finally pushed out after a 20-yard return! And just like that, Georgia swings momentum their way early here in Baton Rouge!”

“Collins never saw him. Tried to hit the dig route, but Hoag was squatting in zone, baited that throw like a veteran. That’s a huge play for the Bulldogs.”

“So with 8:20 on the clock, Georgia takes over deep in LSU territory, first and ten from the Tigers’ 40 after the interception. You could feel the air shift in this stadium just a little.”

“Time for this LSU defense to bow up again.”

…

“Third down and one for Georgia at the LSU twelve. They’ve got two tight ends in, Tuggle out wide to the right. Tigers showing pressure in the A-gap…”

“Watch the play-action here—they like to go to the big body, Nitro Tuggle, in the red zone.”

“Snap to Puglisi—fakes the handoff—rolls right—looks—throws to the flat—Tuggle catches it at the eight—turns upfield—stiff arm at the five—and he’s in! Touchdown Georgia!”

“That was too easy. LSU sold out to stop the run on third and short, and Georgia baited them. Simple bootleg, and Tuggle just bullied his way through the last man.”

“Nitro Tuggle with the 12-yard score, and Georgia draws first blood in Tiger Stadium with 7:37 left in the first quarter. It’s 6–0 Bulldogs, extra point coming.”

“Let’s see how LSU responds. Still early, but that’s a punch right to the jaw.”

…

“Sixteen seconds left in the first quarter—LSU down 7–0, but looking for a spark. First and ten from their own twenty-two. Rickie Collins, the redshirt senior, in the shotgun with Caden Durham to his right… Shelton Sampson Jr. split wide to the left.”

“Georgia’s playing single-high—might be a chance to test the boundary here.”

“Snap to Collins—quick drop—pressure coming late—Collins uncorks one deep down the left sideline—Sampson’s got a step—makes the catch at the Georgia 45! He’s gone! Thirty—twenty—touchdown Tigers!”

“Seventy-eight yards to the house! Shelton Sampson Jr., the senior wideout, torches the Georgia secondary and Collins hits him in stride like they drew it in the dirt!”

“That’s a veteran throw from a veteran quarterback—and LSU is right back in it! Just sixteen seconds left in the quarter, and Tiger Stadium is rocking!”

“You give Rickie Collins time, and he’ll hurt you. That ball was a rope—and Sampson? That’s Sunday speed, baby.”

“A lightning strike from the Tigers, and we are an extra point away from tying this thing at seven!”

…

Royce crouched just off the line, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, eyes locked on the Georgia backfield. First and ten from the Bulldogs’ thirty-five. Tight formation. No motion. That told him enough.

Inside zone. Short trap. Maybe a delayed pitch if they got cute.

He tilted slightly, just enough to bait the left guard. Puglisi snapped the ball and turned to hand off to Jamarion Wilcox—second string but quick. Tried to squeeze through the left A-gap.

Didn’t matter.

Royce was already moving.

He shot through the crease before Wilcox had even tucked the ball, knifing between guard and center like he belonged there. Arms wrapped, pad level low. Drove Wilcox backwards—backwards—until cleats scraped turf and the collision buried them both at the line.

Three yards behind the original spot.

Royce popped up before Wilcox even rolled to his side.

Didn’t flex. Didn’t yell.

Just looked at Georgia’s sideline. Calm. Measured.

Try again.

Payton smacked him on the helmet. Eric whooped behind him.

But Royce didn’t break stride. He walked back to the huddle, voice low and even.

“My motherfucking house.”

He wanted more.

…

“LSU lining up for the field goal—this’ll be a 41-yarder from the right hash. Aeron Burrell, the junior, already perfect on the season from this range.”

“LSU trying to take the lead here midway through the second quarter—this would make it 10–7.”

“Snap is good—hold is down—kick is—blocked! It’s blocked at the line! Georgia jumps on it at the twenty!”

“Oh man, Georgia brought the heat up the middle—someone got a hand on it, and that ball never had a chance.”

“Huge special teams moment for the Bulldogs—this stadium was ready to erupt, but Georgia says not so fast.”

“Burrell had the leg, but they never let him show it. Momentum swings again here in the second quarter.”

“Still tied at 7 with 8:44 to go. Georgia ball. And Tiger Stadium suddenly a little quieter.”

…

“Third down and ten for Georgia—ball on the LSU twenty-four. Tigers trying to hold the line with just under seven minutes to go before the half. Game tied at seven.”

“Keep your eye on Tre Kashama here—he’s been quiet so far, but this is the kind of down where they love to sneak him into space.”

“Puglisi in the gun—takes the snap—four-man rush—pocket holds—he fires down the seam—has a man! Caught! Tre Kashama at the five—dives forward—touchdown Georgia!”

“He found the soft spot between the safeties—perfect timing, perfect ball. LSU brought pressure off the edge, and Puglisi stood tall.”

“That’s a big-time throw from the senior quarterback, and Georgia jumps back in front, 13–7, with the extra point pending.”

“You give Puglisi too much time, he’ll carve you up. Tre Kashama with a clean route, and now LSU’s defense is back on its heels.”

“Tigers will need to answer—and fast.”

…

“Second and goal for the Tigers from the six-yard line—Collins in the shotgun, Durham offset to his right. LSU trailing 14–7, looking to even things up midway through the third quarter.”

“Keep an eye on Damien Casey—the tight end’s lined up just off the right tackle. He’s been money inside the red zone all season.”

“Collins takes the snap—looks right—throws it quick to Casey in the flat—he’s got it at the three—turns upfield—lowers the shoulder—touchdown Tigers!”

“Damien Casey! The sophomore tight end fights through contact and powers his way across the line—what a grown-man play in traffic!”

“And Rickie Collins delivers the strike! LSU’s offense answers the bell, and with the extra point coming, we are all tied up at 14 apiece with 6:37 to go in the third quarter!”

“That's a momentum shift right there. This crowd’s back on its feet—and this game just got real interesting.”

…

“Third down and six for LSU—ball just across midfield at the Georgia forty-seven. We’re under three minutes to go here in the third quarter, game still tied at 14.”

“Big down here—Collins has been solid, but Georgia’s front has been getting more aggressive as the game wears on. Watch for pressure.”

“Collins in the gun—Durham to his left—takes the snap—pocket collapsing—and he’s sacked! Nnamdi Ogboko comes crashing through the interior and drills Collins back at the LSU forty-nine!”

“Oof. That’s the big man—six-three, three hundred twenty-five pounds of raw power. Just bullied his way into the backfield.”

“A huge third-down stop for Georgia, and LSU will have to punt it away with 2:40 and counting in the third. That’s the first real momentum swing we’ve seen this half.”

“And now it’s up to the defense to respond. You don’t want to let Georgia get cooking late in the third.”

…

“First and ten for Georgia at their own twenty-nine—2:11 left here in the third, and we’re still tied at 14. LSU showing a two-high look…”

“They’ve got Kashama in the slot. LSU’s been mixing coverages all night—but Puglisi’s been patient.”

“Snap to Puglisi—drops back—quick pressure coming—he steps up—fires deep over the middle! Kashama’s there at midfield—he makes the grab! He’s gone! Forty, thirty—nobody’s gonna catch him! TOUCHDOWN GEORGIA! Seventy-one yards!”

“Wow! Tre Kashama just split the safeties like a ghost, and Puglisi dropped a bomb in stride. One play, six points. That’s a gut punch.”

“The Bulldogs strike back in a flash, and with 2:03 left in the third, Georgia takes a 20–14 lead—extra point coming. That’s the second time tonight Kashama’s found the end zone, and he did it in style.”

“LSU had the momentum… and just like that, it’s flipped again.”

…

Royce watched the tight end shift across the formation and knew what was coming.

First and ten. Forty-five seconds left in the third. Georgia was starting to lean on tempo, trying to wear LSU down with body blows before the fourth. Jamarion Wilcox lined up deep in the backfield—no frills, no trick.

They wanted yards. Simple ones.

Royce squatted lower.

The ball snapped.

He read the angle of the pulling guard and sank his hips, slipping underneath the block before it fully sealed. Wilcox took the handoff and aimed inside—but Royce was already there. No hesitation. No arm tackle.

He met Wilcox low and square, thighs and shoulders in sync, driving him back before the play could breathe. Turf kicked up beneath their feet as they slammed into the LSU 37.

Whistle.

Minus one.

Royce let go, stood, and stared down the Georgia sideline without a word.

…

“Seven seconds left in the third quarter—Georgia threatening again. First and ten from the LSU twenty-three, and they’re up 21–14, looking to extend the lead.”

“Watch the tight end, Jaden Reddell. They love him in this part of the field—big target, soft hands.”

“Puglisi in the shotgun—takes the snap—play-action—steps up in the pocket—fires over the middle—Reddell makes the catch at the ten—slips a tackle—dives! Touchdown Georgia!”

“Oh, that’s a killer. Reddell just dragged two defenders and stretched across the line. That’s a grown man play from the tight end.”

“A 23-yard strike from Ryan Puglisi to Jaden Reddell, and with one second left in the third quarter, Georgia extends the lead to 27–14. Extra point coming.”

“LSU had chances to get off the field. But Georgia’s offense just keeps cashing in.”

…


The fourth down whistle echoed like a false promise.

Royce straightened from his crouch, the final shove of the play still vibrating through his forearms. Georgia’s punter jogged onto the field. LSU had forced the stop. A small pocket of fans in the south end zone tried to rally behind it, clapping, shouting, hopeful.

But it was 28–14.

And there wasn’t time.

Royce walked off the field slowly, chin strap hanging loose, helmet dangling from his fingers. Sweat stuck to his skin like regret, and every step toward the sideline felt heavier than it should.

No one said much.

Tyler clapped his shoulder. Yarborough muttered something low and flat like “good series.” But the energy was gone—bled out somewhere in the third quarter and never stitched back together.

Royce glanced at the scoreboard: 2:12 left. Down two scores. Georgia already in clock mode.

He didn’t need to do the math. He knew.

This wasn’t a comeback waiting to happen. It was a formality. A clean drive, a moral victory, and a loss all the same.

He reached the sideline, handed his helmet to the equipment intern without looking, and found a spot near the bench where the shadows stretched longer under the stadium lights. The fans were still loud—but it wasn’t fire anymore. It was just noise.

Royce stared across the field at Georgia’s sideline. They were already congratulating each other. Subbing in second-stringers. Smiling.

He exhaled hard through his nose. Not angry. Not even bitter.

Just done.

They’d had their shot. And they missed.

Royce didn’t sit down.

He just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, watching the end come slow. Quiet. Undeniable.

The game wasn’t over on the scoreboard yet.

But in Royce’s body—in his bones?

It had been over for a while.

[Captain Canada]

Despite the loss, I can't even hate; Royce had himself a game

[Caesar]

Despite the loss, I can't even hate; Royce had himself a game

big play Ro

[Caesar]

Even if You Lose

The locker room didn’t ring with the sounds of rage.

It sagged.

Sweat dampened the concrete floors. Cleats clacked out of rhythm. Shoulder pads slid off with the weight of disbelief. Some players cried quietly. Others stared at the floor like it might give them answers. A few slammed helmets into lockers, like noise could rewrite the score.

28–14. Georgia.

Another big game. Another loss.

Royce sat on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, his mouthguard still clenched between his teeth. His gloves were off, balled tight in his hands. On either side of him were two true freshmen—Derik and Da’Shawn’s backup, both too stunned to even pretend they knew what to do next.

Derik’s lip trembled. The other kid kept shaking his leg, fast, like it might burn off the disbelief.

Royce looked at them. Looked around the room.

No coaches were talking. No whiteboards being marked. Just silence, and the smell of sweat, defeat, and padded leather.

He stood.

Not to make a scene. Not to bark. Not to become another voice in the static.

His voice was calm.

“We not done.”

The words dropped into the silence like a pin into a drum.

“I ain’t letting us go out on no fuck shit.”

Heads turned. Not all at once, but enough to feel the shift. Ashton looked up from where he’d been peeling tape off his wrist. Kolaj, sitting across the aisle, stopped replaying the fourth quarter in his head and locked in.

“You feel like it slipped?” Royce said. “It did. We let it. They didn’t take shit. We gave it to them niggas.”

He looked down at Whitfield, the freshman blinking hard like he wasn’t sure if he was about to get blamed or blessed.

“But y’all got one job now. Same as me.”

Royce’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. He was the heartbeat in that room, and it was steady.

“Stand the fuck back up.”

A pause.

“That’s it. That’s the whole deal. Stand up. Don’t wait on no coach. Don’t wait on no speech. Stand up. Get back to work. 'Cause we not folding.”

The locker room didn’t erupt.

It breathed.

A few helmets were picked up. Shoulders squared. Gloves re-laced. Nothing loud. But the silence had shifted—from defeat to decision.

They looked to Royce.

Not the coaching staff.

Not the scoreboard.

Him.

Captain in all but name.

And Royce just nodded once, sharp and sure, and sat back down.

Nothing else needed saying.

They weren’t done.

Not yet.

~~~~~~~~~~

Baton Rouge pulsed just outside the windows—horns blaring down Highland, televisions blaring postgame debate, drunk chants spilling from balconies. The Tigers had just lost to Georgia, and the city didn’t quite know how to hold the silence that came after.

But inside Co’s apartment, there was no debate. No noise.

Just light. Soft and deliberate.

Alix sat cross-legged on the floor, one bare foot tucked under her knee, the other nudging the edge of an old sketchpad. A candle burned low on the coffee table—ginger, cedarwood, and something she couldn’t quite name but always made her think of her stepfather’s church shoes. The record player hummed in the corner, slow jazz floating in and out of the stillness.

Co leaned against the armrest of the couch, a bowl of popcorn between them, untouched.

She didn’t talk while she worked. He knew that now.

He just watched.

Her pencil moved with quiet precision, tracing a curve, shading a corner. When she finally turned the sketchpad toward him, she didn’t explain.

She didn’t have to.

The lobby in the drawing was layered and warm—arched doorways and inset shelves, textured walls and soft fabrics. Recessed light tucked into ceiling coves. Floor seating low and intimate. A palette of wheat, clay, ochre, and dusk. Every angle seemed to soften into another.

He stared at it for a long time.

“This feels like home,” he said, his voice low.

Alix tilted her head. Her hair was pulled up into a loose knot, a pencil still tucked behind one ear. She looked tired, but the good kind. The kind that came from making.

“That’s what I want to make,” she said. “Not headlines. Just home.”

Co didn’t say anything at first. Just slid down beside her, shoulder to shoulder, the pads of his fingers grazing the edge of the page.

“They should see this,” he murmured.

“They will.”

She didn’t mean clients.

She meant people.

People like them. People who’d grown up navigating places never designed with them in mind. People who needed softness, who craved the quiet kind of beauty that didn’t demand to be noticed but refused to be ignored.

“I keep thinking,” Alix added, voice thinner now, “about how long it took me to believe I could even make something like this. Like it wasn’t just a nice idea. But something real. Something that could actually hold people.”

Co reached over and flicked the corner of the sketch gently. “You already did.”

The room stayed still. Outside, someone shouted about a blown coverage. Inside, the only thing moving was the flame.

Alix leaned into him, her temple resting against his shoulder. His arm settled around her without needing direction.

No spotlight.

No scoreboard.

Just light, and breath, and a page that held what she couldn’t yet say out loud.

~~~~~~~~~~

The back lot of Tiger Stadium hummed with leftover electricity—fans trickling out, lights still too bright for how quiet everything had gone. Royce shoved the locker room door open and stepped into the night like he meant to leave it behind.

Hoodie up. Bag slung. Shoulders tight.

He didn’t expect to see her.

Effie leaned against the chain-link fence just past the security truck. Her coat was buttoned wrong. Her curls had frizzed from the weight of the crowd and the late fall air. She looked like she'd been standing there a while, not waiting for a moment—just him.

He stopped in his tracks, jaw set.

“You came,” he said.

Effie shrugged. “Didn’t want you walking out alone.”

“I ain’t feel like being seen.”

“You’re not,” she said. “Not like that.”

He looked down at the ground, at the scuffed toe of his sneaker kicking gravel. “I ain’t play bad. But it still wasn’t enough.”

She stepped closer. No rush.

“You don’t have to win,” she said, quiet but sure, “for me to want you.”

The words landed hard in the softest way.

He didn’t answer. Just opened the passenger door and let her in.

…

His apartment was dim, only the hall light left on. Royce kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the couch. Effie peeled off her coat, draped it over the back of a chair, then walked to the sink and poured them both a glass of water without asking.

When she came back, he was sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced like he was still gripping something invisible.

She handed him the glass.

He took it.

“Do you want me to stay?” she asked.

He nodded once. No hesitation.

They didn’t speak much after that.

Later, when they lay together under the soft weight of his blanket, the night slowed around them. There was nothing frantic in it—no push for more, no hunger trying to fill some hole. Just skin. Breath. Hands moving gently across familiar curves and edges.

At some point, the light caught a patch of Effie’s hip. Then her thigh. Raised lines—some pale, some faintly pink. He didn’t touch them right away. Just looked.

She saw him seeing.

“I used to think I had to explain them,” she said. “Now I just let people decide what to do with knowing.”

Royce’s hand found her waist, rested there.

“I ain’t going nowhere.”

Her fingers traced the curve of his chest, the thick scars he never talked about—the ones that split across muscle, reminders of bullets and everything that didn’t kill him.

She didn’t ask.

Didn’t flinch.

They stayed like that for a long time. The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It held.

They didn’t need to be anything else but here. Bruised. Breathing. Chosen.

Not as a reward. Not as a rescue.

Just real. Just earned. Just enough.

[Caesar]

Never Sent

The car engine ticked quietly beneath him, cooling in the stillness. The stadium lights were long gone now, traded for the dull amber wash of the apartment complex’s floodlamps. Royce sat in the driver’s seat, hoodie still pulled over his head, hands resting on his thighs.

He hadn’t taken the key out of the ignition. Just sat there. Letting the silence press against him.

In his lap, his phone screen glowed. Open to a contact he hadn’t touched in over a year.

Rashida Lafitte.

No photo. Just the name.

He stared at it like it might blink first.

There was no real reason to reach out. Not now. Not after Georgia. Not after the loss or the headlines or the weight in his chest that wouldn’t quite move.

But something in him wanted to speak. Not to change anything. Just to say it out loud.

He tapped the voice memo icon. Brought the phone up, thumb hovering. For a few seconds, he said nothing. Then:

“I don’t need you to be proud of me.”

His voice was low. Even. Measured.

“I ain’t need that in a long time ago.”

He swallowed.

“But I wanted to tell you… I’m still here. I kept going. It ain’t perfect. Some days it’s heavy as fuck. But I’m doing something.”

He paused. Let the next words come slowly.

“And I think Rome would’ve been proud of that. I hope he would’ve.”

The silence after hit sharper than anything he’d said.

He stared at the waveform on screen. A thumb’s press away from sending.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he hovered over the trash can icon.

Deleted.

No backup. No draft.

Just gone.

He set the phone face-down in the passenger seat. Reached across to roll the window down. The air that came in wasn’t fresh, not exactly. But it was wide. Cool. Real.

He let it hit him.

Closed his eyes.

And breathed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The café smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon. Some spot near Government Street Billy liked—off-brand enough to keep people from noticing, quiet enough for conversations that needed to stay that way.

Royce walked in hoodie-up, still wearing his practice joggers. He hadn’t shaved since the Georgia game. His eyes were tired, not just from the reps or the film review. He was still carrying it.

The loss. The weight. The silence that followed it.

Billy didn’t greet him with a joke. Just slid a manila folder across the table and gestured to the open chair.

Royce dropped into it with a thud.

“You look like somebody told you the sky wasn’t real,” Billy said.

Royce didn’t smile. “You here to sell me hope?”

Billy shook his head. “Nah. Just clarity.”

Royce opened the folder. Inside: clipped packets, agent breakdowns, training programs, financial advisors, names and bios. A few had checkmarks. Others had red X’s and margin notes in Billy’s handwriting.

They’d talked about this before. But that was when it felt theoretical. Now, with the season’s undefeated streak broken and the playoff looming, this was real.

“You’re not gonna give me the answer?” Royce asked, eyes scanning a name.

Billy leaned back. “Nope. I gave you options. That’s what you asked for.”

Royce kept flipping.

A nutritionist from Miami. A speed specialist based in Arizona. Two agents with high-profile draft picks from last year. One guy with too many teeth in his headshot and a reputation for chasing TV deals.

Royce paused.

“Ain’t this all shady?” he asked, flat.

Billy looked at him for a long second. No grin. Just steady.

“It’s not about clean,” he said. “It’s about clear.”

Royce’s brow pulled tight.

Billy leaned in again. “You want clean, go write a children’s book. This is the league. The money’s real. So is the bullshit. But if you know what you’re stepping into—who you’re trusting, who’s getting paid off your name—then you can keep your footing.”

Royce sat back, folding his arms.

“Every one of these people sees dollar signs when they look at you,” Billy added. “Some might still care about you. Most won’t. But I do. And I’m telling you—pick eyes wide open. Not heart first. Mind first.”

Royce glanced down at a profile of a former linebacker who transitioned into athlete development. Notes from Billy: Understands the position. Won’t waste your time with yoga reels.

“Where do you fall in this?” Royce asked. “You one of them?”

Billy chuckled. “I ain’t clean either, Royce. But I’m clear.”

There was a pause.

Royce closed the folder, his fingers still resting on the cover.

He wasn’t the same kid who got shot. Or the one who begged to be saved. He was the player with All-American buzz, with eyes on him from every corner of the NFL, with a defense that listened when he spoke. He was built now. Not just bruised.

“Alright,” Royce said. “Let’s walk it smart.”

Billy stood, clapped him on the shoulder, then tapped the folder. “That’s the first right step.”

Royce didn’t answer. Just picked up the folder and tucked it under his arm like it was part of him now.

Not something being handed to him.

Something he was ready to carry.

~~~~~~~~~~

They met outside a small diner in Breaux Bridge, the kind of place where the vinyl seats had been patched and repatched, and the bell above the door still jingled like it meant something. The gravel lot crackled beneath Toni’s sneakers as she got out of her car. Deshawn was already there, leaning against the hood of his own, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Neutral territory,” she said, half under her breath as she approached.

Deshawn didn’t crack a smile. “This supposed to be civil?”

Toni opened the door without answering. Inside, the air was cool, the lights soft. A waitress gestured toward a booth in the back. They sat across from each other, menus untouched.

She looked different. Not just the jeans or the loose sweater, but in the way she sat—shoulders not curled in, voice not small.

Deshawn tapped the table with one finger. “You been quiet.”

“I needed time to remember how to speak in my own voice.”

He huffed. “That what Arianna told you?”

“No,” she said. “That’s what silence taught me.”

The waitress came, took a half-hearted drink order, and left. They didn’t talk again until the sweet tea was sweating on the table between them.

Deshawn leaned forward. “So, what now? You moving out? That it?”

Toni nodded. “I already told the complex I’m not signing the renewal.”

He blinked, once, slowly. “So, what I’m supposed to do now?”

Toni looked at him—really looked. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t flinch at his anger or shrink from the storm.

“Heal,” she said simply. “Or don’t. But not with me.”

Deshawn’s jaw flexed. His lips parted like he was going to argue, but the words stalled. His eyes flickered, not soft, but searching.

She stood. The check hadn’t come. She didn’t care.

Outside, the sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the lot. Her car waited. So did her life.

As she reached the driver’s side, she heard the door of the diner push open behind her. She turned.

Deshawn stood there, fists clenched, anger carved into every line of his face. He looked like he wanted to shout, but the street kept him quiet.

Toni opened her door, slid inside, shut it with a firm thud. For a second, she just sat there, hands on the steering wheel.

Then, through the glass, she looked right at him.

“Fuck you,” she said. Not whispered. Not screamed. Just said—like punctuation on the final sentence of a long, unfinished story.

Then she turned the key. Took a breath.

And left.

[Caesar]

Horns Fucking Down

[Captain Canada]

Horns down, my boy.

[djp73]

Georgia loss hurts but nice bounce back against Texas. Hopefully a spot in the CC?

[Caesar]

What This Is

Royce unlocked the door with a shoulder still aching from the sack he took in the second quarter, fingers still stiff from a strip he almost forced but didn’t. The win in Austin was clean, hard-earned—twenty-seven to ten, nothing flashy. LSU was heading to the SEC Championship.

But none of that lived in his chest as he stepped through the doorway.

The lights were dim. The overhead stayed off, just the amber glow of a lamp in the corner cutting through the room. His apartment smelled faintly like the candle Effie had lit the last time she was here. Something warm. Something soft.

She was curled into the couch, one leg tucked under her, his old LSU hoodie swallowing her shoulders. A textbook sat open across her lap, but the way she was holding the pages—one hand absentmindedly running along the edge—it was clear she wasn’t reading.

She looked up when the door clicked shut.

Royce didn’t speak right away. Neither did she.

He dropped his bag gently by the door, tugged off his hoodie, then ran a towel across the back of his neck from the gym bag. It was the first time since the final whistle that the adrenaline had started to wear off.

“I didn’t know if you’d be here,” he said, voice low.

Effie’s expression didn’t change. Not really. Just the barest trace of a smile. “You didn’t ask.”

He nodded once. Couldn’t argue with that.

The silence between them wasn’t hostile. Wasn’t even distant. Just careful. They’d learned by now how to hold room for each other without needing to fill it.

Royce crossed the room slowly and dropped onto the couch beside her. Not touching. Just there. Close enough to feel the heat from her knee against his thigh.

She flipped the textbook shut, gently. “You good?”

“Physically? Yeah. Mentally... still figuring.”

Effie gave a small hum, neither pushing nor retreating. She didn’t ask about the game. She didn’t need to.

Royce turned toward her, rested his forearms on his knees, staring at the floor.

“I know what this is now,” he said.

She didn’t react right away. She just watched him—like she was trying to determine whether to believe him or not. Whether he believed it himself.

“And what is it?” she asked softly.

He glanced sideways. Then met her eyes fully.

“Something I want to fight for. If you do too.”

The silence that followed was a different kind—full of gravity, not avoidance.

Effie blinked slow. Her hands stilled in her lap.

“I do,” she said. “But not if you’re just fighting not to lose.”

He didn’t respond, not at first. Just let the words settle in the room like dust in a sunbeam.

“I don’t wanna fight out of fear anymore,” he said. “I been fighting to live my whole life. I want something different. I want something that... that gives.”

Effie’s expression softened. “Then build it.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to yet,” she said. “Just be honest about wanting to.”

He nodded, the tightness in his chest loosening just enough for him to lean back into the couch cushions. “You being here when you don’t have to be? That’s not small.”

She looked at him then—really looked. “Then ask.”

Royce met her gaze, unblinking. “Stay tonight.”

Effie stood. Walked past him without a word. He followed a few moments later—not with urgency, not with expectation, but with steadiness.

~~~~~~~~~~

The breeze in Baton Rouge had finally turned. Still humid at the edges, but laced now with something cooler—brisk and faintly metallic, like the breath of coming winter. Co’s apartment complex was quiet at night, tucked off a narrow street framed by bare pecan trees and patchy lawns gone brittle with the season.

The gravel in the lot crackled beneath their steps. Alix wrapped her arms tighter around herself, more out of thought than cold. She was wearing a soft, tan jacket over her dress and sneakers worn thin from the semester’s late nights. Co walked a little slower than usual beside her, keys spinning once on his index finger before he slid them into his pocket.

They’d eaten at that bistro near the river—outdoor tables strung with fading Edison bulbs, heaters that only halfway worked. The food was good, but the conversation had been better. Easy. Unforced. Like neither of them had anything to prove anymore.

Now they walked in silence. The right kind.

At the foot of the stairs to his unit, they both stopped. The apartment complex glowed dully under sodium lights, washing everything in soft gold and long shadows.

Alix turned toward him, her hand resting on the railing but her eyes on his.

“I don’t want to date you,” she said. No stammer. No retreat.

Co didn’t react. Not the way most would. He just waited.

“I don’t want to call this something that shrinks it down,” she continued. “I don’t want dinner pictures and anniversary clocks and performative check-ins just because we’re ‘together.’ I want the long version. The version that changes shape but keeps its center.”

He tilted his head slightly, absorbing each word like they mattered. Because they did.

“I want to grow with you,” she finished.

Co’s breath left him in a slow stream, visible now in the chill. He nodded once, not out of politeness but reverence.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

She didn’t smile, not right away. But the tension in her shoulders gave. Just a little. Enough.

He stepped forward, just enough that his fingers brushed hers where they still gripped the stair rail. Neither of them moved to lace hands or pull close. Not yet. But the weight of what passed between them in that moment—of choosing—was real.

Inside the apartment, it was warmer than she expected. Co’s heater hummed gently, the place smelling faintly of the cinnamon candle he kept burning during colder months and the laundry detergent he always used too much of. Alix slipped off her jacket and hung it without needing to ask where. She’d done this enough now. This was familiar, but not stagnant.

She stood in the living room while Co moved to the kitchen, placing the leftover containers from dinner in the fridge. The air between them was quiet but open, unburdened.

When he returned, she was standing by the window, looking out over the quiet complex. He came up behind her, not too close, just near enough that she could lean back if she wanted.

She did.

His arm slid across her shoulders. Her hand found the hem of his sleeve, resting there.

“You cold?” he murmured.

“Not with you here,” she said. Then added, “Even if you keep this place like a damn sauna.”

Co chuckled, soft in her ear. “It’s called circulation.”

They didn’t move for a long time. Outside, a dog barked somewhere in the distance. A car door slammed. The world carried on, but in that apartment—under low light and late November air—they stood still.

Eventually, she turned into him, her cheek against his chest. “You think this will last?”

“I think it already has,” he said.

She looked up at him then, and finally, that smile came—small, tired, warm.

They didn’t kiss. They didn’t need to.

When she followed him down the hall a few minutes later, it wasn’t with urgency. It was with understanding. The kind that doesn’t require proof or timeline. Just presence.

Because they weren’t naming it.

They were growing it. Quietly. On purpose.

[Caesar]

My Brother Could Beat Up Your Dad

Royce pulled into the lot at St. Joseph’s Academy just before the bell. His Corvette eased into a visitor space, its engine purring low before cutting off. He sat there a second longer than he needed to, thumb tapping the edge of the steering wheel. He was used to tunnel walks and pregame cameras—but this? A high school career day? This made his palms sweat.

He checked the mirror. The collar of his navy Amiri shirt sat clean against his neck. He adjusted the cuffs of his slacks, shoes polished, belt matched. The watch was subtle, designer but not loud. Everything about him today was intentional. Not a look of flash, but of presence.

Inside, the student center had been rearranged with rows of chairs facing a low riser, a projection screen flickering through the morning slideshow: Career Discovery Week – Guest Speakers Today: 9:15–11:45.

He was early, but Roni was already waiting. When she spotted him in the hallway, her face lit up like it hadn’t since Christmas.

“There he is,” she grinned, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the front. “I told everybody you were coming.”

Royce smirked. “You make it sound like I’m Beyoncé.”

“You kinda are,” she said, not even joking.

When he was introduced—Royce Lafitte, student-athlete, Louisiana State University—the buzz rippled through the auditorium like heat off pavement. Whispers of “He’s ranked, right?” and “That’s the one who had the pick against Auburn” moved through the seats.

Royce stepped up to the mic, trying not to laugh when a kid in the second row pulled out his phone to film him before he said a word.

His speech started smooth—about dedication, time management, the grind of early lifts and long nights. But halfway through, a girl in the back called out, “How many tackles you got this season?” and suddenly it was all game stats and NIL questions and who he thought was overrated in the SEC.

He rolled with it. Answered what he could, cracked a joke when someone asked if he had a girlfriend, and handled it all like he handled a blitz—calm, aware, grounded.

And then Roni stood up.

“This is my brother,” she said, proud and clear, interrupting a back-row heckler who’d been comparing highlight tapes. “And he’s going to the NFL.”

The room got quiet. Not because it was news. But because of how she said it—like it was the kind of truth no one got to touch.

Afterward, the teachers clapped politely. But the students? They swarmed him. One asked if he could sign a phone case. Another asked if he could shout her out on TikTok. He smiled through all of it, took a couple pictures, and made sure to thank the principal on his way out.

In the car ride back to Rana’s, he didn’t say much. Just drove with the windows cracked, letting the late fall breeze fill the silence.

Back at the house, after Julian had gone down for a nap and the kitchen was dim but warm, Roni found him leaning against the counter, unpeeling a clementine.

“I tell everyone you’re my brother,” she said.

He looked up, caught off guard by how quiet her voice had gotten.

“The one who made it,” she added. “The one who stayed.”

He didn’t have words for that. Not really. So he didn’t try. Just opened his arm and let her tuck into his side.

Later, Rana hugged him in that same kitchen—one arm tight around his shoulders, the other anchoring her weight against the fridge like she was holding something too big to say.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “This means more than you know.”

Royce closed his eyes.

No press. No scouts. No cameras.

Just home.

~~~~~~~~~~

The kitchen smelled like overcooked rice and sweet vinegar—the kind of scent that always lingered too long, even with the windows open. Toni sat at the Formica table, elbows resting near the edge, hands curled around a mug that hadn’t held coffee in hours. Outside, Houma sagged into late afternoon, humidity curling against the window like a breath trying to find its way in.

Ma Beulah moved slow these days. Not weak—just deliberate. She moved the cast iron skillet off the burner, wiped her hands on a threadbare dish towel, and sat down across from her.

Toni didn’t speak right away. She didn’t have to. They both knew what wasn’t being said.

Then, quiet: “Tell me about them.”

Ma Beulah’s eyes narrowed, not in anger—just weariness. “Your mama or your daddy?”

“Both.”

The silence stretched, thick with old ghosts and long-unspoken truth.

Finally, Ma Beulah said, “Crack took both of ’em.”

Toni blinked once. “That’s it?”

Her grandmother didn’t flinch. “Your daddy, my son, first. Your mama next. Ain’t no poetry in that.”

The words landed like a thud against the table between them. No metaphor. No story. Just the flat line of reality.

Toni looked down at her chipped nail polish, a breath catching in her throat. “I keep trying to write something about them. Something that makes it make sense.”

Ma Beulah leaned back in her chair, the wood creaking beneath her. “Don’t. Don’t try to make it pretty. Don’t try to save what already gone.”

Toni looked up. Her voice barely a whisper. “Then I’ll stop trying to make it pretty. Just real.”

Ma Beulah didn’t smile. But her shoulders softened. “Good.”

They didn’t talk much after that. Didn’t need to.

Later that night, Toni sat on the porch alone, notebook on her lap. She stared at a blank page for a long time before writing the first line:

My daddy died in a trap house with no shoes on.
My mama followed a year later, chasing his ghost.
That’s not tragic. That’s not poetic.
That’s just what happened.

She didn’t stop the tears when they came. Didn’t wipe them away.

She just kept writing.