Roni ain't know how trash Madden is
Dying to Live
Dying to Live
Your Way
Royce leaned against the corner of the conference room, arms folded, jaw tight. The walls were the same nondescript beige he’d seen in a hundred other meetings, but nothing about this one felt routine.
Billy slid a folder across the table, the tab already frayed from use. “This is everything,” he said. “Endorsements. Media runs. Pre-draft training options. Nutritionists, therapists, brand consultants—vetted, not vultures.”
Delpit was already seated, one ankle rested on his knee. Calm, unreadable. He glanced at Royce once but didn’t speak yet.
Royce didn’t move toward the folder. “You ever notice,” he said, “how fast this all starts movin’ when you lose?”
Billy raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. Royce's voice was low, flat. “Like the world couldn’t wait for us to fall out the top spot before it started counting me out.”
Delpit finally leaned forward, folding his hands. “That’s because most of these people were never with you. They were with the idea of you.”
Royce snorted. “Ain’t that the same thing?”
“No,” Delpit replied. “It’s not. The idea is clean. Marketable. Doesn’t talk back. The real you? Complicated. Rooted. Still grieving. Still growing.”
Billy cleared his throat. “Which is why none of this is pressure, Royce. It’s just a blueprint. You’re not obligated to run with it yet.”
Royce finally stepped forward and opened the folder. A dozen tabs. Endorsement tiers. Social media breakdowns. Mockup campaign headlines with his face on them—frozen in time like he’d already made it.
He flipped the pages slowly, not skimming, not scanning. Reading.
Then he shut it.
“I ain’t signing shit yet,” he said.
Billy gave a short nod. “Fair.”
Delpit didn’t blink. “That’s your right.”
Royce took a step back, the folder still in his hand. “It’s not that I’m scared to do it. It’s that I ain’t done yet. Not with the season. Not with the team. I don’t want to think about commercials and gear drops and mic’d-up segments when we still got unfinished work on the field.”
Delpit offered a faint smile. “Then finish the season. But finish it knowing what you’re worth.”
Royce nodded, slow. He wasn’t resisting the weight anymore—he was holding it steady.
Billy stood, tugged at the cuffs of his jacket like he always did when a meeting reached its natural close. “We’ll adjust the rollout. Hold everything ‘til after the playoff. You tell us when to move.”
Royce didn’t thank them. He didn’t need to.
Instead, he turned toward the door, folder in hand.
But before he stepped out, Billy’s voice followed: “We run it your way.”
Royce paused, eyes flicking back.
“That’s the only way it was ever gonna work.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The boxes had been sitting in the hallway closet since they first moved into the new place—stacked unevenly, taped in a rush, one of them still marked in black Sharpie: MISC—DO NOT OPEN WHEN TIRED. But today felt different. The windows were cracked, letting in the brittle late November air, and Al Green hummed low from a phone speaker. The kind of Sunday built for rearranging your past, even if you didn’t mean to.
Arianna sat cross-legged on the floor in one of Toni’s oversized hoodies, sleeves falling past her wrists as she tugged open the box closest to her. Inside: a mess of old notebooks, a few thrifted mugs wrapped in crinkled newspaper, and a half-full incense box that had lost its scent years ago.
Toni dropped down beside her with a sigh. “Why do I feel like this is gonna make me cry or sneeze? Possibly both.”
Arianna smirked. “Because you're sentimental and allergic to dust.”
Toni shrugged. “Facts.”
They worked in quiet rhythm, flipping through notebooks that still smelled faintly of pencil shavings and old candle wax. Some were blank. Others held fragments—lines from poems that never got finished, names scratched out, phone numbers they didn’t remember saving. A paper fell out from one and drifted to the floor.
Arianna leaned over to grab it, but her hand paused over something else—a photo half-tucked inside the back pocket of a weathered spiral notebook.
She pulled it out slowly.
The image was soft from time. A woman stood in the middle, her smile wide and slightly lopsided. She had one hand on her hip and a gleam in her eye that said she had just said something funny and knew it. Her hair framed her face in tight, confident curls.
Arianna didn’t need to flip it over to know who it was.
Her mother.
Toni noticed the stillness first. Looked over. Then stayed quiet.
Arianna sat back, her breath catching in the space between her ribs. She’d forgotten that this photo existed—had packed it away on purpose, back when she was still pretending forgetting was a kind of healing.
She turned it over. No writing. No date. Just that smile. Just those eyes that mirrored her own too closely.
Toni waited a beat, then asked, soft, “You okay?”
Arianna didn’t answer. Not yet. Her thumb moved over the photo’s worn edge, careful not to smudge what time hadn’t already faded. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. Just full.
“I thought I threw this away,” she murmured. “Guess I wasn’t ready.”
Toni leaned her chin on her knee. “You don’t have to be.”
Arianna kept staring. Her lips parted, like she might say something else—but nothing came. Then slowly, she slipped the photo back into the notebook and closed the cover with a gentle finality.
Toni watched her, then asked, “You keeping it?”
Arianna nodded once, but not firmly. Like someone still negotiating with herself. “Not yet,” she said. “But I’m not throwing it out either.”
They didn’t say much after that.
Arianna reached for another notebook. Toni found an old lavender scrunchie she’d thought she lost. The sun began its slow crawl across the hardwood floor, casting long stripes of light that moved like breath.
Outside, a neighbor’s wind chime clicked in the breeze. Inside, they sorted through the echoes of things once packed away.
Not to forget.
Just to wait for the right moment to return.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Houma sun was already pressing down when Mike pulled to the curb, engine idling beneath a haze of dust and heat. He hadn’t called. Didn’t need to. Treg was always around—if not on the porch, then lurking nearby like the residue of a place that had never scrubbed itself clean.
Mike sat for a moment, one hand still on the wheel, the other gripping the envelope. Not fancy. Just a folded wad of cash, bound with a rubber band he’d taken off a campus vending machine snack. Everything he had left.
He stepped out slowly, sneakers crunching over the gravel, and walked around the chain-link gate like he’d done a hundred times before—always with more weight in his chest than his pockets.
Treg was sitting on a beat-up plastic chair under the carport, shirtless, chain glinting in the light. His smirk arrived before the greeting.
“Well, well. College boy. Thought you’d forgot the zip code.”
Mike didn’t smile. Just held out the money.
Treg took it with casual fingers, thumbing through the bills like they were receipts. “That all of it?”
“That’s all there is,” Mike said. “You got what you gave me back and then some.”
Treg raised an eyebrow, lips pulling back into something crooked. “You really think you can just walk away?”
Mike didn’t blink. “I ain’t askin’ permission.”
Treg leaned forward. “And what am I supposed to do now? Huh? You runnin’ off to go write essays or whatever, and I’m just supposed to be chill with that?”
“You can be whatever you want, Treg,” Mike said. “Just not in my life.”
Treg stood up. Not fast, but deliberate. The weight in his shoulders shifted. His jaw tightened.
“You’ll be back,” he muttered. “They all come back. Streets got a way of callin’ louder than lectures, college boy.”
Mike exhaled, then took a step back toward the sidewalk.
“Nah,” he said. “I ain’t ever been in ’em. I just got lost close to ’em.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and walked.
Didn’t look over his shoulder. Didn’t flinch at the rustle behind the fence or the bark of a dog two houses down.
He got in the car, closed the door, and sat for a second before turning the ignition. There was no triumph. No cinematic swell. Just the quiet weight of release.
He didn’t need to say it out loud to know it was true.
He was done.
And done meant done.
Royce leaned against the corner of the conference room, arms folded, jaw tight. The walls were the same nondescript beige he’d seen in a hundred other meetings, but nothing about this one felt routine.
Billy slid a folder across the table, the tab already frayed from use. “This is everything,” he said. “Endorsements. Media runs. Pre-draft training options. Nutritionists, therapists, brand consultants—vetted, not vultures.”
Delpit was already seated, one ankle rested on his knee. Calm, unreadable. He glanced at Royce once but didn’t speak yet.
Royce didn’t move toward the folder. “You ever notice,” he said, “how fast this all starts movin’ when you lose?”
Billy raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. Royce's voice was low, flat. “Like the world couldn’t wait for us to fall out the top spot before it started counting me out.”
Delpit finally leaned forward, folding his hands. “That’s because most of these people were never with you. They were with the idea of you.”
Royce snorted. “Ain’t that the same thing?”
“No,” Delpit replied. “It’s not. The idea is clean. Marketable. Doesn’t talk back. The real you? Complicated. Rooted. Still grieving. Still growing.”
Billy cleared his throat. “Which is why none of this is pressure, Royce. It’s just a blueprint. You’re not obligated to run with it yet.”
Royce finally stepped forward and opened the folder. A dozen tabs. Endorsement tiers. Social media breakdowns. Mockup campaign headlines with his face on them—frozen in time like he’d already made it.
He flipped the pages slowly, not skimming, not scanning. Reading.
Then he shut it.
“I ain’t signing shit yet,” he said.
Billy gave a short nod. “Fair.”
Delpit didn’t blink. “That’s your right.”
Royce took a step back, the folder still in his hand. “It’s not that I’m scared to do it. It’s that I ain’t done yet. Not with the season. Not with the team. I don’t want to think about commercials and gear drops and mic’d-up segments when we still got unfinished work on the field.”
Delpit offered a faint smile. “Then finish the season. But finish it knowing what you’re worth.”
Royce nodded, slow. He wasn’t resisting the weight anymore—he was holding it steady.
Billy stood, tugged at the cuffs of his jacket like he always did when a meeting reached its natural close. “We’ll adjust the rollout. Hold everything ‘til after the playoff. You tell us when to move.”
Royce didn’t thank them. He didn’t need to.
Instead, he turned toward the door, folder in hand.
But before he stepped out, Billy’s voice followed: “We run it your way.”
Royce paused, eyes flicking back.
“That’s the only way it was ever gonna work.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The boxes had been sitting in the hallway closet since they first moved into the new place—stacked unevenly, taped in a rush, one of them still marked in black Sharpie: MISC—DO NOT OPEN WHEN TIRED. But today felt different. The windows were cracked, letting in the brittle late November air, and Al Green hummed low from a phone speaker. The kind of Sunday built for rearranging your past, even if you didn’t mean to.
Arianna sat cross-legged on the floor in one of Toni’s oversized hoodies, sleeves falling past her wrists as she tugged open the box closest to her. Inside: a mess of old notebooks, a few thrifted mugs wrapped in crinkled newspaper, and a half-full incense box that had lost its scent years ago.
Toni dropped down beside her with a sigh. “Why do I feel like this is gonna make me cry or sneeze? Possibly both.”
Arianna smirked. “Because you're sentimental and allergic to dust.”
Toni shrugged. “Facts.”
They worked in quiet rhythm, flipping through notebooks that still smelled faintly of pencil shavings and old candle wax. Some were blank. Others held fragments—lines from poems that never got finished, names scratched out, phone numbers they didn’t remember saving. A paper fell out from one and drifted to the floor.
Arianna leaned over to grab it, but her hand paused over something else—a photo half-tucked inside the back pocket of a weathered spiral notebook.
She pulled it out slowly.
The image was soft from time. A woman stood in the middle, her smile wide and slightly lopsided. She had one hand on her hip and a gleam in her eye that said she had just said something funny and knew it. Her hair framed her face in tight, confident curls.
Arianna didn’t need to flip it over to know who it was.
Her mother.
Toni noticed the stillness first. Looked over. Then stayed quiet.
Arianna sat back, her breath catching in the space between her ribs. She’d forgotten that this photo existed—had packed it away on purpose, back when she was still pretending forgetting was a kind of healing.
She turned it over. No writing. No date. Just that smile. Just those eyes that mirrored her own too closely.
Toni waited a beat, then asked, soft, “You okay?”
Arianna didn’t answer. Not yet. Her thumb moved over the photo’s worn edge, careful not to smudge what time hadn’t already faded. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. Just full.
“I thought I threw this away,” she murmured. “Guess I wasn’t ready.”
Toni leaned her chin on her knee. “You don’t have to be.”
Arianna kept staring. Her lips parted, like she might say something else—but nothing came. Then slowly, she slipped the photo back into the notebook and closed the cover with a gentle finality.
Toni watched her, then asked, “You keeping it?”
Arianna nodded once, but not firmly. Like someone still negotiating with herself. “Not yet,” she said. “But I’m not throwing it out either.”
They didn’t say much after that.
Arianna reached for another notebook. Toni found an old lavender scrunchie she’d thought she lost. The sun began its slow crawl across the hardwood floor, casting long stripes of light that moved like breath.
Outside, a neighbor’s wind chime clicked in the breeze. Inside, they sorted through the echoes of things once packed away.
Not to forget.
Just to wait for the right moment to return.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Houma sun was already pressing down when Mike pulled to the curb, engine idling beneath a haze of dust and heat. He hadn’t called. Didn’t need to. Treg was always around—if not on the porch, then lurking nearby like the residue of a place that had never scrubbed itself clean.
Mike sat for a moment, one hand still on the wheel, the other gripping the envelope. Not fancy. Just a folded wad of cash, bound with a rubber band he’d taken off a campus vending machine snack. Everything he had left.
He stepped out slowly, sneakers crunching over the gravel, and walked around the chain-link gate like he’d done a hundred times before—always with more weight in his chest than his pockets.
Treg was sitting on a beat-up plastic chair under the carport, shirtless, chain glinting in the light. His smirk arrived before the greeting.
“Well, well. College boy. Thought you’d forgot the zip code.”
Mike didn’t smile. Just held out the money.
Treg took it with casual fingers, thumbing through the bills like they were receipts. “That all of it?”
“That’s all there is,” Mike said. “You got what you gave me back and then some.”
Treg raised an eyebrow, lips pulling back into something crooked. “You really think you can just walk away?”
Mike didn’t blink. “I ain’t askin’ permission.”
Treg leaned forward. “And what am I supposed to do now? Huh? You runnin’ off to go write essays or whatever, and I’m just supposed to be chill with that?”
“You can be whatever you want, Treg,” Mike said. “Just not in my life.”
Treg stood up. Not fast, but deliberate. The weight in his shoulders shifted. His jaw tightened.
“You’ll be back,” he muttered. “They all come back. Streets got a way of callin’ louder than lectures, college boy.”
Mike exhaled, then took a step back toward the sidewalk.
“Nah,” he said. “I ain’t ever been in ’em. I just got lost close to ’em.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and walked.
Didn’t look over his shoulder. Didn’t flinch at the rustle behind the fence or the bark of a dog two houses down.
He got in the car, closed the door, and sat for a second before turning the ignition. There was no triumph. No cinematic swell. Just the quiet weight of release.
He didn’t need to say it out loud to know it was true.
He was done.
And done meant done.
Dying to Live
Payback’s a Bitch
The lights in the locker room buzzed with a low electrical hum, drowned out now and then by the thud of a cleat dropped too hard or the sharp rip of tape from someone’s wrist. Royce sat on the edge of the bench, jersey halfway on, shoulder pads still lying on the floor in front of him. His gloves sat in his lap, fingers curled slightly like they were waiting for something.
He could hear the sounds from outside the tunnel bleeding into the room—low, steady, like thunder under carpet. Georgia fans chanting. LSU fans louder.
But here, in this space, it was quiet.
Da'Shawn was across from him, lacing up his cleats slow, deliberate. Kolaj paced behind them, headphones still on, tapping the side of his helmet like it would activate something deeper. Ashton sat slumped over, towel around his neck, muttering a prayer Royce couldn’t hear.
Royce stayed still.
The white walls of the stadium locker room had no soul. No stories. Just clean space waiting to be filled with history, one way or another.
He finally stood and pulled the jersey over his pads, let it settle on his shoulders like armor. The number 5 caught in the mirror across from him, dark purple against the gold.
This was the rematch.
They’d said LSU wasn’t built to do it. Not against Georgia. Not in this building.
Royce grabbed the bottom of his jersey and adjusted it once, then looked around the room. Not searching for anyone in particular—just taking inventory.
Derik, the freshman linebacker, was bouncing his knee too fast. Gio leaned into a locker, quiet but alert. Eric sat hunched with his hands clasped, head down, maybe praying or just thinking.
They didn’t need speeches. Not this team.
But they needed him.
Royce took a step forward and clapped his hands once, firm.
“Ain’t no ghosts here,” he said, voice low, even. “Not tonight.”
A few heads turned.
“We already buried that first game,” he went on. “Ain’t about revenge. Ain’t about pride.”
He looked toward Kolaj, then to Da'Shawn, then to the younger guys on the fringe of the room who had barely made it out of high school before being thrown into this war.
“It’s about respect. Ours.”
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The gravity carried it.
“They think we soft? Cool. We gon’ show them what real niggas really like.”
Jay let out a soft “hmph” behind him. Ashton stood up fully.
Royce turned and grabbed his helmet from the bench.
“We handle business tonight, we’re champions,” he said, strapping it tight. “Simple as that.”
Coach Lanning hadn’t entered yet. The final clock hadn’t started ticking.
But the team was already moving. Pads smacked together. Tape got rewrapped. Silence was replaced by small, purposeful sounds—readying.
Royce stood nearest the exit tunnel when the horn sounded.
And as the door to the field opened, the light from the stadium bled into the hallway.
Purple and gold banners. Thunder from the stands. And ahead of him, the moment they’d been building toward all season.
Royce didn’t look back.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t need to.
He stepped forward.
One more time. One last mountain.
And this time, they were bringing fire.
…
"LSU lines up for the field goal—fourth and eleven from the Georgia twenty-four. Aeron Burrell, the junior out of Lafayette, has been solid all season. This one from forty-one yards out, just inside the right hash. Snap down, kick is up—
—and it is good! Right down the middle!
Aeron Burrell puts the first points on the board for the Tigers here in Atlanta, and LSU takes a 3-0 lead over Georgia with 5:46 remaining in the first quarter of the SEC Championship Game!"
…
"Third down and one for Georgia at their own thirty-four, tight formation here—Puglisi under center... play action—drops back, looks left, fires downfield—
—incomplete! Off the fingertips of Jaden Reddell, the big tight end, and LSU had that one sniffed out from the snap!
Great pressure from the Tigers’ front, and now Georgia’s faced with a decision here early in this SEC title bout—punt or gamble deep in their own territory!"
…
"Third and twelve for LSU at their own twenty-three... Rickie Collins in the shotgun, Casey in the slot to the left. Snap comes—Collins drops back, has time, looks underneath—finds Damien Casey on a crossing route...
...but he’s wrapped up quickly after a short gain of five, up to the twenty-eight yard line.
That’ll bring up fourth down and seven, and the Tigers will be forced to punt it away. Georgia’s defense doing its job early, keeping everything in front."
…
The moment the tight end motioned across the formation, Royce’s fingers flexed against his thigh. He was crouched just off the line, weight balanced, eyes locked on the quarterback. Georgia had run this look before—three wide, inside zone fake, then a drag across the middle. He didn’t bite on the play action.
Third and nine, and they were trying to get cute.
Puglisi took the snap, backpedaled—Royce slid with him, mirroring the eyes. The quarterback checked short and fired over the middle to Kashama, the slot receiver breaking inside. Quick. Clean.
But not clean enough.
Royce stepped through the traffic and launched.
The collision was sharp—shoulder to ribs, chest to turf. Seven yards. No more.
Kashama hit the ground with a thud, and Royce didn’t stand right away. He made sure the receiver felt the weight of it, just for a second longer. Then he rose, expression unreadable under the face mask, glancing at the chains.
Fourth down.
No talk. No taunt. Just the quiet authority of a man who knew what it meant to end a drive on his own terms.
….
"Fourth and two from the LSU six-yard line, and Georgia will settle for three here—Eldra Salaam on for the 23-yard attempt, just a chip shot from the left hash. Snap is clean, hold is down—
—the kick is up, and it’s good. Right through the uprights from Salaam, and Georgia ties it up with 1:05 remaining in the first quarter.
We’re all knotted at three apiece in this SEC Championship showdown between the Tigers and the Bulldogs."
…
Royce didn’t flinch when Puglisi tucked the ball.
Third and five from the thirteen, and Georgia had lined up like they might test the flat again. Royce had keyed the slot, baited the quick throw. But the quarterback didn’t bite. Instead, he saw the lane open up between left guard and tackle and tried to slip through.
Royce was already moving.
One step, then another—shoulders square, hips low, feet chopping. No hesitation. He met Puglisi in the crease just past the ten-yard line, arms wrapping through the waist, legs driving.
Thud.
They hit the turf at the ten.
Three yards. Not enough.
Royce stayed down for half a beat, forearm pressed into Puglisi’s chest as the quarterback groaned beneath him. Then he stood, calm, like he’d done nothing more than tie his shoes. No celebration. No talking. Just a glance at the sideline and a nod to the ref as the fourth down signal came in.
He jogged back to the huddle without looking over his shoulder.
…
“First and goal from the two—Lipton in the backfield, tight set for the Tigers. Game tied at 3, LSU looking to punch it in and take the lead midway through the second quarter.”
“This is Jason Lipton territory, no question. Short yardage, low pad level—he’s made a living in these spots all season.”
“Snap to Collins—hands it off to Lipton—up the gut—LIPTON PUSHES—HE’S IN! TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!”
“Jason Lipton bullies his way across the goal line! That LSU offensive line dug in and gave him just enough daylight, and the Tigers break the deadlock!”
“With 7:17 to go in the second quarter, it’s LSU 9, Georgia 3—pending the PAT from Aeron Burrell. That’s how you finish a drive. That’s SEC championship football!”
“That’s belief in your identity. Pound the rock, win the line, and let Lipton carry it home.”
…
“Third and ten for LSU, ball on their own twenty-six... Collins in the gun, trips left—Tigers leading 10–3 with just under five minutes left in the second quarter.”
“Georgia showing pressure here—Collins has to be careful. Hooks has been lurking.”
“Snap to Collins—drops back—fires over the middle—*
—INTERCEPTED! DRE HOOKS JUMPS IT AT THE THIRTY!”
“Hooks with daylight—cuts across midfield—he’s got blockers—forty—thirty—DRE HOOKS STILL GOING!”
“Finally brought down after a massive return—64 yards on the interception by Dre Hooks, and Georgia is in business!”
“That’s a momentum-changer. Just when LSU looked like they were settling in, the Bulldogs snatch it back with a monster defensive play.”
“Georgia takes over deep in Tiger territory—this SEC Championship just tilted!”
…
“Fourth and short deep in LSU territory, and Georgia sends out Eldra Salaam to try and cut into the lead—this will be a 25-yard attempt from right between the hashes.”
“LSU’s defense stood tall after the interception return. This is a win if you’re the Tigers—forcing a field goal instead of giving up six.”
“Snap, hold, kick is on the way... and it’s good. No doubt about it.”
“With 3:58 to go in the second quarter, Georgia trims the deficit—it's now LSU 10, Georgia 6 here in the SEC Championship Game.”
“That’s two red zone stands for LSU—and that bend-don’t-break defense is keeping them in control. But they’ve got to protect the ball. Georgia’s not going away.”
…
“Twelve seconds left in the half—LSU at the Georgia thirty-two, looking to strike before the break. Tigers lead 10–6, but they’re not playing it safe.”
“Shelton Sampson’s split out wide left—watch for the double move. Georgia’s been creeping on short routes all quarter.”
“Collins in the gun—takes the snap—blitz coming—steps up—UNCORKS ONE DEEP LEFT SIDE—SAMPSON'S THERE—
—HE CAUGHT IT! TOUCHDOWN TIGERS! SHELTON SAMPSON, JR. WITH A BEAUTY IN THE CORNER OF THE END ZONE!”
“Ohhh, that’s a backbreaker for Georgia! What a throw by Rickie Collins—stood tall in the pocket and dropped a dime over the top!”
“A 32-yard laser with :12 on the clock—and LSU extends the lead to 16–6 before halftime. They’re not just surviving—they’re swinging!”
“Sampson timed it perfectly, stacked the corner, and never broke stride. That’s big-time football under big-time lights.”
…
The ball sat at the Georgia 28, a long way from danger for LSU, but too close for Georgia’s comfort. Third and seven. The kind of down that decided tone, not just possession.
Royce crouched just off the line, weight forward, watching the back’s alignment. Puglisi looked jittery—eyes bouncing, cadence quick. LSU hadn’t brought pressure, not yet. But that didn’t mean they weren’t coming.
Snap.
Puglisi faked the drop, then tucked it—quarterback draw. Designed. Deliberate.
Royce was already moving.
He sliced between the guard and tackle before the linemen could anchor, met Puglisi just past the thirty, and drove through him with a low, snapping tackle. Not a highlight-reel hit—just clean, punishing, final.
Puglisi hit the turf, legs tangled, the ball hugged tight like he knew how close he’d come to coughing it up.
Seven yards. Just enough.
Royce stood slow, face unreadable behind the mask. He didn’t check the chains. Didn’t celebrate.
Georgia had bought themselves another series. That’s all it was.
But the message had been delivered anyway.
…
“LSU leading 17–6, just under ten minutes to go in the third quarter—ball at their own thirty-seven. Rickie Collins back out with Lipton in the backfield.”
“Tigers have had the momentum, but Georgia’s defense is still lurking—don’t sleep on Vicari Swain. He’s got range.”
“Snap to Collins—play action—looks over the middle—fires—*
—INTERCEPTED! PICKED OFF BY VICARI SWAIN AT MIDFIELD!”
“Swain breaks it outside—he’s at the forty-five—forty—thirty-five—AND HE’S FINALLY WRAPPED UP at the LSU thirty-three!”
“Vicari Swain with a 34-yard return off the interception, and Georgia is right back in business—flipping the field after a crucial takeaway!”
“Collins stared it down, and Swain made him pay. That’s a turning-point kind of play if Georgia can cash it in.”
“With 9:58 left in the third, LSU still leads 17–6—but the Bulldogs are threatening.”
…
“Third and two for Georgia from the LSU sixteen—Bulldogs knocking, trying to cut into this 17–6 Tiger lead midway through the third.”
“LSU’s defense showing pressure, but watch the underneath—Puglisi’s been living on those quick throws.”
“Puglisi in the gun—takes the snap—short drop—fires over the middle—TIPPED—AND INTERCEPTED! PICKED OFF BY CONNOR NEWHOUSE!”
“Newhouse on the run! He’s got blockers—thirty! Forty! He’s in open space!”
“Midfield! Forty-five—down to the Georgia thirty-one before he’s finally caught from behind! That’s a fifty-five-yard return from the redshirt sophomore cornerback!”
“You want a momentum swing? That’s it. Georgia was knocking on the door—and Newhouse slammed it shut!”
“LSU takes over, still up 17–6—and now they’ve got the ball in plus territory after a massive defensive play! What a moment for the Tigers’ defense!”
…
“LSU knocking again—first and ten from the Georgia sixteen. Just over six minutes to play, and the Tigers leading 17 to 6.”
“This could be the dagger. Rickie Collins has found rhythm in this fourth quarter—and Shelton Sampson’s been the go-to man when it matters.”
“Collins in the shotgun—takes the snap—blitz coming—fires toward the right corner—SAMPSON’S GOT A STEP—AND HE’S GOT IT! TOUCHDOWN LSU!”
“Oh, that’s cold-blooded execution! Shelton Sampson, Jr. with the 16-yard score—route was crisp, ball was perfect. That’s big-time!”
“Rickie Collins delivers under pressure, and the Tigers extend the lead—it’s 23–6, LSU on top with 6:12 left in the fourth quarter here in the SEC Championship Game!”
…
The scoreboard read 24–6.
The lights inside Mercedes-Benz Stadium had dimmed just enough to let the field glow in soft spotlight, and the Georgia offense stood frozen on their sideline as the final seconds drained. Rickie trotted onto the field with the second unit, Cade lining up to his right. Royce stood on the edge of the sideline, helmet under his arm, gloves tucked into the waistband of his pants. His chest rose and fell like he’d been holding his breath for years.
Jay bumped his shoulder. “That’s it, bruh. We really did it.”
Eric’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “Ain’t no more what-ifs.”
Gio slapped Royce’s back. “Yo ass gotta stop bein’ poetic. We champions, not some spoken word group.”
Royce didn’t answer. He looked across the field where the Georgia players stood, helmets still on, faces unreadable under chinstraps. Then he turned back to his team.
To Jay. To Dorian. To Gio. To Eric. To all the bruises they shared, the silences they’d filled, the mistakes they’d survived.
He smiled—small, quiet, but undeniable.
Rickie knelt the ball. The crowd exploded.
Jay screamed first. Dorian tossed his helmet in the air. Gio started jumping around like a kid on Christmas. But Royce just stayed there, frozen, hand on his hip, helmet dangling at his side.
“Royce!” Jay shouted, tugging his jersey. “C’mon, dawg, celebrate!”
Royce shook his head and chuckled, low. “Just—gimme a second.”
He turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. Confetti hadn’t started yet. Cameras weren’t rushing the field. But he could feel it pressing in—the weight of victory, not as a moment but as a marker. All his life, he’d been chasing a win that felt like it meant something. That wasn’t about revenge or validation or survival. Just… triumph.
“I ain’t never won nothin’ before,” he said aloud without realizing it.
Eric heard him. “Well you did now.”
Royce nodded once. The lights shimmered on the gold SEC Championship patch across his chest.
When the first strands of purple and gold confetti fell, he stepped into them. Not like a kid rushing the field. Not like a man chasing ghosts.
But like someone who had finally, undeniably, arrived.
The lights in the locker room buzzed with a low electrical hum, drowned out now and then by the thud of a cleat dropped too hard or the sharp rip of tape from someone’s wrist. Royce sat on the edge of the bench, jersey halfway on, shoulder pads still lying on the floor in front of him. His gloves sat in his lap, fingers curled slightly like they were waiting for something.
He could hear the sounds from outside the tunnel bleeding into the room—low, steady, like thunder under carpet. Georgia fans chanting. LSU fans louder.
But here, in this space, it was quiet.
Da'Shawn was across from him, lacing up his cleats slow, deliberate. Kolaj paced behind them, headphones still on, tapping the side of his helmet like it would activate something deeper. Ashton sat slumped over, towel around his neck, muttering a prayer Royce couldn’t hear.
Royce stayed still.
The white walls of the stadium locker room had no soul. No stories. Just clean space waiting to be filled with history, one way or another.
He finally stood and pulled the jersey over his pads, let it settle on his shoulders like armor. The number 5 caught in the mirror across from him, dark purple against the gold.
This was the rematch.
They’d said LSU wasn’t built to do it. Not against Georgia. Not in this building.
Royce grabbed the bottom of his jersey and adjusted it once, then looked around the room. Not searching for anyone in particular—just taking inventory.
Derik, the freshman linebacker, was bouncing his knee too fast. Gio leaned into a locker, quiet but alert. Eric sat hunched with his hands clasped, head down, maybe praying or just thinking.
They didn’t need speeches. Not this team.
But they needed him.
Royce took a step forward and clapped his hands once, firm.
“Ain’t no ghosts here,” he said, voice low, even. “Not tonight.”
A few heads turned.
“We already buried that first game,” he went on. “Ain’t about revenge. Ain’t about pride.”
He looked toward Kolaj, then to Da'Shawn, then to the younger guys on the fringe of the room who had barely made it out of high school before being thrown into this war.
“It’s about respect. Ours.”
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The gravity carried it.
“They think we soft? Cool. We gon’ show them what real niggas really like.”
Jay let out a soft “hmph” behind him. Ashton stood up fully.
Royce turned and grabbed his helmet from the bench.
“We handle business tonight, we’re champions,” he said, strapping it tight. “Simple as that.”
Coach Lanning hadn’t entered yet. The final clock hadn’t started ticking.
But the team was already moving. Pads smacked together. Tape got rewrapped. Silence was replaced by small, purposeful sounds—readying.
Royce stood nearest the exit tunnel when the horn sounded.
And as the door to the field opened, the light from the stadium bled into the hallway.
Purple and gold banners. Thunder from the stands. And ahead of him, the moment they’d been building toward all season.
Royce didn’t look back.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t need to.
He stepped forward.
One more time. One last mountain.
And this time, they were bringing fire.
…
"LSU lines up for the field goal—fourth and eleven from the Georgia twenty-four. Aeron Burrell, the junior out of Lafayette, has been solid all season. This one from forty-one yards out, just inside the right hash. Snap down, kick is up—
—and it is good! Right down the middle!
Aeron Burrell puts the first points on the board for the Tigers here in Atlanta, and LSU takes a 3-0 lead over Georgia with 5:46 remaining in the first quarter of the SEC Championship Game!"
…
"Third down and one for Georgia at their own thirty-four, tight formation here—Puglisi under center... play action—drops back, looks left, fires downfield—
—incomplete! Off the fingertips of Jaden Reddell, the big tight end, and LSU had that one sniffed out from the snap!
Great pressure from the Tigers’ front, and now Georgia’s faced with a decision here early in this SEC title bout—punt or gamble deep in their own territory!"
…
"Third and twelve for LSU at their own twenty-three... Rickie Collins in the shotgun, Casey in the slot to the left. Snap comes—Collins drops back, has time, looks underneath—finds Damien Casey on a crossing route...
...but he’s wrapped up quickly after a short gain of five, up to the twenty-eight yard line.
That’ll bring up fourth down and seven, and the Tigers will be forced to punt it away. Georgia’s defense doing its job early, keeping everything in front."
…
The moment the tight end motioned across the formation, Royce’s fingers flexed against his thigh. He was crouched just off the line, weight balanced, eyes locked on the quarterback. Georgia had run this look before—three wide, inside zone fake, then a drag across the middle. He didn’t bite on the play action.
Third and nine, and they were trying to get cute.
Puglisi took the snap, backpedaled—Royce slid with him, mirroring the eyes. The quarterback checked short and fired over the middle to Kashama, the slot receiver breaking inside. Quick. Clean.
But not clean enough.
Royce stepped through the traffic and launched.
The collision was sharp—shoulder to ribs, chest to turf. Seven yards. No more.
Kashama hit the ground with a thud, and Royce didn’t stand right away. He made sure the receiver felt the weight of it, just for a second longer. Then he rose, expression unreadable under the face mask, glancing at the chains.
Fourth down.
No talk. No taunt. Just the quiet authority of a man who knew what it meant to end a drive on his own terms.
….
"Fourth and two from the LSU six-yard line, and Georgia will settle for three here—Eldra Salaam on for the 23-yard attempt, just a chip shot from the left hash. Snap is clean, hold is down—
—the kick is up, and it’s good. Right through the uprights from Salaam, and Georgia ties it up with 1:05 remaining in the first quarter.
We’re all knotted at three apiece in this SEC Championship showdown between the Tigers and the Bulldogs."
…
Royce didn’t flinch when Puglisi tucked the ball.
Third and five from the thirteen, and Georgia had lined up like they might test the flat again. Royce had keyed the slot, baited the quick throw. But the quarterback didn’t bite. Instead, he saw the lane open up between left guard and tackle and tried to slip through.
Royce was already moving.
One step, then another—shoulders square, hips low, feet chopping. No hesitation. He met Puglisi in the crease just past the ten-yard line, arms wrapping through the waist, legs driving.
Thud.
They hit the turf at the ten.
Three yards. Not enough.
Royce stayed down for half a beat, forearm pressed into Puglisi’s chest as the quarterback groaned beneath him. Then he stood, calm, like he’d done nothing more than tie his shoes. No celebration. No talking. Just a glance at the sideline and a nod to the ref as the fourth down signal came in.
He jogged back to the huddle without looking over his shoulder.
…
“First and goal from the two—Lipton in the backfield, tight set for the Tigers. Game tied at 3, LSU looking to punch it in and take the lead midway through the second quarter.”
“This is Jason Lipton territory, no question. Short yardage, low pad level—he’s made a living in these spots all season.”
“Snap to Collins—hands it off to Lipton—up the gut—LIPTON PUSHES—HE’S IN! TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!”
“Jason Lipton bullies his way across the goal line! That LSU offensive line dug in and gave him just enough daylight, and the Tigers break the deadlock!”
“With 7:17 to go in the second quarter, it’s LSU 9, Georgia 3—pending the PAT from Aeron Burrell. That’s how you finish a drive. That’s SEC championship football!”
“That’s belief in your identity. Pound the rock, win the line, and let Lipton carry it home.”
…
“Third and ten for LSU, ball on their own twenty-six... Collins in the gun, trips left—Tigers leading 10–3 with just under five minutes left in the second quarter.”
“Georgia showing pressure here—Collins has to be careful. Hooks has been lurking.”
“Snap to Collins—drops back—fires over the middle—*
—INTERCEPTED! DRE HOOKS JUMPS IT AT THE THIRTY!”
“Hooks with daylight—cuts across midfield—he’s got blockers—forty—thirty—DRE HOOKS STILL GOING!”
“Finally brought down after a massive return—64 yards on the interception by Dre Hooks, and Georgia is in business!”
“That’s a momentum-changer. Just when LSU looked like they were settling in, the Bulldogs snatch it back with a monster defensive play.”
“Georgia takes over deep in Tiger territory—this SEC Championship just tilted!”
…
“Fourth and short deep in LSU territory, and Georgia sends out Eldra Salaam to try and cut into the lead—this will be a 25-yard attempt from right between the hashes.”
“LSU’s defense stood tall after the interception return. This is a win if you’re the Tigers—forcing a field goal instead of giving up six.”
“Snap, hold, kick is on the way... and it’s good. No doubt about it.”
“With 3:58 to go in the second quarter, Georgia trims the deficit—it's now LSU 10, Georgia 6 here in the SEC Championship Game.”
“That’s two red zone stands for LSU—and that bend-don’t-break defense is keeping them in control. But they’ve got to protect the ball. Georgia’s not going away.”
…
“Twelve seconds left in the half—LSU at the Georgia thirty-two, looking to strike before the break. Tigers lead 10–6, but they’re not playing it safe.”
“Shelton Sampson’s split out wide left—watch for the double move. Georgia’s been creeping on short routes all quarter.”
“Collins in the gun—takes the snap—blitz coming—steps up—UNCORKS ONE DEEP LEFT SIDE—SAMPSON'S THERE—
—HE CAUGHT IT! TOUCHDOWN TIGERS! SHELTON SAMPSON, JR. WITH A BEAUTY IN THE CORNER OF THE END ZONE!”
“Ohhh, that’s a backbreaker for Georgia! What a throw by Rickie Collins—stood tall in the pocket and dropped a dime over the top!”
“A 32-yard laser with :12 on the clock—and LSU extends the lead to 16–6 before halftime. They’re not just surviving—they’re swinging!”
“Sampson timed it perfectly, stacked the corner, and never broke stride. That’s big-time football under big-time lights.”
…
The ball sat at the Georgia 28, a long way from danger for LSU, but too close for Georgia’s comfort. Third and seven. The kind of down that decided tone, not just possession.
Royce crouched just off the line, weight forward, watching the back’s alignment. Puglisi looked jittery—eyes bouncing, cadence quick. LSU hadn’t brought pressure, not yet. But that didn’t mean they weren’t coming.
Snap.
Puglisi faked the drop, then tucked it—quarterback draw. Designed. Deliberate.
Royce was already moving.
He sliced between the guard and tackle before the linemen could anchor, met Puglisi just past the thirty, and drove through him with a low, snapping tackle. Not a highlight-reel hit—just clean, punishing, final.
Puglisi hit the turf, legs tangled, the ball hugged tight like he knew how close he’d come to coughing it up.
Seven yards. Just enough.
Royce stood slow, face unreadable behind the mask. He didn’t check the chains. Didn’t celebrate.
Georgia had bought themselves another series. That’s all it was.
But the message had been delivered anyway.
…
“LSU leading 17–6, just under ten minutes to go in the third quarter—ball at their own thirty-seven. Rickie Collins back out with Lipton in the backfield.”
“Tigers have had the momentum, but Georgia’s defense is still lurking—don’t sleep on Vicari Swain. He’s got range.”
“Snap to Collins—play action—looks over the middle—fires—*
—INTERCEPTED! PICKED OFF BY VICARI SWAIN AT MIDFIELD!”
“Swain breaks it outside—he’s at the forty-five—forty—thirty-five—AND HE’S FINALLY WRAPPED UP at the LSU thirty-three!”
“Vicari Swain with a 34-yard return off the interception, and Georgia is right back in business—flipping the field after a crucial takeaway!”
“Collins stared it down, and Swain made him pay. That’s a turning-point kind of play if Georgia can cash it in.”
“With 9:58 left in the third, LSU still leads 17–6—but the Bulldogs are threatening.”
…
“Third and two for Georgia from the LSU sixteen—Bulldogs knocking, trying to cut into this 17–6 Tiger lead midway through the third.”
“LSU’s defense showing pressure, but watch the underneath—Puglisi’s been living on those quick throws.”
“Puglisi in the gun—takes the snap—short drop—fires over the middle—TIPPED—AND INTERCEPTED! PICKED OFF BY CONNOR NEWHOUSE!”
“Newhouse on the run! He’s got blockers—thirty! Forty! He’s in open space!”
“Midfield! Forty-five—down to the Georgia thirty-one before he’s finally caught from behind! That’s a fifty-five-yard return from the redshirt sophomore cornerback!”
“You want a momentum swing? That’s it. Georgia was knocking on the door—and Newhouse slammed it shut!”
“LSU takes over, still up 17–6—and now they’ve got the ball in plus territory after a massive defensive play! What a moment for the Tigers’ defense!”
…
“LSU knocking again—first and ten from the Georgia sixteen. Just over six minutes to play, and the Tigers leading 17 to 6.”
“This could be the dagger. Rickie Collins has found rhythm in this fourth quarter—and Shelton Sampson’s been the go-to man when it matters.”
“Collins in the shotgun—takes the snap—blitz coming—fires toward the right corner—SAMPSON’S GOT A STEP—AND HE’S GOT IT! TOUCHDOWN LSU!”
“Oh, that’s cold-blooded execution! Shelton Sampson, Jr. with the 16-yard score—route was crisp, ball was perfect. That’s big-time!”
“Rickie Collins delivers under pressure, and the Tigers extend the lead—it’s 23–6, LSU on top with 6:12 left in the fourth quarter here in the SEC Championship Game!”
…
The scoreboard read 24–6.
The lights inside Mercedes-Benz Stadium had dimmed just enough to let the field glow in soft spotlight, and the Georgia offense stood frozen on their sideline as the final seconds drained. Rickie trotted onto the field with the second unit, Cade lining up to his right. Royce stood on the edge of the sideline, helmet under his arm, gloves tucked into the waistband of his pants. His chest rose and fell like he’d been holding his breath for years.
Jay bumped his shoulder. “That’s it, bruh. We really did it.”
Eric’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “Ain’t no more what-ifs.”
Gio slapped Royce’s back. “Yo ass gotta stop bein’ poetic. We champions, not some spoken word group.”
Royce didn’t answer. He looked across the field where the Georgia players stood, helmets still on, faces unreadable under chinstraps. Then he turned back to his team.
To Jay. To Dorian. To Gio. To Eric. To all the bruises they shared, the silences they’d filled, the mistakes they’d survived.
He smiled—small, quiet, but undeniable.
Rickie knelt the ball. The crowd exploded.
Jay screamed first. Dorian tossed his helmet in the air. Gio started jumping around like a kid on Christmas. But Royce just stayed there, frozen, hand on his hip, helmet dangling at his side.
“Royce!” Jay shouted, tugging his jersey. “C’mon, dawg, celebrate!”
Royce shook his head and chuckled, low. “Just—gimme a second.”
He turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. Confetti hadn’t started yet. Cameras weren’t rushing the field. But he could feel it pressing in—the weight of victory, not as a moment but as a marker. All his life, he’d been chasing a win that felt like it meant something. That wasn’t about revenge or validation or survival. Just… triumph.
“I ain’t never won nothin’ before,” he said aloud without realizing it.
Eric heard him. “Well you did now.”
Royce nodded once. The lights shimmered on the gold SEC Championship patch across his chest.
When the first strands of purple and gold confetti fell, he stepped into them. Not like a kid rushing the field. Not like a man chasing ghosts.
But like someone who had finally, undeniably, arrived.
Dying to Live
New Routines
The light filtered into Toni’s new apartment like it had been waiting for her. Mid-morning, slow and syrupy, glinting off the bare white walls and making everything look cleaner than it was. The place was small—maybe six hundred square feet if you counted the awkward little nook by the kitchen where a table might fit one day. But it was hers. Not Ma Beulah’s. Not borrowed space in someone else’s story.
She kicked off her shoes at the door, the thud echoing slightly in the emptiness. A single box sat by the window, and the smell of fresh paint still clung to the air. The gold she'd picked for the accent wall wasn't loud. It was soft, like the inside of a peach, warm enough to glow but quiet enough to hold space. She liked how it caught the light.
Toni stepped back and looked at it. Really looked. Then turned away before she could second-guess herself.
The door buzzed—twice, fast—then opened before she could even cross the room.
“I told you not to touch my boxes,” she called, voice flat.
“I didn’t,” Arianna said, walking in backwards with a jug of sweet tea and a plastic bag hanging from her wrist. “Mike did.”
“Cap,” Mike called, stepping in behind her with a box held to his chest like it might break open if he breathed too hard. “You handed it to me.”
“Did not.”
Toni watched them both from the kitchen, elbow propped on the counter. “If y’all break anything, it’s coming out of your as.”
Mike groaned as he lowered the box onto the floor beside the others. “l don’t even live down here.”
“Exactly,” Toni said. “I’ll get ol’ girl to go up to Natchitoches and deal with your ass for me..”
“Man, don’t play like that.”
The three of them laughed, easy and real, like there hadn’t been silence between them just months earlier. Like there weren’t pieces still being put back together.
Arianna wandered toward the back of the room, squinting at the gold wall. “It’s nice in here,” she said. “Got that little poet sunshine vibe.”
Toni snorted. “It’s paint, not a feeling.”
“Feels like both.”
Mike glanced around, brow raised. “No TV?”
“Not yet.”
He nodded. “It’s cool. Got that monastic thing. Like you write long letters and burn them in the sink.”
“Who says I don’t?”
The room hummed with laughter again, but it softened quickly. There wasn’t much to unpack—Toni didn’t own a lot. A few books. A couple of framed photos. Clothes, carefully folded. No clutter. Nothing that hinted at shared history or broken things. Only one photo made it to the wall—a self-portrait she’d taken with her old digital camera. Face turned away from the lens. Jaw tight. Sunlight across her collarbone like a dare.
Mike looked at it as he sat cross-legged on the floor. “That’s the only one you put up?”
“Yeah.”
“No family?”
Toni didn’t flinch. “No.”
He nodded once, then looked away.
Arianna didn’t ask. Just sat beside her on the empty couch frame with her knees pulled up to her chest. “You like it here?”
Toni let the quiet stretch before answering. “I like the silence.”
“You always did.”
The three of them sat there for a while, the kind of silence that wasn’t tense anymore. Just present. The tea stayed unopened. The bags sat by the door.
Eventually, Mike stood. “I’m hungry. Y’all good if I dip?”
Toni gave him a half-wave. “Only if you bring me back Raising Cane’s.”
“Bet.”
When the door shut behind him, the air shifted again. Less laughter. More weight.
Arianna turned to her. “You really okay?”
Toni shrugged. “Getting there.”
Arianna reached out and took her hand—not forcefully, just to hold it. “You don’t have to do all of it by yourself.”
“I know.”
But she did.
That night, alone, Toni opened the last box by the window. Inside was a notebook, half-full, and a pen she’d stolen from a job she never stayed at long enough to remember. She sat by the wall, her knees drawn up, and let the gold light spill across the page.
She didn’t write about Deshawn.
She didn’t write about Ma Beulah.
She just wrote: This is mine.
Then underlined it.
Twice.
~~~~~~~~~~
The group room was quiet today. Afternoon sun filtered through the narrow window near the ceiling, catching on the soft edges of dust and casting long, diffused lines across the carpet. There were only four of them today—two students from the kinesiology program, a girl with a buzz cut who never looked up, and Effie, who sat near the corner with her legs crossed, notebook unopened in her lap.
It was the second-to-last group session before finals. The facilitators always framed this time of year with gentle, careful words—burnout, pressure, family stress. But no one had spoken yet. Not really.
Until Devon did.
Devon was tall, wiry, with a voice that usually made jokes feel lighter than they were. But today, his tone was different. Slower. Like he was choosing each word from underwater.
“I didn’t think I was gonna say anything today,” he began, not looking at anyone. “But my professor gave us a prompt in class about ‘foundational memory,’ and I couldn’t stop thinking about my brother.”
Effie blinked once, but said nothing. Her hands curled around the edges of her notebook. Still closed.
Devon rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “He was seven. We were at this camp thing—we weren’t even supposed to be swimming yet. It was just supposed to be like, getting used to the water. Wading in the shallows.”
His voice caught for the first time. Nobody moved. Not even the facilitators.
“But he went in. I don’t even remember if I was with him. That’s the part that messes with me. I remember hearing someone scream. I remember running toward it. But I can’t tell you where I was right before.”
Effie’s gaze stayed low, fixed on the sunlight slipping across the floor.
“They said the current pulled him under,” Devon said, voice thinning. “Some of those rivers, you don’t even think they’re deep. The surface looks calm. But the underneath—” He stopped, swallowing. “It doesn’t look dangerous. Until it is.”
Someone sniffled quietly. Buzz Cut Girl wiped her cheek with her sleeve, eyes still fixed on the floor.
Devon’s fingers twisted around the drawstring of his hoodie. “I remember the way the counselor talked to me after. Like I was glass. Like I might crack if he looked at me too hard. I think I liked it. The way everyone moved softer around me. I liked not having to say anything for a while.”
Effie’s jaw tightened. Her breath shallowed. But she didn’t speak.
Devon looked up briefly. Not at anyone. Just past them, like trying to see out a window that wasn’t there.
“He’d be fifteen now. I still see little Black boys with SpongeBob floaties on at the pool and I can’t breathe for a second. Like my body don’t know it’s over.”
Effie felt her hand tighten over the edge of the notebook. She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.
Devon glanced around the room once more. “That’s it. I just… I needed to say that out loud today.”
The room stayed quiet.
The facilitator eventually nodded and thanked him in that soft, grounding voice she always used to end shares. But it didn’t change the air. The heaviness stayed.
When the session ended, people moved slowly. One of the kinesiology kids gave Devon a light pat on the back. Buzz Cut Girl offered a tight-lipped nod before walking out with her headphones already in.
Effie stayed seated. Her notebook remained unopened.
Devon passed by her on his way out, hesitated, then offered a quiet, “Thanks for not… I don’t know. I could tell you were listening.”
Effie met his eyes then. Just for a moment.
She didn’t say anything.
She just nodded.
And he left.
Once the room was empty, she stayed a little longer. Her fingers hovered over the spine of the notebook, then moved away.
She stood, walked to the window, and looked up at the narrow slice of sky.
There was no river in sight.
But she could still hear the current underneath.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter: Muraled Walls
The gallery didn’t have a name on the outside, just a hand-painted sandwich board resting crooked on the sidewalk: tonight: HOME / LOSS / RECLAMATION. The space inside was warm and slightly overlit, the exposed brick walls lined with canvas and collage, color and sorrow stretched into shape.
Royce stepped in slowly, his hoodie pulled low over his head, trying not to feel like he was sticking out even though he knew he was. The smell of old wood and incense hung in the air. There were maybe thirty people scattered across the room—some sipping wine from paper cups, some perched on repurposed folding chairs, all dressed like they belonged here. Patchwork jackets, lockless sketchbooks, linen pants, braided hair in soft buns. Royce's LSU windbreaker didn’t match the energy. His Jordans squeaked slightly on the hardwood as he moved.
Delpit greeted him with a nod from across the room. No flashy intro. Just a chin tilt, quiet and cool. Royce nodded back and slid to the side of the room, where the speakers wouldn’t be too loud and he could still scan the exit if he needed to. The art on the wall beside him was a mix of acrylic and dried palm leaves, glued into the shape of a shotgun house being washed away in water the color of bruises.
A poet stepped up to the mic. A girl with skin the shade of river silt and voice full of gravel and molasses. She didn’t introduce herself. Just opened her mouth and let the words tumble out:
"My mama’s house floated.
No warning. Just water, just wet where the wall was.
I found her name in the FEMA system before I found her face.
And even now, when it rains too long,
my chest gets heavy like it remembers being left."
The room didn’t clap right away. There was a silence before the sound. A moment of breath. Of held weight. Royce felt it settle in his ribcage.
Delpit nudged him. “You ever think about what home actually means?”
Royce didn’t look at him. Eyes still on the mic stand.
“Not ‘til I ain’t had one,” he said.
They didn’t speak after that. The next artist stood beside a sculpture made from rusted doorknobs and broken Mardi Gras beads. A video installation played across the back wall—images of flooded playgrounds, second lines through debris, children laughing barefoot in water.
After a while, Delpit tapped Royce’s arm and gestured toward the door.
Outside, the air was thick with late spring warmth, the kind that sat on your shoulders and didn’t let go. The street was quiet except for a horn in the distance and the faint sound of jazz playing from a car window half a block away. They leaned against the wall beside the gallery—its exterior a riot of color and memory. Murals of Black girls jumping double dutch. Of boys with brass instruments raised to the sky. Of grandmothers watching from porches that no longer existed.
Delpit spoke first. “I didn’t grow up with a field or a gym. My folks couldn’t afford the lessons even though the other Delpits got money. But I had a corner store owner who let me post flyers. A neighbor who told me what not to say to cops. A barber who said I was smart before I ever believed it.”
Royce stayed quiet. The words tugged at something in him, low and slow.
“You think you only matter when you’re wearing that jersey,” Delpit said, his voice even. “But you already been somebody’s corner store. Somebody’s barber.”
Royce looked down the block. A couple crossed the street hand in hand, laughing. Someone on a bike called out to a friend on the porch across from the gallery.
“I ain’t know what I was back then,” Royce said finally.
Delpit gave a slow nod. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t matter. Just means you’re finally seeing it now.”
They stood there for a while. No talk of combine numbers. No discussion of linebacker rankings or NIL offers. Just the two of them—Royce with his hands shoved into his pockets, Delpit with one heel pressed against the painted wall.
The breeze picked up, carrying with it the smell of powdered sugar and fried dough from the beignet café down the block. It softened the air, made it feel like something worth remembering.
Royce glanced over at Delpit. “You ever miss it? Before all the rooms and suits and handshakes?”
Delpit smiled, slow and thoughtful. “Sometimes. But I think I’m still building it. Just with different tools now.”
Royce didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
The streetlight above them buzzed softly, casting a golden halo over the cracked pavement.
And for once, Royce didn’t feel out of place.
He just felt here.
The light filtered into Toni’s new apartment like it had been waiting for her. Mid-morning, slow and syrupy, glinting off the bare white walls and making everything look cleaner than it was. The place was small—maybe six hundred square feet if you counted the awkward little nook by the kitchen where a table might fit one day. But it was hers. Not Ma Beulah’s. Not borrowed space in someone else’s story.
She kicked off her shoes at the door, the thud echoing slightly in the emptiness. A single box sat by the window, and the smell of fresh paint still clung to the air. The gold she'd picked for the accent wall wasn't loud. It was soft, like the inside of a peach, warm enough to glow but quiet enough to hold space. She liked how it caught the light.
Toni stepped back and looked at it. Really looked. Then turned away before she could second-guess herself.
The door buzzed—twice, fast—then opened before she could even cross the room.
“I told you not to touch my boxes,” she called, voice flat.
“I didn’t,” Arianna said, walking in backwards with a jug of sweet tea and a plastic bag hanging from her wrist. “Mike did.”
“Cap,” Mike called, stepping in behind her with a box held to his chest like it might break open if he breathed too hard. “You handed it to me.”
“Did not.”
Toni watched them both from the kitchen, elbow propped on the counter. “If y’all break anything, it’s coming out of your as.”
Mike groaned as he lowered the box onto the floor beside the others. “l don’t even live down here.”
“Exactly,” Toni said. “I’ll get ol’ girl to go up to Natchitoches and deal with your ass for me..”
“Man, don’t play like that.”
The three of them laughed, easy and real, like there hadn’t been silence between them just months earlier. Like there weren’t pieces still being put back together.
Arianna wandered toward the back of the room, squinting at the gold wall. “It’s nice in here,” she said. “Got that little poet sunshine vibe.”
Toni snorted. “It’s paint, not a feeling.”
“Feels like both.”
Mike glanced around, brow raised. “No TV?”
“Not yet.”
He nodded. “It’s cool. Got that monastic thing. Like you write long letters and burn them in the sink.”
“Who says I don’t?”
The room hummed with laughter again, but it softened quickly. There wasn’t much to unpack—Toni didn’t own a lot. A few books. A couple of framed photos. Clothes, carefully folded. No clutter. Nothing that hinted at shared history or broken things. Only one photo made it to the wall—a self-portrait she’d taken with her old digital camera. Face turned away from the lens. Jaw tight. Sunlight across her collarbone like a dare.
Mike looked at it as he sat cross-legged on the floor. “That’s the only one you put up?”
“Yeah.”
“No family?”
Toni didn’t flinch. “No.”
He nodded once, then looked away.
Arianna didn’t ask. Just sat beside her on the empty couch frame with her knees pulled up to her chest. “You like it here?”
Toni let the quiet stretch before answering. “I like the silence.”
“You always did.”
The three of them sat there for a while, the kind of silence that wasn’t tense anymore. Just present. The tea stayed unopened. The bags sat by the door.
Eventually, Mike stood. “I’m hungry. Y’all good if I dip?”
Toni gave him a half-wave. “Only if you bring me back Raising Cane’s.”
“Bet.”
When the door shut behind him, the air shifted again. Less laughter. More weight.
Arianna turned to her. “You really okay?”
Toni shrugged. “Getting there.”
Arianna reached out and took her hand—not forcefully, just to hold it. “You don’t have to do all of it by yourself.”
“I know.”
But she did.
That night, alone, Toni opened the last box by the window. Inside was a notebook, half-full, and a pen she’d stolen from a job she never stayed at long enough to remember. She sat by the wall, her knees drawn up, and let the gold light spill across the page.
She didn’t write about Deshawn.
She didn’t write about Ma Beulah.
She just wrote: This is mine.
Then underlined it.
Twice.
~~~~~~~~~~
The group room was quiet today. Afternoon sun filtered through the narrow window near the ceiling, catching on the soft edges of dust and casting long, diffused lines across the carpet. There were only four of them today—two students from the kinesiology program, a girl with a buzz cut who never looked up, and Effie, who sat near the corner with her legs crossed, notebook unopened in her lap.
It was the second-to-last group session before finals. The facilitators always framed this time of year with gentle, careful words—burnout, pressure, family stress. But no one had spoken yet. Not really.
Until Devon did.
Devon was tall, wiry, with a voice that usually made jokes feel lighter than they were. But today, his tone was different. Slower. Like he was choosing each word from underwater.
“I didn’t think I was gonna say anything today,” he began, not looking at anyone. “But my professor gave us a prompt in class about ‘foundational memory,’ and I couldn’t stop thinking about my brother.”
Effie blinked once, but said nothing. Her hands curled around the edges of her notebook. Still closed.
Devon rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “He was seven. We were at this camp thing—we weren’t even supposed to be swimming yet. It was just supposed to be like, getting used to the water. Wading in the shallows.”
His voice caught for the first time. Nobody moved. Not even the facilitators.
“But he went in. I don’t even remember if I was with him. That’s the part that messes with me. I remember hearing someone scream. I remember running toward it. But I can’t tell you where I was right before.”
Effie’s gaze stayed low, fixed on the sunlight slipping across the floor.
“They said the current pulled him under,” Devon said, voice thinning. “Some of those rivers, you don’t even think they’re deep. The surface looks calm. But the underneath—” He stopped, swallowing. “It doesn’t look dangerous. Until it is.”
Someone sniffled quietly. Buzz Cut Girl wiped her cheek with her sleeve, eyes still fixed on the floor.
Devon’s fingers twisted around the drawstring of his hoodie. “I remember the way the counselor talked to me after. Like I was glass. Like I might crack if he looked at me too hard. I think I liked it. The way everyone moved softer around me. I liked not having to say anything for a while.”
Effie’s jaw tightened. Her breath shallowed. But she didn’t speak.
Devon looked up briefly. Not at anyone. Just past them, like trying to see out a window that wasn’t there.
“He’d be fifteen now. I still see little Black boys with SpongeBob floaties on at the pool and I can’t breathe for a second. Like my body don’t know it’s over.”
Effie felt her hand tighten over the edge of the notebook. She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.
Devon glanced around the room once more. “That’s it. I just… I needed to say that out loud today.”
The room stayed quiet.
The facilitator eventually nodded and thanked him in that soft, grounding voice she always used to end shares. But it didn’t change the air. The heaviness stayed.
When the session ended, people moved slowly. One of the kinesiology kids gave Devon a light pat on the back. Buzz Cut Girl offered a tight-lipped nod before walking out with her headphones already in.
Effie stayed seated. Her notebook remained unopened.
Devon passed by her on his way out, hesitated, then offered a quiet, “Thanks for not… I don’t know. I could tell you were listening.”
Effie met his eyes then. Just for a moment.
She didn’t say anything.
She just nodded.
And he left.
Once the room was empty, she stayed a little longer. Her fingers hovered over the spine of the notebook, then moved away.
She stood, walked to the window, and looked up at the narrow slice of sky.
There was no river in sight.
But she could still hear the current underneath.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter: Muraled Walls
The gallery didn’t have a name on the outside, just a hand-painted sandwich board resting crooked on the sidewalk: tonight: HOME / LOSS / RECLAMATION. The space inside was warm and slightly overlit, the exposed brick walls lined with canvas and collage, color and sorrow stretched into shape.
Royce stepped in slowly, his hoodie pulled low over his head, trying not to feel like he was sticking out even though he knew he was. The smell of old wood and incense hung in the air. There were maybe thirty people scattered across the room—some sipping wine from paper cups, some perched on repurposed folding chairs, all dressed like they belonged here. Patchwork jackets, lockless sketchbooks, linen pants, braided hair in soft buns. Royce's LSU windbreaker didn’t match the energy. His Jordans squeaked slightly on the hardwood as he moved.
Delpit greeted him with a nod from across the room. No flashy intro. Just a chin tilt, quiet and cool. Royce nodded back and slid to the side of the room, where the speakers wouldn’t be too loud and he could still scan the exit if he needed to. The art on the wall beside him was a mix of acrylic and dried palm leaves, glued into the shape of a shotgun house being washed away in water the color of bruises.
A poet stepped up to the mic. A girl with skin the shade of river silt and voice full of gravel and molasses. She didn’t introduce herself. Just opened her mouth and let the words tumble out:
"My mama’s house floated.
No warning. Just water, just wet where the wall was.
I found her name in the FEMA system before I found her face.
And even now, when it rains too long,
my chest gets heavy like it remembers being left."
The room didn’t clap right away. There was a silence before the sound. A moment of breath. Of held weight. Royce felt it settle in his ribcage.
Delpit nudged him. “You ever think about what home actually means?”
Royce didn’t look at him. Eyes still on the mic stand.
“Not ‘til I ain’t had one,” he said.
They didn’t speak after that. The next artist stood beside a sculpture made from rusted doorknobs and broken Mardi Gras beads. A video installation played across the back wall—images of flooded playgrounds, second lines through debris, children laughing barefoot in water.
After a while, Delpit tapped Royce’s arm and gestured toward the door.
Outside, the air was thick with late spring warmth, the kind that sat on your shoulders and didn’t let go. The street was quiet except for a horn in the distance and the faint sound of jazz playing from a car window half a block away. They leaned against the wall beside the gallery—its exterior a riot of color and memory. Murals of Black girls jumping double dutch. Of boys with brass instruments raised to the sky. Of grandmothers watching from porches that no longer existed.
Delpit spoke first. “I didn’t grow up with a field or a gym. My folks couldn’t afford the lessons even though the other Delpits got money. But I had a corner store owner who let me post flyers. A neighbor who told me what not to say to cops. A barber who said I was smart before I ever believed it.”
Royce stayed quiet. The words tugged at something in him, low and slow.
“You think you only matter when you’re wearing that jersey,” Delpit said, his voice even. “But you already been somebody’s corner store. Somebody’s barber.”
Royce looked down the block. A couple crossed the street hand in hand, laughing. Someone on a bike called out to a friend on the porch across from the gallery.
“I ain’t know what I was back then,” Royce said finally.
Delpit gave a slow nod. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t matter. Just means you’re finally seeing it now.”
They stood there for a while. No talk of combine numbers. No discussion of linebacker rankings or NIL offers. Just the two of them—Royce with his hands shoved into his pockets, Delpit with one heel pressed against the painted wall.
The breeze picked up, carrying with it the smell of powdered sugar and fried dough from the beignet café down the block. It softened the air, made it feel like something worth remembering.
Royce glanced over at Delpit. “You ever miss it? Before all the rooms and suits and handshakes?”
Delpit smiled, slow and thoughtful. “Sometimes. But I think I’m still building it. Just with different tools now.”
Royce didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
The streetlight above them buzzed softly, casting a golden halo over the cracked pavement.
And for once, Royce didn’t feel out of place.
He just felt here.
Dying to Live
Different Moves
The sun hadn’t risen yet.
The windows were still dark, their reflections throwing shadows across Arianna’s desk like uncertain fingers. Her dorm room was quiet—no hallway chatter, no slammed doors, no hum of someone else’s music leaking through the walls. Just the soft inhale-exhale of her breath and the low whir of the space heater working against the cool morning.
The email sat unopened in her inbox.
Timestamp: 3:12 AM. Subject line: Tulane MFA Application — Decision Notification.
She stared at it for three full minutes before clicking.
Then she stared at the body of the email for five more.
“Congratulations, Arianna Williams. We are pleased to offer you admission to the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Tulane University, with full funding through a university fellowship and departmental teaching stipend.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet-shock-holding-yourself-together kind of way.
She read it again.
And again.
No typo. No vague waitlist language. Not conditional. Not maybe.
Full ride.
Arianna sat back in her chair, the edges of her eyes burning, her palms buzzing against the desk.
The world didn’t shift exactly. But something inside her did. A plate tectonic movement she couldn’t name yet—just knew that the ground she’d built herself on had finally mattered to someone else. To more than her own gut and stubborn heart.
She stood slowly, still barefoot, and walked across the room to the little printer she kept on top of her bookshelf. It took thirty seconds to warm up, long enough for her hands to stop trembling. She printed the email. In black and white. No frills.
Then taped it just above her desk lamp.
The paper curled slightly at the edges, but the words held.
…
The venue was nothing glamorous. Just an upstairs space above a used bookstore that smelled like cedar and old dust and lavender someone had sprayed too liberally near the bathroom. Exposed rafters. A mismatched mic stand that leaned slightly left. Folding chairs that creaked if you shifted too much. The kind of place that felt cobbled together and sacred.
Arianna liked it that way.
She sat near the back as the night rolled on, notebook open in her lap but not looking at it. Performers came and went—new voices, familiar ones. Nervous ones. Big, booming ones. Every kind of rhythm. Every kind of pain.
When they called her name, she didn’t hesitate. Just stood, notebook still closed, and walked up to the mic.
She wore jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt. Nothing that screamed look at me. Her hair was tied up. No earrings. Her whole body read: Let the words do the work.
She adjusted the mic once, softly, then looked out across the crowd.
“I used to be scared of this,” she said, voice low but clear. “Not the stage. The mic. The page. But the sound of my own voice. Like if I gave it space, it’d break something.”
Someone in the front nodded.
Arianna continued. “But turns out, silence is its own kind of fear. It protects nothing. It just… pauses the damage.”
She paused. Let the weight of it settle.
Then she delivered the piece.
It wasn’t long. No fireworks. No fast switches or tricks of cadence.
It was about her grandmother’s humming. The silence in the house when the humming stopped. The way grief echoes in kitchens and spoons and the sound of a drawer opening. It was about how you carry things you never asked for. How you survive your name before you grow into it. How love isn’t always soft—but voice can be.
And when she got to the end, she didn’t look down at the notebook.
She looked up.
“This voice used to be scared of itself,” she said, a little louder now. “Now it knows what it can build.”
The room didn’t erupt in applause. It didn’t need to. The silence that followed wasn’t absence—it was reverence. A breath held.
Then came the claps. Slow. Growing.
Arianna stepped away from the mic.
She didn’t smile big. Just let herself feel warm in a way she hadn’t in a long time.
Outside, the moon was full over Lafayette. And in her pocket, folded four times, was a printout of a future she’d already started writing.
One poem. One choice. One voice at a time.
~~~~~~~~~~
The chair in Coach Tierney’s office was hard plastic, unforgiving on purpose. Malik didn’t shift. Didn’t lean. Just sat with his forearms resting on his thighs and his gaze locked steady on the man across the desk.
Tierney had the kind of presence that didn’t come from yelling—just stillness sharpened into clarity. He flipped open the folder with Malik’s name scribbled in marker on the tab, skimmed the notes, then looked up.
“You’ve been solid.”
Malik nodded once. No ego. No expectation. Just listening.
“Smart. Good range. Good communicator.”
Tierney paused there, just long enough to let the praise land before walking it back.
“But next year’s a battle.”
Malik didn’t flinch.
“Got a kid transferring in from Arizona State. Bigger frame. More reps against spread looks. We’re gonna let the competition play out. No promises.”
A slower nod this time. Measured. Honest.
“That’s fair,” Malik said.
Tierney leaned back, waiting like he expected pushback. Stats. Snaps. “Coach, I led the team in deflections.” That kind of thing.
It didn’t come.
“You got questions?” Tierney asked.
“No, sir,” Malik replied.
The meeting ended without ceremony. No handshake. Just understanding.
Malik stepped out into the hallway, the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking once against the tile. The air outside the facility was sharp, slicing across his jaw as he pulled his hoodie tighter and walked to the lot. Snow had melted to slush around the base of the weight room, and the mountains in the distance sat quiet, indifferent to whatever battles were brewing down here.
He didn’t drive off right away.
Instead, he leaned against the car door, the chill biting through the denim at his thighs, and pulled out his phone.
He called Jazlyn.
Three rings, then her voice. Already soft.
“Hey,” she said, like she’d been waiting.
“I’m good,” Malik said.
She didn’t answer immediately. Knew how to hold silence long enough to let him decide if that was all he had to say.
“Ain’t the first time I’ve had to earn something,” he added.
A pause.
Then: “No. It’s not.”
That was it.
That was everything.
He could hear her moving in the background—maybe the clink of a spoon, maybe the low hum of music from her kitchen speaker. Home things.
“I’ll call you later,” he said.
“You better,” she said, no heat behind it. “I’m making that stew you like.”
Malik smiled. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Bet.”
He hung up and pocketed the phone.
The field was behind him. Film would come later. Spring workouts. One-on-ones. Every route mirrored and tracked like it could end in something meaningful.
He wasn’t starting over.
He was sharpening.
And that was enough.
Because nothing worth holding had ever come easy.
The sun hadn’t risen yet.
The windows were still dark, their reflections throwing shadows across Arianna’s desk like uncertain fingers. Her dorm room was quiet—no hallway chatter, no slammed doors, no hum of someone else’s music leaking through the walls. Just the soft inhale-exhale of her breath and the low whir of the space heater working against the cool morning.
The email sat unopened in her inbox.
Timestamp: 3:12 AM. Subject line: Tulane MFA Application — Decision Notification.
She stared at it for three full minutes before clicking.
Then she stared at the body of the email for five more.
“Congratulations, Arianna Williams. We are pleased to offer you admission to the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Tulane University, with full funding through a university fellowship and departmental teaching stipend.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet-shock-holding-yourself-together kind of way.
She read it again.
And again.
No typo. No vague waitlist language. Not conditional. Not maybe.
Full ride.
Arianna sat back in her chair, the edges of her eyes burning, her palms buzzing against the desk.
The world didn’t shift exactly. But something inside her did. A plate tectonic movement she couldn’t name yet—just knew that the ground she’d built herself on had finally mattered to someone else. To more than her own gut and stubborn heart.
She stood slowly, still barefoot, and walked across the room to the little printer she kept on top of her bookshelf. It took thirty seconds to warm up, long enough for her hands to stop trembling. She printed the email. In black and white. No frills.
Then taped it just above her desk lamp.
The paper curled slightly at the edges, but the words held.
…
The venue was nothing glamorous. Just an upstairs space above a used bookstore that smelled like cedar and old dust and lavender someone had sprayed too liberally near the bathroom. Exposed rafters. A mismatched mic stand that leaned slightly left. Folding chairs that creaked if you shifted too much. The kind of place that felt cobbled together and sacred.
Arianna liked it that way.
She sat near the back as the night rolled on, notebook open in her lap but not looking at it. Performers came and went—new voices, familiar ones. Nervous ones. Big, booming ones. Every kind of rhythm. Every kind of pain.
When they called her name, she didn’t hesitate. Just stood, notebook still closed, and walked up to the mic.
She wore jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt. Nothing that screamed look at me. Her hair was tied up. No earrings. Her whole body read: Let the words do the work.
She adjusted the mic once, softly, then looked out across the crowd.
“I used to be scared of this,” she said, voice low but clear. “Not the stage. The mic. The page. But the sound of my own voice. Like if I gave it space, it’d break something.”
Someone in the front nodded.
Arianna continued. “But turns out, silence is its own kind of fear. It protects nothing. It just… pauses the damage.”
She paused. Let the weight of it settle.
Then she delivered the piece.
It wasn’t long. No fireworks. No fast switches or tricks of cadence.
It was about her grandmother’s humming. The silence in the house when the humming stopped. The way grief echoes in kitchens and spoons and the sound of a drawer opening. It was about how you carry things you never asked for. How you survive your name before you grow into it. How love isn’t always soft—but voice can be.
And when she got to the end, she didn’t look down at the notebook.
She looked up.
“This voice used to be scared of itself,” she said, a little louder now. “Now it knows what it can build.”
The room didn’t erupt in applause. It didn’t need to. The silence that followed wasn’t absence—it was reverence. A breath held.
Then came the claps. Slow. Growing.
Arianna stepped away from the mic.
She didn’t smile big. Just let herself feel warm in a way she hadn’t in a long time.
Outside, the moon was full over Lafayette. And in her pocket, folded four times, was a printout of a future she’d already started writing.
One poem. One choice. One voice at a time.
~~~~~~~~~~
The chair in Coach Tierney’s office was hard plastic, unforgiving on purpose. Malik didn’t shift. Didn’t lean. Just sat with his forearms resting on his thighs and his gaze locked steady on the man across the desk.
Tierney had the kind of presence that didn’t come from yelling—just stillness sharpened into clarity. He flipped open the folder with Malik’s name scribbled in marker on the tab, skimmed the notes, then looked up.
“You’ve been solid.”
Malik nodded once. No ego. No expectation. Just listening.
“Smart. Good range. Good communicator.”
Tierney paused there, just long enough to let the praise land before walking it back.
“But next year’s a battle.”
Malik didn’t flinch.
“Got a kid transferring in from Arizona State. Bigger frame. More reps against spread looks. We’re gonna let the competition play out. No promises.”
A slower nod this time. Measured. Honest.
“That’s fair,” Malik said.
Tierney leaned back, waiting like he expected pushback. Stats. Snaps. “Coach, I led the team in deflections.” That kind of thing.
It didn’t come.
“You got questions?” Tierney asked.
“No, sir,” Malik replied.
The meeting ended without ceremony. No handshake. Just understanding.
Malik stepped out into the hallway, the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking once against the tile. The air outside the facility was sharp, slicing across his jaw as he pulled his hoodie tighter and walked to the lot. Snow had melted to slush around the base of the weight room, and the mountains in the distance sat quiet, indifferent to whatever battles were brewing down here.
He didn’t drive off right away.
Instead, he leaned against the car door, the chill biting through the denim at his thighs, and pulled out his phone.
He called Jazlyn.
Three rings, then her voice. Already soft.
“Hey,” she said, like she’d been waiting.
“I’m good,” Malik said.
She didn’t answer immediately. Knew how to hold silence long enough to let him decide if that was all he had to say.
“Ain’t the first time I’ve had to earn something,” he added.
A pause.
Then: “No. It’s not.”
That was it.
That was everything.
He could hear her moving in the background—maybe the clink of a spoon, maybe the low hum of music from her kitchen speaker. Home things.
“I’ll call you later,” he said.
“You better,” she said, no heat behind it. “I’m making that stew you like.”
Malik smiled. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Bet.”
He hung up and pocketed the phone.
The field was behind him. Film would come later. Spring workouts. One-on-ones. Every route mirrored and tracked like it could end in something meaningful.
He wasn’t starting over.
He was sharpening.
And that was enough.
Because nothing worth holding had ever come easy.
Dying to Live
Sweet as Sugar
Dying to Live
What You Keep
The air inside Royce’s apartment felt different lately. Not silent—just lived-in. Like two people had started learning how to move around each other without knocking things over.
It was three days after the Sugar Bowl.
No celebration. No mourning. Just quiet mornings and slower evenings. The TV stayed off. Phones got ignored. Effie had unpacked her toothbrush without ceremony. Royce had stopped throwing his socks toward the hamper and started making sure they actually landed.
The laundry machine rattled gently in the background, and a half-done grocery list sat on the kitchen island, scrawled in alternating handwriting—his blocky and crooked, hers smaller, with little circles over the i’s. Rice, eggs, oat milk. Batteries. Ground turkey. Lotion. They hadn’t crossed anything off yet.
Royce was at the sink, rinsing out a skillet from breakfast. Effie was perched at the edge of the couch, legs tucked under her, sketching layouts in her notebook for a class project. Her pencil made light scratching sounds as she shaded out a floor plan. Her sweatshirt was Royce’s. It hung loose off her shoulder.
“You think fate’s real?” Royce asked.
She didn’t look up. Just kept drawing. “You gonna define it first or let me guess?”
Royce wiped his hands on a dish towel and leaned against the counter, watching her.
“Like… if we all got a set path. Some story somebody already wrote for us.”
Effie paused, her pencil hovering above the page. Then she looked up. “You thinking football? Or us?”
Royce didn’t answer right away. He walked over, sat next to her, the couch dipping beneath his weight. His shoulder brushed hers.
“Both, maybe.”
Effie didn’t tease him. Didn’t deflect.
She shut the notebook gently and set it on the coffee table.
“I don’t believe in fate,” she said. “I believe in trying again.”
Royce turned toward her. “Yeah?”
Effie nodded. “Fate makes it sound like nothing we do matters. Like no matter how much we change, it’ll still end up the same.”
Her voice stayed soft. But the weight behind it was real.
“I’ve tried again,” she said. “With myself. With my grief. With how I show up in a room. That wasn’t fate. That was me refusing to let one version of the story be the final one.”
Royce leaned back against the couch, his head resting against the cushion. He didn’t speak for a while. His fingers found hers without thinking—lacing, gentle, certain.
“I used to think I’d only ever be one thing,” he murmured. “Just a nigga selling red tops on the block like my daddy. The problem.”
“And now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Still feels like the same weight. Just... I’m not running from it.”
Effie looked at him then. Not the version of him that made headlines or the one that cracked jokes with teammates. But the version who folded his hoodie for once. Who made room in his closet. Who tried.
She pressed her forehead lightly to his.
“You don’t have to carry it alone,” she said.
“I don’t want to drop it either,” he said.
“You won’t,” she said. “Not if you keep trying.”
The laundry machine buzzed in the background, insistent and low.
Royce didn’t move. Effie didn’t pull away.
Later, they folded clothes on the couch—Royce’s jeans, Effie’s T-shirts, a hoodie they both claimed. He made her laugh with how bad his folding was. She rolled her eyes and redid half his stack. They made rice bowls with too much hot sauce. They planned what to do with the rest of the week.
And when the night settled around them and the lights dimmed, neither of them needed to ask the other to stay.
They already had.
~~~~~~~~~~
The streets were nearly empty, just the occasional car brushing past in a low hum. The sidewalk under their sneakers was cracked in places, lined with tufts of winter weeds. The sun had dipped below the rooftops in Lafayette, leaving the sky a pale lilac that matched the quiet between them.
Toni tucked her hands into her coat pockets. “Still weird not driving everywhere.”
Arianna smirked. “You’re the one who said she wanted to get her steps in.”
Toni didn’t argue. She let her gaze drift toward the diner sign glowing faint above the street—a flickering blue oval that buzzed just enough to make you aware of its age. It was familiar. Like everything else they’d tried to forget then slowly, carefully, learned to carry.
They pushed through the door. The bell above it jingled sharp and thin.
Same waitress behind the counter. Same laminated menus. Same cracked booth in the back with a view of the street.
They slid into their usual spots. Neither had to ask if the other was hungry—they were always hungry here, even when they didn’t finish their plates.
Arianna leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in her hand. “I opened the email before the sun came up.”
Toni raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”
Arianna gave a soft smile. “Tulane. MFA. Full ride.”
Toni blinked, once. No theatrics. Just pride layered into surprise. “Shit. For real?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
Toni narrowed her eyes. “And you’re just now telling me?”
Arianna shrugged. “I didn’t even tell Mom yet. I printed it out, taped it above my desk. Just sat with it for a while.”
Toni leaned back, studying her cousin like she was trying to see under her skin. “You always did keep things close.”
“You used to tell me that was smart.”
“I was lying,” Toni said, half-smiling. “Some stuff’s better when you let it breathe.”
Arianna looked out the window for a moment. “I thought it’d feel louder.”
“What?”
“All of it. The ‘yes.’ The full ride. The thing I’ve been waiting for.”
Toni nodded slowly. “Yeah. I thought moving out would feel like that too.”
The waitress dropped off two waters. Arianna grabbed her glass and stared at the ice melting into itself.
“I thought freedom would feel like noise,” she said. “Like running through the street barefoot screaming. Like exhale.”
Toni’s voice was quieter now. “But it’s just… slow.”
“Yeah.”
“Quiet,” Toni added.
Arianna looked back at her cousin. The one who’d known her before any of this. Before switching majors and open mics and photos taped to bedroom walls. Before broken trust and long silences and trying to find their way back.
“You like your place?” Arianna asked.
Toni hesitated, then said, “Yeah. It’s small, but it’s mine.”
“That wall color’s still ugly.”
“I’m not repainting it.”
They both smiled then.
And for a while, they didn’t talk.
They just sat in the booth, the hush between them full of something gentle and earned. No rush. No performance. Just a cousin and a cousin, learning what it meant to stay soft in a world that hadn’t always made space for it.
When their food came, they ate slowly.
And when Arianna finally said, “I think I’m going,” Toni didn’t ask if she meant to Tulane or just forward.
She just nodded, swallowed a bite of her grilled cheese, and said, “Yeah. I figured.”
Outside, the buzz of the diner’s sign kept going.
Inside, two girls sat in the booth, full of quiet that felt like freedom.
Not loud.
But real.
The air inside Royce’s apartment felt different lately. Not silent—just lived-in. Like two people had started learning how to move around each other without knocking things over.
It was three days after the Sugar Bowl.
No celebration. No mourning. Just quiet mornings and slower evenings. The TV stayed off. Phones got ignored. Effie had unpacked her toothbrush without ceremony. Royce had stopped throwing his socks toward the hamper and started making sure they actually landed.
The laundry machine rattled gently in the background, and a half-done grocery list sat on the kitchen island, scrawled in alternating handwriting—his blocky and crooked, hers smaller, with little circles over the i’s. Rice, eggs, oat milk. Batteries. Ground turkey. Lotion. They hadn’t crossed anything off yet.
Royce was at the sink, rinsing out a skillet from breakfast. Effie was perched at the edge of the couch, legs tucked under her, sketching layouts in her notebook for a class project. Her pencil made light scratching sounds as she shaded out a floor plan. Her sweatshirt was Royce’s. It hung loose off her shoulder.
“You think fate’s real?” Royce asked.
She didn’t look up. Just kept drawing. “You gonna define it first or let me guess?”
Royce wiped his hands on a dish towel and leaned against the counter, watching her.
“Like… if we all got a set path. Some story somebody already wrote for us.”
Effie paused, her pencil hovering above the page. Then she looked up. “You thinking football? Or us?”
Royce didn’t answer right away. He walked over, sat next to her, the couch dipping beneath his weight. His shoulder brushed hers.
“Both, maybe.”
Effie didn’t tease him. Didn’t deflect.
She shut the notebook gently and set it on the coffee table.
“I don’t believe in fate,” she said. “I believe in trying again.”
Royce turned toward her. “Yeah?”
Effie nodded. “Fate makes it sound like nothing we do matters. Like no matter how much we change, it’ll still end up the same.”
Her voice stayed soft. But the weight behind it was real.
“I’ve tried again,” she said. “With myself. With my grief. With how I show up in a room. That wasn’t fate. That was me refusing to let one version of the story be the final one.”
Royce leaned back against the couch, his head resting against the cushion. He didn’t speak for a while. His fingers found hers without thinking—lacing, gentle, certain.
“I used to think I’d only ever be one thing,” he murmured. “Just a nigga selling red tops on the block like my daddy. The problem.”
“And now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Still feels like the same weight. Just... I’m not running from it.”
Effie looked at him then. Not the version of him that made headlines or the one that cracked jokes with teammates. But the version who folded his hoodie for once. Who made room in his closet. Who tried.
She pressed her forehead lightly to his.
“You don’t have to carry it alone,” she said.
“I don’t want to drop it either,” he said.
“You won’t,” she said. “Not if you keep trying.”
The laundry machine buzzed in the background, insistent and low.
Royce didn’t move. Effie didn’t pull away.
Later, they folded clothes on the couch—Royce’s jeans, Effie’s T-shirts, a hoodie they both claimed. He made her laugh with how bad his folding was. She rolled her eyes and redid half his stack. They made rice bowls with too much hot sauce. They planned what to do with the rest of the week.
And when the night settled around them and the lights dimmed, neither of them needed to ask the other to stay.
They already had.
~~~~~~~~~~
The streets were nearly empty, just the occasional car brushing past in a low hum. The sidewalk under their sneakers was cracked in places, lined with tufts of winter weeds. The sun had dipped below the rooftops in Lafayette, leaving the sky a pale lilac that matched the quiet between them.
Toni tucked her hands into her coat pockets. “Still weird not driving everywhere.”
Arianna smirked. “You’re the one who said she wanted to get her steps in.”
Toni didn’t argue. She let her gaze drift toward the diner sign glowing faint above the street—a flickering blue oval that buzzed just enough to make you aware of its age. It was familiar. Like everything else they’d tried to forget then slowly, carefully, learned to carry.
They pushed through the door. The bell above it jingled sharp and thin.
Same waitress behind the counter. Same laminated menus. Same cracked booth in the back with a view of the street.
They slid into their usual spots. Neither had to ask if the other was hungry—they were always hungry here, even when they didn’t finish their plates.
Arianna leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in her hand. “I opened the email before the sun came up.”
Toni raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”
Arianna gave a soft smile. “Tulane. MFA. Full ride.”
Toni blinked, once. No theatrics. Just pride layered into surprise. “Shit. For real?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
Toni narrowed her eyes. “And you’re just now telling me?”
Arianna shrugged. “I didn’t even tell Mom yet. I printed it out, taped it above my desk. Just sat with it for a while.”
Toni leaned back, studying her cousin like she was trying to see under her skin. “You always did keep things close.”
“You used to tell me that was smart.”
“I was lying,” Toni said, half-smiling. “Some stuff’s better when you let it breathe.”
Arianna looked out the window for a moment. “I thought it’d feel louder.”
“What?”
“All of it. The ‘yes.’ The full ride. The thing I’ve been waiting for.”
Toni nodded slowly. “Yeah. I thought moving out would feel like that too.”
The waitress dropped off two waters. Arianna grabbed her glass and stared at the ice melting into itself.
“I thought freedom would feel like noise,” she said. “Like running through the street barefoot screaming. Like exhale.”
Toni’s voice was quieter now. “But it’s just… slow.”
“Yeah.”
“Quiet,” Toni added.
Arianna looked back at her cousin. The one who’d known her before any of this. Before switching majors and open mics and photos taped to bedroom walls. Before broken trust and long silences and trying to find their way back.
“You like your place?” Arianna asked.
Toni hesitated, then said, “Yeah. It’s small, but it’s mine.”
“That wall color’s still ugly.”
“I’m not repainting it.”
They both smiled then.
And for a while, they didn’t talk.
They just sat in the booth, the hush between them full of something gentle and earned. No rush. No performance. Just a cousin and a cousin, learning what it meant to stay soft in a world that hadn’t always made space for it.
When their food came, they ate slowly.
And when Arianna finally said, “I think I’m going,” Toni didn’t ask if she meant to Tulane or just forward.
She just nodded, swallowed a bite of her grilled cheese, and said, “Yeah. I figured.”
Outside, the buzz of the diner’s sign kept going.
Inside, two girls sat in the booth, full of quiet that felt like freedom.
Not loud.
But real.
Dying to Live
Tiger Bait, Tiger Bait
Dying to Live
Well that was unexpected
Dying to Live
Royce in Miami? oh yeah time to make a call