Dying to Live
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 8013
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Goddamn... the fall-off is disastrous
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17026
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
****Character List: https://dynastysports.net/viewtopic.php?p=69562#p69562****
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17026
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
We'll bounce back
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17026
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Didn't Come to Play School
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djp73
- Posts: 13272
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Bounced back 
Got a pick
Got a pick
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The JZA
- Posts: 9445
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 13:10
Dying to Live
Now he wants to be a body builder
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 8013
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
9 interceptions is fucking nuts but I rock with the vibes. My boy a safety in the NFL
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17026
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Hundred Thousand Dollar Man
Royce’s phone buzzed against the wooden desk as he stuffed a notebook into his backpack. He paused mid-movement, glancing down to see Billy’s name light up on the screen. With a sigh, he swiped to answer, tucking the phone between his should and ear as he grabbed the last of his stuff.
“What up?” he said, his voice low enough not to catch the attention of the few students still lingering in the lecture hall.
“Royce, my man!” Billy’s voice crackled, upbeat and far too chipper for how Royce was feeling after back-to-back classes. “Swing by the office when you’re done with your day. We’ve got some things to discuss.”
Royce frowned, shifting the bag onto his shoulder as he pushed through the door into the bright afternoon light. “You can’t just tell me over the phone?”
“No, sir,” Bill said, his tone light but firm, the way he always sounded when he was holding something back. “This is the kind of conversation that needs to happen face to face. Trust me, you’ll want to hear this.”
The call ended with a click before Royce could argue. He stared at the screen for a second, narrowing his eyes as he dropped the phone into his pocket and walked toward the 459 to grab some grub.
…
Royce sat across from Billy, the office sleek as ever as it usually was. The office always made him feel like he’d stepped into a TV show—modern furniture, glowing LED lights lining the shelves, and massive glass desk polished enough to see his own reflection in it.
Royce settled back in the leather chair, his knees spread, his arms loose. Billy, seated behind the desk, leaned back with that trademark grin, like he’d just won a bet only he knew he’d made. Royce stared at him expectantly.
“Big news, my man,” Billy started, drumming his fingers against the desk. “You know you’re having a hell of a season, right?”
Royce shrugged, leaning back further. “Guess so.”
“Guess so? Son, do you know what you did last week?” Billy asked, leaning forward this time like he wanted to punctuate his point. “You broke LSU’s pick record for a season. Nine interceptions as a freshman linebacker. A God damn linebacker! A freshman! That’s huge. And on top of that, Vegas has you in the top 10 for the Butkus.”
Royce blinked, his brow furrowing. “The Butkus?”
Billy grinned like he’d been waiting for the reaction. “That’s right, kid. Best linebacker in the whole damn country. Now look, you’re not going to win it—” He held up his hand as Royce’s eyes narrowed, “—and that’s just me being honest and up front with you. They think you’re the third best on your team behind Harold and Greg, and that’s without talking about that kid at Alabama. The voters love them and they’ve got their clout. But even being a finalist? Forget about it. And if you’re a finalist for that, you’re a lock for some other honors.”
Royce gave a small nod, processing the information. He knew he was playing well, but hearing it put that plainly hit different. “Appreciate the info,” he said finally, keeping his tone measured. “But why’d I need to come all the way out here for you to tell me that?”
Billy’s grin sharpened, his eyes glinting like a man about to lay down a winning hand. “Because all of this—every stat, every highlight, every mention—your NIL valuation has shot through the roof.” He let the words hang for a beat before continuing. “Especially with Brian Kelly on the hot seat. LSU needs a guy like you to stay put whether that’s for Kelly or the next guy.”
With a flourish, Billy slid a folder across the desk, its weighty thud punctuating the silence. Royce picked it up and flipped it open. His eyes landed on the top sheet, the bold print staring back at him: $100,000.
“That’s from LSU’s collective,” Billy said smoothly, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “One hundred grand. That’s what they’re offering you to commit to staying at LSU. No transfer portal talk. No rumors. Just you in purple and gold next year.”
Royce’s eyebrows lifted. He let out a low whistle. “A hundred bands, huh?”
“Yup,” Billy said, sitting back in his chair, arms crossed like he’d just revealed a jackpot. “It’s no joke. You’re a hot commodity, kid.”
Royce stared at the paper, his thumb skimming the edge of the folder as thoughts churned in his mind. Before he could reach for the pen sitting nearby, Billy held up a hand.
“Wait,” he said firmly.
Royce looked up, frowning. “What? Why? I’m not about to let a hundred thousand fucking dollars go, Billy.”
Billy tapped the desk with the pen, his grin never fading. “Because you don’t sign this yet. Not until after y’all play Oklahoma this Saturday. They’re desperate right now, if you ball out again, your value jumps even higher. These deals? They’re all about leverage, Royce. Don’t give them a yes too soon. Play your cards right, and you’ll have more offers on the table. More like this.”
Royce stared at him for a moment, the folder still open in front of him. The number stared back at him, promising security, opportunity, and a life he’d never imagined before NIL money started flowing. But Billy’s point wasn’t lost on him. Leverage. He’d heard Tyrell talk about it before.
Finally, Royce closed the folder and pushed it back toward Billy. “Alright,” he said, his voice calm. “I’ll wait. But if they come back with a dollar less, Billy, I might come all ‘cross the top of this desk on your ass.”
Billy’s grin widened as he tucked the folder into his desk. “Good man. You’re playing the long game now. Trust me, kid, it’ll pay off.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Music thumped faintly from someone’s Bluetooth speaker, and the warm night air carried the lazy hum of conversation. Royce strolled into the courtyard outside of Julian’s building, dapping up a few people on his way to where Julian had set up shop.
Julian was posted near a picnic table under one of the big oaks, clippers in hand and his portable barber setup spread out like an artist at work. His client, a freshman, sat slouched in the folding chair while Julian worked with quiet focus. A few other guys were gathered nearby, shooting the breeze or waiting their turn.
“About time,” Julian said, glancing up as Royce walked over. “Thought you weren’t gonna show up. You know I don’t work on CPT.”
Royce smirked, sliding his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Man, you know how shit be. I got caught up and lost track of time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Julian muttered with a grin, finishing the freshman’s cut with a clean line. “Grab the seat. You got next.”
Royce tossed his bag onto the bench and sank into the chair as Julian dusted it off. “You better not fuck up my line this time. Or I’m gonna get on TikTok and tell the whole damn world you cut like them white folks.”
“You can take your ass to them white folks then,” Julian teased, draping the makeshift cape over Royce and snapping it around his neck. “You just need make sure y’all sorry asses don’t make me turn off the TV Saturday.”
Royce chuckled, his eyes half-lidding as Julian’s comb slid through his hair. “You better go find that boy Garrett and tell him stop throwing that shit to the other team.”
“Here we go,” Julian said, firing up the clippers. “Maybe if you and them niggas on defense would stop these motherfuckers then they wouldn’t have to worry about y’all QB throwing picks.”
Before Royce could respond, a voice cut in from a nearby bench. “They stopped Alabama when they took your boy off the field.”
Royce didn’t have to look to know who it was. He turned his head slightly, spotting Dominic slouched against the concrete table, his black and gold hoodie pulled over his shoulders like he was trying too hard to look relaxed. His phone was in his hand, but his eyes were locked on Royce, his expression smug.
“Why it’s always some nigga who can’t even get on the field that got the most to say?” Royce asked Julian.
Dominic shrugged, not looking up. “I’m just saying what everybody’s thinking. You the weakest link, dog.”
Royce let out a short laugh, shaking his head as Julian kept working. “I know a hating ass nigga when I hear one. We get it, lil’ bro. You mad because you’re running behind a chick I’ve been fucking. She told me she don’t even be feeling you. Just faking saying she know it’s in.”
The courtyard went quiet, save for the steady hum of the clippers. The guys sitting around shifted, some looking up while others pretended not to notice. Royce’s smirk never wavered as Dominic’s head snapped up, his face darkening.
“What’d you say?” Dominic’s voice was tight.
“You heard me,” Royce said. “It’s all fake, bruh. You can ask her yourself.”
Dominic pushed himself off the table, his phone slipping into his pocket as he squared up from a few feet away. “You think you funny, huh?”
“Funny?” Royce shot back. “I don’t think it’s funny that a young brother might as well do like Webbie say and use the barrel of the Tec because that’s the only way you reaching anything.”
Before Dominic could respond, Malcolm, sitting a few feet away with another group of guys, broke in, shaking his head. “Y’all about to fight over some white bitch? Come on now. I keep telling y’all to get with these sisters. They don’t do snake shit like this.”
Julian snorted, not missing a beat as he shaped Royce’s hairline. “Facts, though. This ain’t The Mandingo Bachelor.”
Laughter rippled through the group, breaking some of the tension, but Dominic’s face was still tight, his fists balled at his sides. Royce shot Dominic a look and held his hand out to him.
“They right. We can work out shared custody. You get every other weekend when we on the road.”
That did it. Dominic’s face twisted in anger, his jaw clenching so hard Royce could see the muscles twitch. “Man, you got me fucked up,” he muttered, shaking his head. He turned sharply and stalked off toward the dorm building.
The courtyard exhaled as the tension finally broke. A few guys exchanged looks, but Julian only chuckled, his focus never wavering as he worked.
“It’s always you dudes that are here to perform for the white folks that are never down for us as a community,” Malcolm said, shaking his head.
Royce raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Yeah, alright. Community my fucking ass. Niggas will kill you over last place.”
Julian laughed, switching the clippers off and brushing the loose hair off Royce’s neck. “Better watch your mouth. I need the money for child support, and one less cut is a lot of pampers I ain’t buying.”
“I got you, man. I was just fucking with bro.”
Royce stood up, swiping his hoodie off the bench and slipping it over his head. The guys nearby were still laughing and ribbing each other, the earlier tension already fading back into the usual courtyard noise. Royce dapped up Julian and grabbed his bag.
“Make sure y’all don’t lose Saturday,” Julian called after him as he walked away.
“Yeah, yeah,” Royce muttered to himself, trying to decide what he was going to do for the rest of his night.
Royce’s phone buzzed against the wooden desk as he stuffed a notebook into his backpack. He paused mid-movement, glancing down to see Billy’s name light up on the screen. With a sigh, he swiped to answer, tucking the phone between his should and ear as he grabbed the last of his stuff.
“What up?” he said, his voice low enough not to catch the attention of the few students still lingering in the lecture hall.
“Royce, my man!” Billy’s voice crackled, upbeat and far too chipper for how Royce was feeling after back-to-back classes. “Swing by the office when you’re done with your day. We’ve got some things to discuss.”
Royce frowned, shifting the bag onto his shoulder as he pushed through the door into the bright afternoon light. “You can’t just tell me over the phone?”
“No, sir,” Bill said, his tone light but firm, the way he always sounded when he was holding something back. “This is the kind of conversation that needs to happen face to face. Trust me, you’ll want to hear this.”
The call ended with a click before Royce could argue. He stared at the screen for a second, narrowing his eyes as he dropped the phone into his pocket and walked toward the 459 to grab some grub.
…
Royce sat across from Billy, the office sleek as ever as it usually was. The office always made him feel like he’d stepped into a TV show—modern furniture, glowing LED lights lining the shelves, and massive glass desk polished enough to see his own reflection in it.
Royce settled back in the leather chair, his knees spread, his arms loose. Billy, seated behind the desk, leaned back with that trademark grin, like he’d just won a bet only he knew he’d made. Royce stared at him expectantly.
“Big news, my man,” Billy started, drumming his fingers against the desk. “You know you’re having a hell of a season, right?”
Royce shrugged, leaning back further. “Guess so.”
“Guess so? Son, do you know what you did last week?” Billy asked, leaning forward this time like he wanted to punctuate his point. “You broke LSU’s pick record for a season. Nine interceptions as a freshman linebacker. A God damn linebacker! A freshman! That’s huge. And on top of that, Vegas has you in the top 10 for the Butkus.”
Royce blinked, his brow furrowing. “The Butkus?”
Billy grinned like he’d been waiting for the reaction. “That’s right, kid. Best linebacker in the whole damn country. Now look, you’re not going to win it—” He held up his hand as Royce’s eyes narrowed, “—and that’s just me being honest and up front with you. They think you’re the third best on your team behind Harold and Greg, and that’s without talking about that kid at Alabama. The voters love them and they’ve got their clout. But even being a finalist? Forget about it. And if you’re a finalist for that, you’re a lock for some other honors.”
Royce gave a small nod, processing the information. He knew he was playing well, but hearing it put that plainly hit different. “Appreciate the info,” he said finally, keeping his tone measured. “But why’d I need to come all the way out here for you to tell me that?”
Billy’s grin sharpened, his eyes glinting like a man about to lay down a winning hand. “Because all of this—every stat, every highlight, every mention—your NIL valuation has shot through the roof.” He let the words hang for a beat before continuing. “Especially with Brian Kelly on the hot seat. LSU needs a guy like you to stay put whether that’s for Kelly or the next guy.”
With a flourish, Billy slid a folder across the desk, its weighty thud punctuating the silence. Royce picked it up and flipped it open. His eyes landed on the top sheet, the bold print staring back at him: $100,000.
“That’s from LSU’s collective,” Billy said smoothly, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “One hundred grand. That’s what they’re offering you to commit to staying at LSU. No transfer portal talk. No rumors. Just you in purple and gold next year.”
Royce’s eyebrows lifted. He let out a low whistle. “A hundred bands, huh?”
“Yup,” Billy said, sitting back in his chair, arms crossed like he’d just revealed a jackpot. “It’s no joke. You’re a hot commodity, kid.”
Royce stared at the paper, his thumb skimming the edge of the folder as thoughts churned in his mind. Before he could reach for the pen sitting nearby, Billy held up a hand.
“Wait,” he said firmly.
Royce looked up, frowning. “What? Why? I’m not about to let a hundred thousand fucking dollars go, Billy.”
Billy tapped the desk with the pen, his grin never fading. “Because you don’t sign this yet. Not until after y’all play Oklahoma this Saturday. They’re desperate right now, if you ball out again, your value jumps even higher. These deals? They’re all about leverage, Royce. Don’t give them a yes too soon. Play your cards right, and you’ll have more offers on the table. More like this.”
Royce stared at him for a moment, the folder still open in front of him. The number stared back at him, promising security, opportunity, and a life he’d never imagined before NIL money started flowing. But Billy’s point wasn’t lost on him. Leverage. He’d heard Tyrell talk about it before.
Finally, Royce closed the folder and pushed it back toward Billy. “Alright,” he said, his voice calm. “I’ll wait. But if they come back with a dollar less, Billy, I might come all ‘cross the top of this desk on your ass.”
Billy’s grin widened as he tucked the folder into his desk. “Good man. You’re playing the long game now. Trust me, kid, it’ll pay off.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Music thumped faintly from someone’s Bluetooth speaker, and the warm night air carried the lazy hum of conversation. Royce strolled into the courtyard outside of Julian’s building, dapping up a few people on his way to where Julian had set up shop.
Julian was posted near a picnic table under one of the big oaks, clippers in hand and his portable barber setup spread out like an artist at work. His client, a freshman, sat slouched in the folding chair while Julian worked with quiet focus. A few other guys were gathered nearby, shooting the breeze or waiting their turn.
“About time,” Julian said, glancing up as Royce walked over. “Thought you weren’t gonna show up. You know I don’t work on CPT.”
Royce smirked, sliding his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Man, you know how shit be. I got caught up and lost track of time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Julian muttered with a grin, finishing the freshman’s cut with a clean line. “Grab the seat. You got next.”
Royce tossed his bag onto the bench and sank into the chair as Julian dusted it off. “You better not fuck up my line this time. Or I’m gonna get on TikTok and tell the whole damn world you cut like them white folks.”
“You can take your ass to them white folks then,” Julian teased, draping the makeshift cape over Royce and snapping it around his neck. “You just need make sure y’all sorry asses don’t make me turn off the TV Saturday.”
Royce chuckled, his eyes half-lidding as Julian’s comb slid through his hair. “You better go find that boy Garrett and tell him stop throwing that shit to the other team.”
“Here we go,” Julian said, firing up the clippers. “Maybe if you and them niggas on defense would stop these motherfuckers then they wouldn’t have to worry about y’all QB throwing picks.”
Before Royce could respond, a voice cut in from a nearby bench. “They stopped Alabama when they took your boy off the field.”
Royce didn’t have to look to know who it was. He turned his head slightly, spotting Dominic slouched against the concrete table, his black and gold hoodie pulled over his shoulders like he was trying too hard to look relaxed. His phone was in his hand, but his eyes were locked on Royce, his expression smug.
“Why it’s always some nigga who can’t even get on the field that got the most to say?” Royce asked Julian.
Dominic shrugged, not looking up. “I’m just saying what everybody’s thinking. You the weakest link, dog.”
Royce let out a short laugh, shaking his head as Julian kept working. “I know a hating ass nigga when I hear one. We get it, lil’ bro. You mad because you’re running behind a chick I’ve been fucking. She told me she don’t even be feeling you. Just faking saying she know it’s in.”
The courtyard went quiet, save for the steady hum of the clippers. The guys sitting around shifted, some looking up while others pretended not to notice. Royce’s smirk never wavered as Dominic’s head snapped up, his face darkening.
“What’d you say?” Dominic’s voice was tight.
“You heard me,” Royce said. “It’s all fake, bruh. You can ask her yourself.”
Dominic pushed himself off the table, his phone slipping into his pocket as he squared up from a few feet away. “You think you funny, huh?”
“Funny?” Royce shot back. “I don’t think it’s funny that a young brother might as well do like Webbie say and use the barrel of the Tec because that’s the only way you reaching anything.”
Before Dominic could respond, Malcolm, sitting a few feet away with another group of guys, broke in, shaking his head. “Y’all about to fight over some white bitch? Come on now. I keep telling y’all to get with these sisters. They don’t do snake shit like this.”
Julian snorted, not missing a beat as he shaped Royce’s hairline. “Facts, though. This ain’t The Mandingo Bachelor.”
Laughter rippled through the group, breaking some of the tension, but Dominic’s face was still tight, his fists balled at his sides. Royce shot Dominic a look and held his hand out to him.
“They right. We can work out shared custody. You get every other weekend when we on the road.”
That did it. Dominic’s face twisted in anger, his jaw clenching so hard Royce could see the muscles twitch. “Man, you got me fucked up,” he muttered, shaking his head. He turned sharply and stalked off toward the dorm building.
The courtyard exhaled as the tension finally broke. A few guys exchanged looks, but Julian only chuckled, his focus never wavering as he worked.
“It’s always you dudes that are here to perform for the white folks that are never down for us as a community,” Malcolm said, shaking his head.
Royce raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Yeah, alright. Community my fucking ass. Niggas will kill you over last place.”
Julian laughed, switching the clippers off and brushing the loose hair off Royce’s neck. “Better watch your mouth. I need the money for child support, and one less cut is a lot of pampers I ain’t buying.”
“I got you, man. I was just fucking with bro.”
Royce stood up, swiping his hoodie off the bench and slipping it over his head. The guys nearby were still laughing and ribbing each other, the earlier tension already fading back into the usual courtyard noise. Royce dapped up Julian and grabbed his bag.
“Make sure y’all don’t lose Saturday,” Julian called after him as he walked away.
“Yeah, yeah,” Royce muttered to himself, trying to decide what he was going to do for the rest of his night.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17026
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
In the Market
Malik sat in a stiff-backed chair across from Baylor’s defensive coordinator, Matt Powledge, his hands gripping the edge of his knees to keep himself from balling them into fists. The office smelled like stale coffee and athletic tape, and every framed photo of past Baylor stars on the walls only deepened his frustration. Across the desk, Coach Powledge leaned back in his hair, arms folded across his chest like he’d heard this all before.
“So,” Powledge said after a long pause, his expression unreadable. “You’ve made up your mind?”
“Yeah,” Malik said, his voice clipped. “I’m hitting the portal.”
The words hung in the air for a beat, but Powledge’s face didn’t shift an inch. He just nodded like it was a formality, not the culmination of months of Malik feeling sideline, overlooked, and flat-out lied to.
“Alright,” Powledge said. “Can’t that I’m surprised.”
Malik blinked, the words slicing through him. He felt his pulse spike, and he leaned forward, staring at the coach like he hadn’t heard him right. “Not surprised.”
Powledge shrugged, his tone matter-of-fact. “We can see when guys are out there frustrated. We’ve seen it, Malik, with you. Things didn’t click here like we all hoped they would. I hope you find your way to a program that you fit in at.”
“That’s it?” Malik shot back, his voice rising despite his efforts to keep calm, “You’re just gonna act like none of this is on y’all? Like you didn’t sell me on being a starter when you recruited me? You don’t feel bad about that shit at all?”
Coach Powledge’s expression hardened. “We made promises based on what we thought you could contribute, kid. It’s competitive. This isn’t pee-wee football. You know that when you signed on the dotted line.”
Malik felt his nails dig into his joggers. “So y’all broke your promises, and now you’re cool with me bouncing?”
Powledge sighed, leaning back in his chair. “It’s a tough game, Malik. For players and coaches. We can’t wait for everyone to hit their stride anymore than you can for us to. Not every fit works out. That’s just the nature of the beast. You’ll find your place.”
Malik stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. He looked at Coach Powledge one last time, his jaw tight. “Yeah, I will.”
Without waiting for a response, Malik turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him harder than it needed to. His footsteps echoed through the empty hallway, his breath coming in quick, angry bursts.
They didn’t even care. He’d given everything he could for the program—busted his ass in practice, stayed patient even as he watched guys take snaped that should’ve been his—and now they were shrugging him off like he was a failed experiment.
…
Back in his dorm room, Malik sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone before scrolling through his contacts. He landed on Donovan and hit call, the line ringing a few times before his old teammate picked up.
“Yo, what’s good, bro?” Donovan’s voice cam through, loud and energetic, like he was already halfway through his day despite the time difference.
“What’s up, man,” Malik said, exhaling. “You busy?”
“Nah, just coming back from this tutoring shit. You know how it is,” Donovan replied. “What’s up? I haven’t heard from you in a minute.”
Malik rubbed the back of his head, trying to keep his tone light. “I’m transferring, bro. Just had the meeting with the coaches.”
“Damn,” Donovan said, his tone dropping slightly. “That’s tough, man. They give you a hard time about it?”
“Fuck no,” Malik muttered. “That’s the shit that had me ready to punch that bitch in the mouth. Wasn’t even surprised, like they already wrote me off.”
“Man, this a dirty dity game,” Donovan said. “Motherfuckers sell us all these dreams when they trying to get us to the fucking school then act like you just another number when you’re on campus. You already got schools in mind? Gonna try to go back home?”
Nah. I ain’t thought about none of that yet,” Malik admitted. “I’ll hit the portal in a couple weeks. Just trying to figure out my options. How’s Nevada treating you?”
Donovan laughed, his energy returning. “Reno’s lit, man. I ain’t gonna hold you. The team? Fucking trash. Nigga knew we was losing every time we stepped out on that field. I’m not sugarcoating that. But the city? It’s cool. And being so close to Vegas? Bro, it’s dangerous out here.”
Malik smirked despite himself. “You serious.”
“Fuck yeah,” Donovan said. “If you’re thinking about it, I’ll put in a word for you. We need all the fucking help we can get.”
“I’ll think about it,” Malik said, though the idea of joining a bad team didn’t sit right. “Appreciate it, bruh.”
“Always, man,” Donovan said. “But I gotta go. Got this some fine shit out here that be giving it up easy.”
Malik laughed, hanging up. He stared at the phone for a long moment, the weight of uncertainty sitting heavy on his chest. Baylor hadn’t been the dream he thought it would be, but the portal was a gamble, and he knew it.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike-Mike stood nervously outside the old, graffiti-splattered convenience store where Treg liked to hang out. His backpack felt heavier than it should’ve, the wad of cash inside weighing on him like bricks. A week late. He knew Treg wasn’t going to let that slide, but he didn’t have much choice. It was either Reg or nothing, and Reg had come through—at a price and after considerable time.
Pushing through the door, Mike-Mike spotted Treg leaning against the counter, talking to Scottie and Deuce. Treg’s face lit up with a cold smile the moment he saw him. “I thought I was gonna have to go looking for your ass again.”
Mike-Mike stepped forward, pulling the backpack from his shoulder and unzipping it. He handed Treg a wad of crumpled bills, his voice tight. “There. It’s all there.”
Treg thumbed through the money slowly, straightening the bills, his expression unreadable before his grin twisted dark. “A week late, though. You know what that means, right?”
Mike-Mike’s stomach dropped. “C’mon, man. I got you the money.”
“Late,” Treg repeated, stuffing the cash into his pocket. “I know you a lil’ nigga so you don’t know about finances, but if you don’t pay a bill on time you get a late fee and interest come due. You owe me extra now.”
Mike-Mike tense. “What? I—”
“What? They got money in what? I ain’t never heard of no fucking bank of what,” Treg snapped, stepping closer. “How’d you sell it? On the block?”
Mike-Mike swallowed hard, forcing a nod. “Yeah. On the block.” He kept his voice steady, but his mind flashed back to Reg handing him the money. He hadn’t even touched the streets. It had all gone through his cousin.
Treg grinned, satisfied. “Don’t matter. As long as you got that off. And now? You gotta another pack to get off. You still owe me.”
Mike-Mike shook his head quickly. “Nah, I’m done. That was it.”
Treg’s smile vanished. In a blink, he grabbed Mike-Mike by the front of his hoodie and shoved him hard against the counter. The impact sent pain shooting through Mike-Mike’s back, and his breath caught as Treg leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous.
“You don’t just get to walk away from this, motherfucker. I want my money. You think I forgot about that gun? Ain’t you just commit a fucking felony? Possession of a controlled dangerous substance with intent to distribute? You want me to start talking to people?”
Scottie and Deuce snicked from behind, watching like it was a show. Mike-Mike’s fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t fight back. He couldn’t.
“Don’t talk back,” Treg muttered, shoving him one last time before letting go. Mike-Mike stumbled but caught himself, his face burning with anger and shame.
“Be fucking smart,” Treg added, straightening his shirt like nothing had happened. He took a handful of drugs from Scottie and dropped it into Mike-Mike’s bag, shoving the bag into Mike-Mike’s hands. “Get me my money and I want have to Swiss cheese your ass. Simple as that.”
Mike-Mike said nothing. He just turned and walked out of the store, his legs shaking with every step. Outside, he sucked in a shaky breath, wiping at his nose with the back of his hands.
The street was quiet, but his mind wasn’t.
Malik sat in a stiff-backed chair across from Baylor’s defensive coordinator, Matt Powledge, his hands gripping the edge of his knees to keep himself from balling them into fists. The office smelled like stale coffee and athletic tape, and every framed photo of past Baylor stars on the walls only deepened his frustration. Across the desk, Coach Powledge leaned back in his hair, arms folded across his chest like he’d heard this all before.
“So,” Powledge said after a long pause, his expression unreadable. “You’ve made up your mind?”
“Yeah,” Malik said, his voice clipped. “I’m hitting the portal.”
The words hung in the air for a beat, but Powledge’s face didn’t shift an inch. He just nodded like it was a formality, not the culmination of months of Malik feeling sideline, overlooked, and flat-out lied to.
“Alright,” Powledge said. “Can’t that I’m surprised.”
Malik blinked, the words slicing through him. He felt his pulse spike, and he leaned forward, staring at the coach like he hadn’t heard him right. “Not surprised.”
Powledge shrugged, his tone matter-of-fact. “We can see when guys are out there frustrated. We’ve seen it, Malik, with you. Things didn’t click here like we all hoped they would. I hope you find your way to a program that you fit in at.”
“That’s it?” Malik shot back, his voice rising despite his efforts to keep calm, “You’re just gonna act like none of this is on y’all? Like you didn’t sell me on being a starter when you recruited me? You don’t feel bad about that shit at all?”
Coach Powledge’s expression hardened. “We made promises based on what we thought you could contribute, kid. It’s competitive. This isn’t pee-wee football. You know that when you signed on the dotted line.”
Malik felt his nails dig into his joggers. “So y’all broke your promises, and now you’re cool with me bouncing?”
Powledge sighed, leaning back in his chair. “It’s a tough game, Malik. For players and coaches. We can’t wait for everyone to hit their stride anymore than you can for us to. Not every fit works out. That’s just the nature of the beast. You’ll find your place.”
Malik stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. He looked at Coach Powledge one last time, his jaw tight. “Yeah, I will.”
Without waiting for a response, Malik turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him harder than it needed to. His footsteps echoed through the empty hallway, his breath coming in quick, angry bursts.
They didn’t even care. He’d given everything he could for the program—busted his ass in practice, stayed patient even as he watched guys take snaped that should’ve been his—and now they were shrugging him off like he was a failed experiment.
…
Back in his dorm room, Malik sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone before scrolling through his contacts. He landed on Donovan and hit call, the line ringing a few times before his old teammate picked up.
“Yo, what’s good, bro?” Donovan’s voice cam through, loud and energetic, like he was already halfway through his day despite the time difference.
“What’s up, man,” Malik said, exhaling. “You busy?”
“Nah, just coming back from this tutoring shit. You know how it is,” Donovan replied. “What’s up? I haven’t heard from you in a minute.”
Malik rubbed the back of his head, trying to keep his tone light. “I’m transferring, bro. Just had the meeting with the coaches.”
“Damn,” Donovan said, his tone dropping slightly. “That’s tough, man. They give you a hard time about it?”
“Fuck no,” Malik muttered. “That’s the shit that had me ready to punch that bitch in the mouth. Wasn’t even surprised, like they already wrote me off.”
“Man, this a dirty dity game,” Donovan said. “Motherfuckers sell us all these dreams when they trying to get us to the fucking school then act like you just another number when you’re on campus. You already got schools in mind? Gonna try to go back home?”
Nah. I ain’t thought about none of that yet,” Malik admitted. “I’ll hit the portal in a couple weeks. Just trying to figure out my options. How’s Nevada treating you?”
Donovan laughed, his energy returning. “Reno’s lit, man. I ain’t gonna hold you. The team? Fucking trash. Nigga knew we was losing every time we stepped out on that field. I’m not sugarcoating that. But the city? It’s cool. And being so close to Vegas? Bro, it’s dangerous out here.”
Malik smirked despite himself. “You serious.”
“Fuck yeah,” Donovan said. “If you’re thinking about it, I’ll put in a word for you. We need all the fucking help we can get.”
“I’ll think about it,” Malik said, though the idea of joining a bad team didn’t sit right. “Appreciate it, bruh.”
“Always, man,” Donovan said. “But I gotta go. Got this some fine shit out here that be giving it up easy.”
Malik laughed, hanging up. He stared at the phone for a long moment, the weight of uncertainty sitting heavy on his chest. Baylor hadn’t been the dream he thought it would be, but the portal was a gamble, and he knew it.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike-Mike stood nervously outside the old, graffiti-splattered convenience store where Treg liked to hang out. His backpack felt heavier than it should’ve, the wad of cash inside weighing on him like bricks. A week late. He knew Treg wasn’t going to let that slide, but he didn’t have much choice. It was either Reg or nothing, and Reg had come through—at a price and after considerable time.
Pushing through the door, Mike-Mike spotted Treg leaning against the counter, talking to Scottie and Deuce. Treg’s face lit up with a cold smile the moment he saw him. “I thought I was gonna have to go looking for your ass again.”
Mike-Mike stepped forward, pulling the backpack from his shoulder and unzipping it. He handed Treg a wad of crumpled bills, his voice tight. “There. It’s all there.”
Treg thumbed through the money slowly, straightening the bills, his expression unreadable before his grin twisted dark. “A week late, though. You know what that means, right?”
Mike-Mike’s stomach dropped. “C’mon, man. I got you the money.”
“Late,” Treg repeated, stuffing the cash into his pocket. “I know you a lil’ nigga so you don’t know about finances, but if you don’t pay a bill on time you get a late fee and interest come due. You owe me extra now.”
Mike-Mike tense. “What? I—”
“What? They got money in what? I ain’t never heard of no fucking bank of what,” Treg snapped, stepping closer. “How’d you sell it? On the block?”
Mike-Mike swallowed hard, forcing a nod. “Yeah. On the block.” He kept his voice steady, but his mind flashed back to Reg handing him the money. He hadn’t even touched the streets. It had all gone through his cousin.
Treg grinned, satisfied. “Don’t matter. As long as you got that off. And now? You gotta another pack to get off. You still owe me.”
Mike-Mike shook his head quickly. “Nah, I’m done. That was it.”
Treg’s smile vanished. In a blink, he grabbed Mike-Mike by the front of his hoodie and shoved him hard against the counter. The impact sent pain shooting through Mike-Mike’s back, and his breath caught as Treg leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous.
“You don’t just get to walk away from this, motherfucker. I want my money. You think I forgot about that gun? Ain’t you just commit a fucking felony? Possession of a controlled dangerous substance with intent to distribute? You want me to start talking to people?”
Scottie and Deuce snicked from behind, watching like it was a show. Mike-Mike’s fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t fight back. He couldn’t.
“Don’t talk back,” Treg muttered, shoving him one last time before letting go. Mike-Mike stumbled but caught himself, his face burning with anger and shame.
“Be fucking smart,” Treg added, straightening his shirt like nothing had happened. He took a handful of drugs from Scottie and dropped it into Mike-Mike’s bag, shoving the bag into Mike-Mike’s hands. “Get me my money and I want have to Swiss cheese your ass. Simple as that.”
Mike-Mike said nothing. He just turned and walked out of the store, his legs shaking with every step. Outside, he sucked in a shaky breath, wiping at his nose with the back of his hands.
The street was quiet, but his mind wasn’t.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 8013
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Mike-Mike an idiot and this family dysfunctional af