Weeks plays at EDGE. The game rarely sends me on blitzes so if a run doesn't get to the second level or it isn't a pass, I'm not getting tackles or TFL like that.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17039
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17039
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
****Character List: https://dynastysports.net/viewtopic.php?p=69562#p69562****
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The JZA
- Posts: 9445
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 13:10
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17039
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Creeping In
The metal bleachers at Episcopal School in Baton Rouge were cold beneath Royce’s hands, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the field. The chatter of middle school parents filled the air, mingling with the occasional whistle from the referees and the sharp clap of helmets colliding. Royce sat with one arm draped around Alix’s waist, their bodies pressed together in the close, cramped seating.
He wasn’t sure why he was there. Alix had never actually asked him to come—just mentioned the game in passing, the way someone might casually bring up weekend plans. But when the time came, Royce had picked her up without hesitation, barely thinking about it.
Now, they sat like this, their knees brushing, fingers absently intertwining before pulling away, touching in ways that felt natural but never talked about.
Royce kept his eyes on the field where Darius lined up at wide receiver. The kid was quick, sharp in his cuts—maybe not a superstar in the making, but solid.
"You think he’s good?" Alix asked, tilting her head toward Royce, her voice soft but expectant.
"He got a little speed," Royce admitted, watching as Darius burned past a cornerback on a simple go route, the pass sailing just out of his reach. "Need better hands, though. Or a better motherfucker throwing that bitch to him"
Alix smirked. "So, what? You offering to train him?"
Royce chuckled, but didn’t answer.
A few rows down, Marc kept throwing glances Royce’s way. They weren’t friendly.
Royce could feel the man’s disapproval thick in the air, the way he barely acknowledged him, instead focusing on the game, sitting stiffly next to Alix’s mom. The last time they’d spoken was years ago – the time he’d walked in on Royce leaving Alix’s room after bringing her back home after that party.
That hadn’t exactly made for a great first impression.
Now, he just sat there, his posture rigid, looking back every so often like Royce had personally ruined his evening.
Alix noticed too. "You know he’s only being protective over me, right," she murmured.
Royce smirked, eyes never leaving the field. "Ain’t shit to protect you from up here. You the one be taking advantage of me."
Alix stifled a laugh, nudging him with her elbow.
Halftime came, and Alix excused herself to go sit with her family. Royce let her go without argument, leaning back and pulling out his phone.
One unread text from Effie.
His thumb hovered over the notification. He debated ignoring it. He debated not starting that cycle again—the flirting, the persistence, the inevitable pulling away.
But after a few beats, he responded anyway.
Alix returned a few minutes later, brushing loose strands of hair behind her ear. She caught Royce deep in thought, his fingers idly drumming against his thigh.
"You look stressed," she commented, sinking back into the seat beside him.
Royce shook his head. "Nah, I’m cooling. Just tired."
Alix studied him for a moment, her lips parting slightly like she wanted to say something more, but she didn’t push. Instead, she leaned back against his side, stealing warmth from his body, and they both let the silence settle.
It was always like this.
They wanted each other, but neither would define what that meant.
…
After the final whistle blew, Darius was bouncing on his toes, eyes lighting up when he saw Royce waiting by the fence near the field entrance.
"Yo! You saw me out there, huh?" Darius grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead, his youthful excitement radiating.
"Shit, you were burning them boys out there," Royce said, giving him a fist bump. "You gotta catch that bitch, though. You were thinking about that touchdown before you caught it."
"I know, I know," Darius said, shaking his head. "But I swear, man, one day I’ma be like you. Playing in Death Valley. Gotta get my weight up first, though. I’m always afraid to get hit because those other boys are big."
Before Royce could respond, Marc’s voice cut in, firm and pointed.
"Let’s not get ahead of ourselves."
The mood shifted instantly.
Royce didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened as he turned to find Marc watching them with the same disapproving stare from the bleachers.
Alix visibly stiffened beside Royce, her smile fading.
"You’ve got a long way to go, son," Marc continued. "Plenty of paths in life that don’t lead to football."
There was something else beneath those words, something both Royce and Alix understood.
Marc wasn’t just talking about football.
Royce clenched his teeth, reading between the lines.
Don’t follow in his footsteps. You can do better than him. Be better.
Alix put her hand on Darius’ shoulders, steering him away before he could respond, but her eyes flashed with quiet anger as she shot Royce a look that said just ignore it.
Royce exhaled slowly, biting back a comment.
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much—he didn’t need Marc’s approval. Didn’t need him to see his worth.
But as they walked back to the parking lot, Royce couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on his chest.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce walked into the football operations center, his body still sore from the past few days of practice. His mind, though, that was another story—it hadn’t felt right in months. As he moved through the hall, past framed photos of LSU legends and glistening national championship trophies, he couldn’t shake the feeling that every one of those images was staring at him, daring him to live up to something impossible.
When he stepped into the meeting room, Coach Lanning and Coach Lupoi were already seated, their body language casual but deliberate. Lanning leaned forward, his elbows braced against the polished wood of his desk, while Lupoi sat with his arms crossed, observing Royce with a cool expression.
"Take a seat, Royce," Lanning said, nodding toward the chair across from them.
Royce sat, slouching slightly, keeping his gaze even but distant. He had a feeling this wasn’t about anything specific—no mistakes, no disciplinary issues. It was about something much bigger than that.
"You know why you’re here," Lanning began, his voice even but firm. "This defense? It revolves around you."
Royce nodded, exhaling slowly through his nose. He already knew that.
"You dictate how we play," Lanning continued. "You set the tone, the energy. And that’s not just on Saturdays. That’s every damn day. These younger guys? They’re looking at you. The standard has to be higher than last year. Higher than anything else in this conference."
Lupoi finally spoke, his voice smooth but weighty, each word pressing down on Royce’s shoulders. "We’re not just talking about production. You’ve already proven that. We’re talking about leadership. About legacy."
That word again.
Legacy.
It bounced around in Royce’s head like a loose bullet, hitting everything else that had been plaguing him for months.
The expectations.
The weight of his name.
The nightmares about the shooting.
The loss of Romeo.
The mess with Alix.
His father’s voice, always demanding something more.
His mother’s silence, a wound left open.
And then the legal trouble. The reporters. The whispers behind his back.
He could feel it all pressing against his chest, and suddenly, Lanning’s voice faded into the background, blending into the buzzing in his skull. The room felt smaller. He was still sitting there, nodding along, but his mind drifted further and further away.
He wasn’t in this meeting anymore.
He was inside those gates at Dixon Correctional, hearing his father tell him that he owed his family more.
He was standing in his apartment, surrounded by police offices, Billy telling him to keep his mouth shut, that things were being handled.
He felt the presence of Romeo standing over him as he was gunned down.
It was too much. The weight, the pressure, the expectations. It was all too much.
"Lafitte."
Royce blinked, Lanning’s voice slicing through the fog in his head. His coach was staring at him, brow furrowed. Lupoi, too.
"You locked in?"
Royce sat up straighter, forcing a quick nod, even though his body felt like it was moving on autopilot. "Yeah, Coach. I got you."
Lanning didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. "Good," he said, his tone firm. "Because this season isn’t just about you being good. It’s about you being the guy. We started well, but it’s a marathon not a sprint."
Royce let out a slow breath, forcing a smirk that felt unnatural on his face. "Not gonna let y’all down. We going all the way."
But as he left the office, stepping back into the hallway with its framed photos and golden trophies, he didn’t feel like a star player.
He felt like a prisoner.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce didn’t go straight home after leaving the meeting. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he pulled out of the facility’s parking lot, but instead of taking the familiar route back to his apartment, he just… drove.
Baton Rouge blurred past him—the neon glow of fast-food joints, the late-night hum of gas stations, the still-bustling bars around Tigerland where students stumbled out onto the sidewalks, their laughter echoing in the humid air. Normally, he would have felt like a king in a place like this. The city loved him.
But right now? It all felt small. Suffocating.
To everyone else, he had everything. The NIL deals. The status. The recognition. He was the face of LSU’s defense, the name that reporters and analysts loved to bring up, the player the younger guys watched and emulated.
And yet, he still felt like he had nothing.
The walls were closing in. The pressure—his family’s expectations, the program’s expectations, the media, the coaches, his teammates, the bullshit off the field that still loomed like a shadow—it all sat on his chest like a weight he couldn’t lift.
So he drove. And drove. And drove.
Eventually, without even thinking, he found himself back on campus in front of Alix’s dorm. He cut the engine, the quiet of the night wrapping around him. For a second, he considered leaving, shaking this off, pretending like everything was fine. But it wasn’t fine.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and typed two words.
Come outside.
A minute later, the dorm door swung open, and Alix stepped out, her hair damp like she had just gotten out of the shower. She wore a pair of loose shorts and an oversized hoodie, the sleeves pulled past her hands. She hadn’t even put shoes on.
She didn’t hesitate before climbing into the passenger seat, tucking one leg under the other. Royce didn’t say anything at first, just stared ahead, his jaw tight.
Alix studied him, her gaze flickering over his clenched fists on the steering wheel, the tension in his shoulders, the blank stare that meant his mind was a million miles away.
“You good?” she asked softly.
Royce exhaled, finally shaking his head. “I dunno,” he admitted, voice low. Raw. “Just ain’t really want to be alone right now.”
Alix didn’t push. She didn’t ask questions or tell him what he should or shouldn’t feel. Instead, she reached over, lacing her fingers through his, her touch grounding him in a way nothing else had that night.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t the silence that had been sitting on Royce’s chest all day, pressing into him like a weight. This silence was… easier.
After a while, Alix sighed, leaning her head against the seat. “You know,” she murmured, watching his face in the glow of the dashboard lights, “this reminds me of when you first moved here.”
Royce glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “How?”
Alix squeezed his hand slightly. “Because back then, you’d get like this too. Staring out at nothing. Keeping everything in.” She exhaled slowly, voice dropping. “You think you hide it, but you don’t. Not from me.”
Royce’s fingers twitched around hers, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t argue.
Because she was right.
The metal bleachers at Episcopal School in Baton Rouge were cold beneath Royce’s hands, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the field. The chatter of middle school parents filled the air, mingling with the occasional whistle from the referees and the sharp clap of helmets colliding. Royce sat with one arm draped around Alix’s waist, their bodies pressed together in the close, cramped seating.
He wasn’t sure why he was there. Alix had never actually asked him to come—just mentioned the game in passing, the way someone might casually bring up weekend plans. But when the time came, Royce had picked her up without hesitation, barely thinking about it.
Now, they sat like this, their knees brushing, fingers absently intertwining before pulling away, touching in ways that felt natural but never talked about.
Royce kept his eyes on the field where Darius lined up at wide receiver. The kid was quick, sharp in his cuts—maybe not a superstar in the making, but solid.
"You think he’s good?" Alix asked, tilting her head toward Royce, her voice soft but expectant.
"He got a little speed," Royce admitted, watching as Darius burned past a cornerback on a simple go route, the pass sailing just out of his reach. "Need better hands, though. Or a better motherfucker throwing that bitch to him"
Alix smirked. "So, what? You offering to train him?"
Royce chuckled, but didn’t answer.
A few rows down, Marc kept throwing glances Royce’s way. They weren’t friendly.
Royce could feel the man’s disapproval thick in the air, the way he barely acknowledged him, instead focusing on the game, sitting stiffly next to Alix’s mom. The last time they’d spoken was years ago – the time he’d walked in on Royce leaving Alix’s room after bringing her back home after that party.
That hadn’t exactly made for a great first impression.
Now, he just sat there, his posture rigid, looking back every so often like Royce had personally ruined his evening.
Alix noticed too. "You know he’s only being protective over me, right," she murmured.
Royce smirked, eyes never leaving the field. "Ain’t shit to protect you from up here. You the one be taking advantage of me."
Alix stifled a laugh, nudging him with her elbow.
Halftime came, and Alix excused herself to go sit with her family. Royce let her go without argument, leaning back and pulling out his phone.
One unread text from Effie.
His thumb hovered over the notification. He debated ignoring it. He debated not starting that cycle again—the flirting, the persistence, the inevitable pulling away.
But after a few beats, he responded anyway.
Alix returned a few minutes later, brushing loose strands of hair behind her ear. She caught Royce deep in thought, his fingers idly drumming against his thigh.
"You look stressed," she commented, sinking back into the seat beside him.
Royce shook his head. "Nah, I’m cooling. Just tired."
Alix studied him for a moment, her lips parting slightly like she wanted to say something more, but she didn’t push. Instead, she leaned back against his side, stealing warmth from his body, and they both let the silence settle.
It was always like this.
They wanted each other, but neither would define what that meant.
…
After the final whistle blew, Darius was bouncing on his toes, eyes lighting up when he saw Royce waiting by the fence near the field entrance.
"Yo! You saw me out there, huh?" Darius grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead, his youthful excitement radiating.
"Shit, you were burning them boys out there," Royce said, giving him a fist bump. "You gotta catch that bitch, though. You were thinking about that touchdown before you caught it."
"I know, I know," Darius said, shaking his head. "But I swear, man, one day I’ma be like you. Playing in Death Valley. Gotta get my weight up first, though. I’m always afraid to get hit because those other boys are big."
Before Royce could respond, Marc’s voice cut in, firm and pointed.
"Let’s not get ahead of ourselves."
The mood shifted instantly.
Royce didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened as he turned to find Marc watching them with the same disapproving stare from the bleachers.
Alix visibly stiffened beside Royce, her smile fading.
"You’ve got a long way to go, son," Marc continued. "Plenty of paths in life that don’t lead to football."
There was something else beneath those words, something both Royce and Alix understood.
Marc wasn’t just talking about football.
Royce clenched his teeth, reading between the lines.
Don’t follow in his footsteps. You can do better than him. Be better.
Alix put her hand on Darius’ shoulders, steering him away before he could respond, but her eyes flashed with quiet anger as she shot Royce a look that said just ignore it.
Royce exhaled slowly, biting back a comment.
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much—he didn’t need Marc’s approval. Didn’t need him to see his worth.
But as they walked back to the parking lot, Royce couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on his chest.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce walked into the football operations center, his body still sore from the past few days of practice. His mind, though, that was another story—it hadn’t felt right in months. As he moved through the hall, past framed photos of LSU legends and glistening national championship trophies, he couldn’t shake the feeling that every one of those images was staring at him, daring him to live up to something impossible.
When he stepped into the meeting room, Coach Lanning and Coach Lupoi were already seated, their body language casual but deliberate. Lanning leaned forward, his elbows braced against the polished wood of his desk, while Lupoi sat with his arms crossed, observing Royce with a cool expression.
"Take a seat, Royce," Lanning said, nodding toward the chair across from them.
Royce sat, slouching slightly, keeping his gaze even but distant. He had a feeling this wasn’t about anything specific—no mistakes, no disciplinary issues. It was about something much bigger than that.
"You know why you’re here," Lanning began, his voice even but firm. "This defense? It revolves around you."
Royce nodded, exhaling slowly through his nose. He already knew that.
"You dictate how we play," Lanning continued. "You set the tone, the energy. And that’s not just on Saturdays. That’s every damn day. These younger guys? They’re looking at you. The standard has to be higher than last year. Higher than anything else in this conference."
Lupoi finally spoke, his voice smooth but weighty, each word pressing down on Royce’s shoulders. "We’re not just talking about production. You’ve already proven that. We’re talking about leadership. About legacy."
That word again.
Legacy.
It bounced around in Royce’s head like a loose bullet, hitting everything else that had been plaguing him for months.
The expectations.
The weight of his name.
The nightmares about the shooting.
The loss of Romeo.
The mess with Alix.
His father’s voice, always demanding something more.
His mother’s silence, a wound left open.
And then the legal trouble. The reporters. The whispers behind his back.
He could feel it all pressing against his chest, and suddenly, Lanning’s voice faded into the background, blending into the buzzing in his skull. The room felt smaller. He was still sitting there, nodding along, but his mind drifted further and further away.
He wasn’t in this meeting anymore.
He was inside those gates at Dixon Correctional, hearing his father tell him that he owed his family more.
He was standing in his apartment, surrounded by police offices, Billy telling him to keep his mouth shut, that things were being handled.
He felt the presence of Romeo standing over him as he was gunned down.
It was too much. The weight, the pressure, the expectations. It was all too much.
"Lafitte."
Royce blinked, Lanning’s voice slicing through the fog in his head. His coach was staring at him, brow furrowed. Lupoi, too.
"You locked in?"
Royce sat up straighter, forcing a quick nod, even though his body felt like it was moving on autopilot. "Yeah, Coach. I got you."
Lanning didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. "Good," he said, his tone firm. "Because this season isn’t just about you being good. It’s about you being the guy. We started well, but it’s a marathon not a sprint."
Royce let out a slow breath, forcing a smirk that felt unnatural on his face. "Not gonna let y’all down. We going all the way."
But as he left the office, stepping back into the hallway with its framed photos and golden trophies, he didn’t feel like a star player.
He felt like a prisoner.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce didn’t go straight home after leaving the meeting. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he pulled out of the facility’s parking lot, but instead of taking the familiar route back to his apartment, he just… drove.
Baton Rouge blurred past him—the neon glow of fast-food joints, the late-night hum of gas stations, the still-bustling bars around Tigerland where students stumbled out onto the sidewalks, their laughter echoing in the humid air. Normally, he would have felt like a king in a place like this. The city loved him.
But right now? It all felt small. Suffocating.
To everyone else, he had everything. The NIL deals. The status. The recognition. He was the face of LSU’s defense, the name that reporters and analysts loved to bring up, the player the younger guys watched and emulated.
And yet, he still felt like he had nothing.
The walls were closing in. The pressure—his family’s expectations, the program’s expectations, the media, the coaches, his teammates, the bullshit off the field that still loomed like a shadow—it all sat on his chest like a weight he couldn’t lift.
So he drove. And drove. And drove.
Eventually, without even thinking, he found himself back on campus in front of Alix’s dorm. He cut the engine, the quiet of the night wrapping around him. For a second, he considered leaving, shaking this off, pretending like everything was fine. But it wasn’t fine.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and typed two words.
Come outside.
A minute later, the dorm door swung open, and Alix stepped out, her hair damp like she had just gotten out of the shower. She wore a pair of loose shorts and an oversized hoodie, the sleeves pulled past her hands. She hadn’t even put shoes on.
She didn’t hesitate before climbing into the passenger seat, tucking one leg under the other. Royce didn’t say anything at first, just stared ahead, his jaw tight.
Alix studied him, her gaze flickering over his clenched fists on the steering wheel, the tension in his shoulders, the blank stare that meant his mind was a million miles away.
“You good?” she asked softly.
Royce exhaled, finally shaking his head. “I dunno,” he admitted, voice low. Raw. “Just ain’t really want to be alone right now.”
Alix didn’t push. She didn’t ask questions or tell him what he should or shouldn’t feel. Instead, she reached over, lacing her fingers through his, her touch grounding him in a way nothing else had that night.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t the silence that had been sitting on Royce’s chest all day, pressing into him like a weight. This silence was… easier.
After a while, Alix sighed, leaning her head against the seat. “You know,” she murmured, watching his face in the glow of the dashboard lights, “this reminds me of when you first moved here.”
Royce glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “How?”
Alix squeezed his hand slightly. “Because back then, you’d get like this too. Staring out at nothing. Keeping everything in.” She exhaled slowly, voice dropping. “You think you hide it, but you don’t. Not from me.”
Royce’s fingers twitched around hers, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t argue.
Because she was right.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 8025
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Suffering from success is an interesting theme we've got here. Intrigued to see where you decide to go
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17039
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Trash Talk
Royce sat back against the couch, his muscles aching from another grueling practice. His apartment was filled with the familiar sounds of post-practice exhaustion—Khalil scrolling on his phone, J.J. mindlessly flipping through channels, Dewon half-asleep in the armchair. The smell of sweat still clung to them, mixed with the faint scent of whatever cheap takeout they’d picked up on the way over.
His body hurt, but his mind was worse. Exhausted, stretched thin, drowning in a pressure that never let up.
Khalil suddenly let out a sharp laugh, breaking the silence. “Yo, Royce, you seen this?”
Royce barely looked up. “Seen what?”
Khalil turned his phone toward him, a cocky grin spreading across his face. On the screen, Deshawn sat at a press conference, leaning into the microphone with that same smug smirk Royce had always hated.
“That goes back to high school. You know we were at rival schools. And we’re at rival schools now. Some guys get all the hype, especially when they’re at LSU, but we’re not going to back down from them. They’ll fold. That’s all I’m saying. Some dudes ain’t built for this.”
Royce’s jaw locked. He knew exactly who Deshawn was talking about.
J.J. whistled low. “Damn. He’s feeling himself.”
Dewon, half-conscious, smirked and pointed in Royce’s direction. “He talking ‘bout you, man.”
Royce stared at the phone, his expression blank, but inside, something hot and sharp curled in his chest. His fingers flexed against his knee before he snatched his own phone off the coffee table and shoved it into his duffle bag.
Royce sucked his teeth. “Ain’t nobody worried about that nigga. None of them niggas at ULL. They got a reason them motherfuckers playing in Lafayette and not Baton Rouge.”
Khalil raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you got? You ain’t gonna go say something about his bitch ass on Twitter or something?”
Royce exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing his temples. “Ain’t no point in going back and forth with that nigga. He mad because I beat his ass a few months ago.”
J.J. leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I would say you should tell motherfuckers that you whupped his ass one time, but you already done gave Lanning enough of a headache with all that shit in the spring.”
Royce let out a short, humorless laugh. His head was already a battlefield without worrying about what Deshawn was saying about him.
It wasn’t just Deshawn. It was everything. The pressure of being the star. The expectations from the coaching staff, his teammates, the media. His name being the one people threw around in headlines, the one fans wore on jerseys. The constant feeling like he was two seconds from losing everything if he slipped up just once.
Royce leaned back, running a hand over his face. “Man, I don’t got time for this shit. Everyone know we gonna bat the piss out them niggas.”
Khalil studied him for a moment before shaking his head with a smirk. “I don’t know. Y’all looked kinda shaky against Tech. I thought we was about to be on TV on some upset alert shit.”
J.J. snickered, and Dewon let out a sleepy laugh, but Royce didn’t take the bait. Instead, he stood up, stretching out his sore muscles.
“Y’all niggas should’ve got y’all ass on the field if y’all was worried,” Royce muttered under his breath. “I got something for ‘em. We ain’t about to lose to they ass.”
Khalil grinned. “That’s what I’m trying to hear.”
Royce didn’t respond. He just grabbed his duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder. He had a lot on his plate already. A small-time money game against Louisiana-Lafayette in a couple weeks was the last of his worries.
~~~~~~~~~~
The air inside the Black Student Union meeting room buzzed with quiet conversations as students filtered in, finding seats in the circle of chairs. Royce entered like he always did—unhurried, shoulders squared, an effortless presence that turned heads whether he wanted it to or not. The Nike hoodie, the chain hanging boldly on his chest, the LSU-issued sweats—he knew he looked the part of an athlete.
That was the problem.
Tonight, unlike last time, he could feel the skepticism in the room. The side-eyes. The silent judgment that he was here because he had to be, not because he wanted to be.
Jamal spotted him from across the room and smirked, shaking his head as he walked over.
“Still ain’t get your money, huh?” he asked, dapping Royce up.
Royce rolled his eyes. “Motherfucker dragging his feet like I’m asking to fuck his daughter.”
“Might be,” Jamal said, laughing. “Least you honest about it.”
Royce smirked, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes.
The meeting kicked off, the conversation meandering through student issues, campus events, and eventually, the inevitable topic—Black athletes and their role on campus.
“Look, it’s not a secret,” one student said, leaning forward in their seat. “Athletes are the ones that they always have on TV, but those same people never have anything to say about the struggles we’re facing. They’re there when the cameras are rolling. But where are they when it’s time to really support the community?”
A murmur of agreement swept through the room. Another student nodded, eyes flickering toward Royce before speaking.
“They use y’all to bring money to the school, and you don’t even think about what that means for us as a whole.”
“And I’m taking their money, too,” Royce shot back. “All the way to the fucking bank.”
A third student chimed in. “That doesn’t change the point that y’all aren’t doing anything to better the campus for the rest of us. It’s just coming in, getting some money, going mess with some white women and riding off into the sunset.”
He sat up straighter, resisting the urge to cross his arms. He didn’t like being called out, but what was he supposed to say? They weren’t wrong.
Before he could formulate a response, another voice cut through the discussion.
“That’s not entirely fair,” Natalia cut in.
She sat near the middle of the room, her posture relaxed but her expression sharp. She wasn’t looking at Royce—wasn’t even acknowledging him—but the words still landed in his favor.
“It’s not like these guys don’t have their own pressures,” she continued, her tone even but firm.
A student across the room scoffed. “So, you’re defending them?”
Natalia shrugged, crossing her legs. “I’m saying there’s layers to this. Maybe instead of complaining about them not showing up, you figure out how to make them want to.”
Royce’s lips twitched. She got a little fire in her, huh?
The discussion continued, but his focus drifted. He watched Natalia out of the corner of his eye—her confidence, the way she leaned into the conversation, how she wasn’t intimidated by a little pushback.
…
When the meeting wrapped up and students began filing out, Royce didn’t move right away. He lingered near one of the tables, stretching out the moment, waiting.
Sure enough, Natalia caught him watching her.
She hesitated for half a second before walking over, arms still crossed, eyes appraising.
“Didn’t expect to see you here again,” she said, stopping just a step away.
Royce leaned against the table, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah, I ain’t expect you to stand up for us either.”
Natalia scoffed. “Y’all don’t need defending. The school does enough of that, but I was just saying that we don’t need to be dividing the community if we’re really trying to do something. That’s how these folks can do whatever they want with North Baton Rouge.”
Royce let the smirk settle in. “Oh, you all political and shit? Future Michelle Obama, huh?.”
She studied him for a beat, her lips curving slightly, almost like she was amused. “As much as I love Michelle, I’m the future me. I’m not trying to spend years behind some nigga.”
Royce chuckled. “My bad. Don’t let me get in the way of you leading.”
Instead of walking away, Natalia surprised him by sticking around. The two of them lingered after the meeting, the conversation flowing with an ease neither of them fully expected.
They talked about Baton Rouge, about campus life, about what it was like to be Black at LSU.
“You ever get tired of people thinking they know who you are before you even say a word?” Natalia asked, her voice softer now, more thoughtful.
Royce exhaled a short, dry laugh. “Every damn day.”
Natalia nodded like she understood. Like she felt that, too.
Then, somehow, the conversation shifted. It turned lighter, flirtier.
Royce noticed how she kept tucking her hair behind her ear when she spoke, how she leaned in just slightly when he talked.
She noticed the way his gaze lingered, the way his smirk deepened just enough to be dangerous.
Finally, she tilted her head, her eyes flickering with amusement. “You always this smooth, or just when you’re trying to impress someone?”
Royce grinned, slow and confident. “Always. Like a glass of brandy.”
The tension built between them, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air.
Then, Natalia’s phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen, her expression shifting slightly.
“I should go,” she said, though there was hesitation in her voice.
Royce leaned in slightly. “That your man?”
Her lips parted, like she might say something else. Instead, she just shook her head with a small smile.
“See you around, Royce.”
And then she walked away.
Royce watched her go, his smirk lingering.
Royce sat back against the couch, his muscles aching from another grueling practice. His apartment was filled with the familiar sounds of post-practice exhaustion—Khalil scrolling on his phone, J.J. mindlessly flipping through channels, Dewon half-asleep in the armchair. The smell of sweat still clung to them, mixed with the faint scent of whatever cheap takeout they’d picked up on the way over.
His body hurt, but his mind was worse. Exhausted, stretched thin, drowning in a pressure that never let up.
Khalil suddenly let out a sharp laugh, breaking the silence. “Yo, Royce, you seen this?”
Royce barely looked up. “Seen what?”
Khalil turned his phone toward him, a cocky grin spreading across his face. On the screen, Deshawn sat at a press conference, leaning into the microphone with that same smug smirk Royce had always hated.
“That goes back to high school. You know we were at rival schools. And we’re at rival schools now. Some guys get all the hype, especially when they’re at LSU, but we’re not going to back down from them. They’ll fold. That’s all I’m saying. Some dudes ain’t built for this.”
Royce’s jaw locked. He knew exactly who Deshawn was talking about.
J.J. whistled low. “Damn. He’s feeling himself.”
Dewon, half-conscious, smirked and pointed in Royce’s direction. “He talking ‘bout you, man.”
Royce stared at the phone, his expression blank, but inside, something hot and sharp curled in his chest. His fingers flexed against his knee before he snatched his own phone off the coffee table and shoved it into his duffle bag.
Royce sucked his teeth. “Ain’t nobody worried about that nigga. None of them niggas at ULL. They got a reason them motherfuckers playing in Lafayette and not Baton Rouge.”
Khalil raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you got? You ain’t gonna go say something about his bitch ass on Twitter or something?”
Royce exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing his temples. “Ain’t no point in going back and forth with that nigga. He mad because I beat his ass a few months ago.”
J.J. leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I would say you should tell motherfuckers that you whupped his ass one time, but you already done gave Lanning enough of a headache with all that shit in the spring.”
Royce let out a short, humorless laugh. His head was already a battlefield without worrying about what Deshawn was saying about him.
It wasn’t just Deshawn. It was everything. The pressure of being the star. The expectations from the coaching staff, his teammates, the media. His name being the one people threw around in headlines, the one fans wore on jerseys. The constant feeling like he was two seconds from losing everything if he slipped up just once.
Royce leaned back, running a hand over his face. “Man, I don’t got time for this shit. Everyone know we gonna bat the piss out them niggas.”
Khalil studied him for a moment before shaking his head with a smirk. “I don’t know. Y’all looked kinda shaky against Tech. I thought we was about to be on TV on some upset alert shit.”
J.J. snickered, and Dewon let out a sleepy laugh, but Royce didn’t take the bait. Instead, he stood up, stretching out his sore muscles.
“Y’all niggas should’ve got y’all ass on the field if y’all was worried,” Royce muttered under his breath. “I got something for ‘em. We ain’t about to lose to they ass.”
Khalil grinned. “That’s what I’m trying to hear.”
Royce didn’t respond. He just grabbed his duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder. He had a lot on his plate already. A small-time money game against Louisiana-Lafayette in a couple weeks was the last of his worries.
~~~~~~~~~~
The air inside the Black Student Union meeting room buzzed with quiet conversations as students filtered in, finding seats in the circle of chairs. Royce entered like he always did—unhurried, shoulders squared, an effortless presence that turned heads whether he wanted it to or not. The Nike hoodie, the chain hanging boldly on his chest, the LSU-issued sweats—he knew he looked the part of an athlete.
That was the problem.
Tonight, unlike last time, he could feel the skepticism in the room. The side-eyes. The silent judgment that he was here because he had to be, not because he wanted to be.
Jamal spotted him from across the room and smirked, shaking his head as he walked over.
“Still ain’t get your money, huh?” he asked, dapping Royce up.
Royce rolled his eyes. “Motherfucker dragging his feet like I’m asking to fuck his daughter.”
“Might be,” Jamal said, laughing. “Least you honest about it.”
Royce smirked, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes.
The meeting kicked off, the conversation meandering through student issues, campus events, and eventually, the inevitable topic—Black athletes and their role on campus.
“Look, it’s not a secret,” one student said, leaning forward in their seat. “Athletes are the ones that they always have on TV, but those same people never have anything to say about the struggles we’re facing. They’re there when the cameras are rolling. But where are they when it’s time to really support the community?”
A murmur of agreement swept through the room. Another student nodded, eyes flickering toward Royce before speaking.
“They use y’all to bring money to the school, and you don’t even think about what that means for us as a whole.”
“And I’m taking their money, too,” Royce shot back. “All the way to the fucking bank.”
A third student chimed in. “That doesn’t change the point that y’all aren’t doing anything to better the campus for the rest of us. It’s just coming in, getting some money, going mess with some white women and riding off into the sunset.”
He sat up straighter, resisting the urge to cross his arms. He didn’t like being called out, but what was he supposed to say? They weren’t wrong.
Before he could formulate a response, another voice cut through the discussion.
“That’s not entirely fair,” Natalia cut in.
She sat near the middle of the room, her posture relaxed but her expression sharp. She wasn’t looking at Royce—wasn’t even acknowledging him—but the words still landed in his favor.
“It’s not like these guys don’t have their own pressures,” she continued, her tone even but firm.
A student across the room scoffed. “So, you’re defending them?”
Natalia shrugged, crossing her legs. “I’m saying there’s layers to this. Maybe instead of complaining about them not showing up, you figure out how to make them want to.”
Royce’s lips twitched. She got a little fire in her, huh?
The discussion continued, but his focus drifted. He watched Natalia out of the corner of his eye—her confidence, the way she leaned into the conversation, how she wasn’t intimidated by a little pushback.
…
When the meeting wrapped up and students began filing out, Royce didn’t move right away. He lingered near one of the tables, stretching out the moment, waiting.
Sure enough, Natalia caught him watching her.
She hesitated for half a second before walking over, arms still crossed, eyes appraising.
“Didn’t expect to see you here again,” she said, stopping just a step away.
Royce leaned against the table, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah, I ain’t expect you to stand up for us either.”
Natalia scoffed. “Y’all don’t need defending. The school does enough of that, but I was just saying that we don’t need to be dividing the community if we’re really trying to do something. That’s how these folks can do whatever they want with North Baton Rouge.”
Royce let the smirk settle in. “Oh, you all political and shit? Future Michelle Obama, huh?.”
She studied him for a beat, her lips curving slightly, almost like she was amused. “As much as I love Michelle, I’m the future me. I’m not trying to spend years behind some nigga.”
Royce chuckled. “My bad. Don’t let me get in the way of you leading.”
Instead of walking away, Natalia surprised him by sticking around. The two of them lingered after the meeting, the conversation flowing with an ease neither of them fully expected.
They talked about Baton Rouge, about campus life, about what it was like to be Black at LSU.
“You ever get tired of people thinking they know who you are before you even say a word?” Natalia asked, her voice softer now, more thoughtful.
Royce exhaled a short, dry laugh. “Every damn day.”
Natalia nodded like she understood. Like she felt that, too.
Then, somehow, the conversation shifted. It turned lighter, flirtier.
Royce noticed how she kept tucking her hair behind her ear when she spoke, how she leaned in just slightly when he talked.
She noticed the way his gaze lingered, the way his smirk deepened just enough to be dangerous.
Finally, she tilted her head, her eyes flickering with amusement. “You always this smooth, or just when you’re trying to impress someone?”
Royce grinned, slow and confident. “Always. Like a glass of brandy.”
The tension built between them, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air.
Then, Natalia’s phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen, her expression shifting slightly.
“I should go,” she said, though there was hesitation in her voice.
Royce leaned in slightly. “That your man?”
Her lips parted, like she might say something else. Instead, she just shook her head with a small smile.
“See you around, Royce.”
And then she walked away.
Royce watched her go, his smirk lingering.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17039
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Can Be Cut with a Knife
The late afternoon sun bled into the horizon, casting the football field in warm hues of gold and deep orange. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to Mike’s skin as he adjusted his gloves, trying to block out everything except practice. Football was supposed to be the one place where his mind was clear, where the only thing that mattered was the next play, the next hit, the next opportunity to prove himself.
But lately, even the game didn’t feel like an escape.
"Let’s go, Mike! Lock in!" Coach Anderson’s voice cut through the chatter as the team huddled for their final drill.
Mike inhaled sharply, nodding, and dropped into his stance. The ball was snapped, and he burst forward, slicing between defenders like he could see the whole field a second ahead of everyone else. He weaved past his teammate, cutting toward the end zone, his legs burning but his mind numb. When the ball hit his hands, he secured it, planting his foot and pivoting hard as the safety closed in.
The collision was sharp, but Mike stayed on his feet, breaking free and coasting into the end zone.
A few of his teammates whooped, and one smacked his helmet in approval.
"Man, you different, Mike!"
"He one of them ones!"
Mike barely heard them. The praise slid off him like rain on glass. He jogged back to the sideline, pulling off his helmet and pressing his fingers into his temples.
Football was supposed to feel like home. Instead, it felt like another thing he was forcing himself to do.
As the team broke down the huddle and Coach Anderson dismissed them, players peeled off toward the locker room. Mike lingered, tugging at the tape wrapped around his wrist as he scanned the fence at the edge of the field.
There he was.
Brian.
A sophomore who always looked like he was trying too hard to belong, his posture stiff, his nerves visible in the way he shifted from foot to foot.
Mike exhaled slowly, dropping his helmet onto the bench before walking over. He kept his pace slow, deliberate, making sure no one else was paying attention.
Brian swallowed hard when Mike stopped in front of him. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills and pressing them into Mike’s hand like they were doing some casual exchange of notes.
Mike slid the money into his gloves without looking at it. Instead, he reached into his sock and handed over a small, tightly wrapped package, letting his fingers linger for just a second too long—a silent warning.
"You know the drill," Mike muttered.
Brian nodded quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, I got you."
"Good." Mike stepped back, scanning the area again before turning on his heel and heading toward the locker room.
…
Mike pulled into Laila’s driveway as the sky darkened, the last remnants of daylight fading into deep purples and blues. His car rumbled low, vibrating under his fingertips as he hesitated, gripping the steering wheel.
He already knew how this conversation was going to go.
Laila was standing on the porch, arms folded across her chest. She didn’t look mad—just tired. That was worse.
Mike stepped out of the car, adjusting the hoodie he’d thrown over his practice gear. He took one step toward her, and immediately, her nose wrinkled.
"You smell like smoke," she said, voice sharp with accusation.
Mike smirked, shaking his head. "That what we doing now? You the fucking people?"
Laila didn’t budge, didn’t blink. "Don’t do that. Don’t laugh it off like it’s nothing."
Mike sighed, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on him. "What you want me to say, Lai?"
Laila stepped down from the porch, her arms still crossed, but there was something softer in the way she looked at him. "I want you to tell me you been thinking straight lately. ‘Cause from where I’m standing, it don’t seem like it."
Mike scoffed, looking away, biting back the words sitting heavy on his tongue.
"I just gotta make it through this year," he finally muttered. "Then I’ll figure it out."
Laila’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes—something like disappointment.
"You keep saying that shit. Figure what out, Mike?" she asked, voice quieter now. "How to keep selling? How to keep looking over your shoulder every damn day? You think this isn’t going to blow up in your face?"
Mike clenched his jaw, dragging a hand down his face. "You think I got a choice?"
Laila inhaled sharply, her gaze never leaving his face. He saw the hurt in her eyes, the way she was fighting to understand him when he wasn’t sure he even understood himself.
"Yeah," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I do. But you don’t want one anymore."
Mike held her gaze for a long moment, his chest tightening.
Instead of responding, he turned away, stepping back toward his car, leaving Laila standing in the glow of the porch light, watching him go.
~~~~~~~~~~
The text came through while Royce was sitting in his car, parked outside his apartment, the engine still humming beneath him.
’We need to talk. Call me when you can.’
Rana.
Royce exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He knew what this was about before he even put the car in drive. He could ignore it, let it sit unanswered like so many other things in his life, but that wouldn’t stop Rana from showing up somewhere unexpected and forcing the conversation anyway.
So, he drove.
The ride to Rana’s house was long enough for him to sit with the weight of it, but not long enough to figure out what he was going to say. Outside, the Baton Rouge air clung to the pavement, thick with humidity, but inside his car, the air conditioning hummed low, keeping the heat at bay. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he stopped at a red light, jaw tightening.
This conversation was inevitable.
When he pulled up to Rana and Tyrell’s house, he sat there for a moment, staring at the front door. The porch light was on even though it wasn’t dark yet. He took a deep breath before stepping out and heading inside.
The living room was warm and familiar, the scent of something faintly sweet in the air—maybe some kind of candle Tyrell had lit. Rana was sitting on the couch, her feet tucked beneath her, a glass of water on the table beside her.
And she was showing.
For the first time since she had announced the pregnancy, Royce actually noticed it—the slight curve of her stomach, the way her oversized sweatshirt stretched just a little tighter around her middle.
She wasn’t just pregnant. She was going to be a mom.
His sister.
It hit him harder than he expected.
She looked up when he walked in, her eyes scanning him like she was checking for signs that he was already prepared to argue. Then, she offered a small, cautious smile.
“Hey.”
Royce nodded, kicking the door shut behind him. “What’s up?”
She gestured toward the couch, and he sat, leaning back into the armrest.
For a few minutes, the conversation drifted between neutral topics—practice, the upcoming ULL game, Tyrell already planning the nursery. It was light, easy, and yet Royce could feel the tension lurking beneath it.
And then, Rana exhaled, sitting up straighter.
"You need to go talk to Ma."
The air left Royce’s lungs in a sharp scoff. He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I ain’t doing this shit with you.”
Rana folded her arms over her stomach, her jaw tightening. “Royce—”
“No,” he said more forcefully, already feeling the frustration rising in his chest. He knew where this was going.
Rana wasn’t deterred. “You think you can just keep running from it?”
Royce let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not running from anything. I been in the same place for damn near three years. My fucking phone number ain’t change. She shot me down when I tried.”
Rana exhaled through her nose, pressing her lips together. “She’s still our mother.”
Royce sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head shaking again. “You right. She is. She’s the one who treats me like I don’t exist. Like I stood over Rome and shot him my motherfucking self. At least if I had, all this shit would make fucking sense.”
Silence.
And that silence was louder than anything she could have said in response.
Because she didn’t deny it.
She didn’t argue that their mother didn’t feel that way, didn’t tell him he was wrong.
And that hurt worse than anything.
Rana shifted uncomfortably, her fingers running along the fabric of her sweatshirt. “She’s grieving, Ro,” she said, her voice softer now. “You know that.”
Royce clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose.
“What the fuck I’m doing then? Throwing a fucking party? Everyone saying Royce you need to do this, Royce you need to do that. When is someone going to say do some shit for Royce?”
He pushed off the couch, standing. He was done with this conversation.
But before he could turn toward the door, Rana’s voice stopped him.
“You don’t get it,” she said, and when he looked back at her, there was something raw in her expression. “I’m about to bring a baby into this world, Ro. And I don’t want to bring them into a broken family.”
Royce’s mouth pressed into a firm line.
Rana swallowed, her hands resting protectively over her stomach. “I don’t want my kid growing up thinking it’s normal to be this divided. I don’t want them to have to choose between sides.” She let out a breath, shaking her head. “I know Ma is—complicated. I know she’s hurt you. But we’re still family.”
Royce let out a slow exhale, looking away. His hands were curled into fists at his sides.
“If you ain’t want to bring a kid into a broken family, then you picked the wrong family because we been fucked up since day one,” Royce shot back.
Rana’s eyes darkened with frustration, but before she could say anything else, Royce was already turning toward the door.
“Royce.”
He didn’t stop.
The late afternoon sun bled into the horizon, casting the football field in warm hues of gold and deep orange. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to Mike’s skin as he adjusted his gloves, trying to block out everything except practice. Football was supposed to be the one place where his mind was clear, where the only thing that mattered was the next play, the next hit, the next opportunity to prove himself.
But lately, even the game didn’t feel like an escape.
"Let’s go, Mike! Lock in!" Coach Anderson’s voice cut through the chatter as the team huddled for their final drill.
Mike inhaled sharply, nodding, and dropped into his stance. The ball was snapped, and he burst forward, slicing between defenders like he could see the whole field a second ahead of everyone else. He weaved past his teammate, cutting toward the end zone, his legs burning but his mind numb. When the ball hit his hands, he secured it, planting his foot and pivoting hard as the safety closed in.
The collision was sharp, but Mike stayed on his feet, breaking free and coasting into the end zone.
A few of his teammates whooped, and one smacked his helmet in approval.
"Man, you different, Mike!"
"He one of them ones!"
Mike barely heard them. The praise slid off him like rain on glass. He jogged back to the sideline, pulling off his helmet and pressing his fingers into his temples.
Football was supposed to feel like home. Instead, it felt like another thing he was forcing himself to do.
As the team broke down the huddle and Coach Anderson dismissed them, players peeled off toward the locker room. Mike lingered, tugging at the tape wrapped around his wrist as he scanned the fence at the edge of the field.
There he was.
Brian.
A sophomore who always looked like he was trying too hard to belong, his posture stiff, his nerves visible in the way he shifted from foot to foot.
Mike exhaled slowly, dropping his helmet onto the bench before walking over. He kept his pace slow, deliberate, making sure no one else was paying attention.
Brian swallowed hard when Mike stopped in front of him. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills and pressing them into Mike’s hand like they were doing some casual exchange of notes.
Mike slid the money into his gloves without looking at it. Instead, he reached into his sock and handed over a small, tightly wrapped package, letting his fingers linger for just a second too long—a silent warning.
"You know the drill," Mike muttered.
Brian nodded quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, I got you."
"Good." Mike stepped back, scanning the area again before turning on his heel and heading toward the locker room.
…
Mike pulled into Laila’s driveway as the sky darkened, the last remnants of daylight fading into deep purples and blues. His car rumbled low, vibrating under his fingertips as he hesitated, gripping the steering wheel.
He already knew how this conversation was going to go.
Laila was standing on the porch, arms folded across her chest. She didn’t look mad—just tired. That was worse.
Mike stepped out of the car, adjusting the hoodie he’d thrown over his practice gear. He took one step toward her, and immediately, her nose wrinkled.
"You smell like smoke," she said, voice sharp with accusation.
Mike smirked, shaking his head. "That what we doing now? You the fucking people?"
Laila didn’t budge, didn’t blink. "Don’t do that. Don’t laugh it off like it’s nothing."
Mike sighed, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on him. "What you want me to say, Lai?"
Laila stepped down from the porch, her arms still crossed, but there was something softer in the way she looked at him. "I want you to tell me you been thinking straight lately. ‘Cause from where I’m standing, it don’t seem like it."
Mike scoffed, looking away, biting back the words sitting heavy on his tongue.
"I just gotta make it through this year," he finally muttered. "Then I’ll figure it out."
Laila’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes—something like disappointment.
"You keep saying that shit. Figure what out, Mike?" she asked, voice quieter now. "How to keep selling? How to keep looking over your shoulder every damn day? You think this isn’t going to blow up in your face?"
Mike clenched his jaw, dragging a hand down his face. "You think I got a choice?"
Laila inhaled sharply, her gaze never leaving his face. He saw the hurt in her eyes, the way she was fighting to understand him when he wasn’t sure he even understood himself.
"Yeah," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I do. But you don’t want one anymore."
Mike held her gaze for a long moment, his chest tightening.
Instead of responding, he turned away, stepping back toward his car, leaving Laila standing in the glow of the porch light, watching him go.
~~~~~~~~~~
The text came through while Royce was sitting in his car, parked outside his apartment, the engine still humming beneath him.
’We need to talk. Call me when you can.’
Rana.
Royce exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He knew what this was about before he even put the car in drive. He could ignore it, let it sit unanswered like so many other things in his life, but that wouldn’t stop Rana from showing up somewhere unexpected and forcing the conversation anyway.
So, he drove.
The ride to Rana’s house was long enough for him to sit with the weight of it, but not long enough to figure out what he was going to say. Outside, the Baton Rouge air clung to the pavement, thick with humidity, but inside his car, the air conditioning hummed low, keeping the heat at bay. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he stopped at a red light, jaw tightening.
This conversation was inevitable.
When he pulled up to Rana and Tyrell’s house, he sat there for a moment, staring at the front door. The porch light was on even though it wasn’t dark yet. He took a deep breath before stepping out and heading inside.
The living room was warm and familiar, the scent of something faintly sweet in the air—maybe some kind of candle Tyrell had lit. Rana was sitting on the couch, her feet tucked beneath her, a glass of water on the table beside her.
And she was showing.
For the first time since she had announced the pregnancy, Royce actually noticed it—the slight curve of her stomach, the way her oversized sweatshirt stretched just a little tighter around her middle.
She wasn’t just pregnant. She was going to be a mom.
His sister.
It hit him harder than he expected.
She looked up when he walked in, her eyes scanning him like she was checking for signs that he was already prepared to argue. Then, she offered a small, cautious smile.
“Hey.”
Royce nodded, kicking the door shut behind him. “What’s up?”
She gestured toward the couch, and he sat, leaning back into the armrest.
For a few minutes, the conversation drifted between neutral topics—practice, the upcoming ULL game, Tyrell already planning the nursery. It was light, easy, and yet Royce could feel the tension lurking beneath it.
And then, Rana exhaled, sitting up straighter.
"You need to go talk to Ma."
The air left Royce’s lungs in a sharp scoff. He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I ain’t doing this shit with you.”
Rana folded her arms over her stomach, her jaw tightening. “Royce—”
“No,” he said more forcefully, already feeling the frustration rising in his chest. He knew where this was going.
Rana wasn’t deterred. “You think you can just keep running from it?”
Royce let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not running from anything. I been in the same place for damn near three years. My fucking phone number ain’t change. She shot me down when I tried.”
Rana exhaled through her nose, pressing her lips together. “She’s still our mother.”
Royce sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head shaking again. “You right. She is. She’s the one who treats me like I don’t exist. Like I stood over Rome and shot him my motherfucking self. At least if I had, all this shit would make fucking sense.”
Silence.
And that silence was louder than anything she could have said in response.
Because she didn’t deny it.
She didn’t argue that their mother didn’t feel that way, didn’t tell him he was wrong.
And that hurt worse than anything.
Rana shifted uncomfortably, her fingers running along the fabric of her sweatshirt. “She’s grieving, Ro,” she said, her voice softer now. “You know that.”
Royce clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose.
“What the fuck I’m doing then? Throwing a fucking party? Everyone saying Royce you need to do this, Royce you need to do that. When is someone going to say do some shit for Royce?”
He pushed off the couch, standing. He was done with this conversation.
But before he could turn toward the door, Rana’s voice stopped him.
“You don’t get it,” she said, and when he looked back at her, there was something raw in her expression. “I’m about to bring a baby into this world, Ro. And I don’t want to bring them into a broken family.”
Royce’s mouth pressed into a firm line.
Rana swallowed, her hands resting protectively over her stomach. “I don’t want my kid growing up thinking it’s normal to be this divided. I don’t want them to have to choose between sides.” She let out a breath, shaking her head. “I know Ma is—complicated. I know she’s hurt you. But we’re still family.”
Royce let out a slow exhale, looking away. His hands were curled into fists at his sides.
“If you ain’t want to bring a kid into a broken family, then you picked the wrong family because we been fucked up since day one,” Royce shot back.
Rana’s eyes darkened with frustration, but before she could say anything else, Royce was already turning toward the door.
“Royce.”
He didn’t stop.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 8025
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
I mean, his ass really ain't wrong. Expecting Royce to be the bigger person over a fully grown adult is ... a choice
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17039
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Pound of Flesh
The ballroom gleamed with wealth—gold chandeliers casting a warm glow over polished marble floors, men in tailored suits, and women draped in designer dresses, their laughter bubbling over glasses of champagne. Royce adjusted the cuff of a dark navy Tom Ford suit, a recent purchase he hadn’t even taken the tag off until tonight. It fit him like a second skin, sharp and expensive, a reminder that he was finally in a place where he could buy himself nice things.
And yet, he still felt like a stranger in the room.
All around him were some of LSU’s biggest names, past and present, players whose highlights ran on ESPN and whose names sold jerseys. He spotted Jamal and a couple of gymnasts huddled near a table of boosters who were grinning too wide, talking too smooth. Further back, some of the guys from last year’s baseball team were in a circle, talking about their trip to the College World Series with other big wigs. It was clear that this event wasn’t just about handshakes and small talk—it was about business.
Alix stood beside him, her confidence so effortless it made him feel even more like an outsider. Her black dress was sleek and simple, but the way she carried herself made her look like she belonged here more than he did.
“Mr. Lafitte,” a voice called out, smooth and commanding. Royce turned toward the sound, already tensing.
An older man approached, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than some people’s mortgages. His handshake was firm, his eyes sharp.
“You’re having quite the start to the season, young man,” the booster said, his grin polished like he’d been practicing it in the mirror.
“Just trying my best,” Royce replied, keeping his tone polite.
The booster chuckled, turning to the other men at his table. “You hear that? Modest kid. Just what we like to see.”
Royce felt his jaw tighten, knowing that he was far from modest but having been told enough times by Billy that he needed to do what he needed to do to get the deals.
Alix shifted beside him, reaching for his arm, her fingers just brushing the sleeve of his jacket before she thought better of it. “I need a drink,” she muttered under her breath. “You?”
Royce exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”
They made their way to the bar, and Royce wasted no time ordering a whiskey neat. He knew he should pace himself, but being here, being spoken about like he was an investment instead of a person, made his skin itch.
Alix gave him a look as he downed the drink in one gulp before gesturing for another from the bartender. “Really?”
He arched a brow. “What?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Just don’t forget that we’re not at Fred’s or Reginelli’s. You get drunk and start hitting on these old motherfuckers’ wives and you’re spending a night or two in jail.”
Royce snorted, tipping the glass toward her. “You always got some shit to say.”
Alix smirked. “And I’m usually right.”
He should’ve been annoyed, but her presence—her usual mix of sharp humor and blunt honesty—was grounding in a way he couldn’t explain.
“I’m going to find the ladies’ rom,” she said, already stepping away. “Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
Royce let out a short laugh, but as soon as she disappeared down the hall, the space around him felt heavier. The whiskey burned a little less the second time around.
"Royce, my boy," a voice said behind him, smooth as silk.
Royce turned, immediately recognizing James Ledoux, a booster whose name carried weight in LSU’s athletic circles.
“How are you liking the party?” Ledoux asked, smiling, though his eyes were sharp with calculation.
“It’s… nice,” Royce said, measuring his words.
Ledoux chuckled, sipping his drink. “Nice. That’s a safe answer. Smart kid.”
He let the silence linger just long enough for Royce to feel it before continuing. “Tell me, son. You thinking about declaring after next season?”
Royce tensed. He hadn’t even figured out what he was doing next week, let alone next year.
“I don’t know yet to be honest,” he answered honestly. “We still got a long way to go this year.”
Ledoux hummed like that answer pleased him. “I respect that. But I’ll tell you this—our athletic foundation likes to take care of our own. If you decide to stick around for your senior year, well… let’s just say we’ll make it worth your while.”
Royce stilled.
The words were smooth, but the message was clear.
Stay and play well, and we’ll take care of you. Don’t play well, and it might be better for you to leave sooner rather than later.
Royce had heard threats before. This one just came in a silk-lined package.
He forced a small smile, nodding once. "I appreciate that."
Ledoux clapped him on the back, already turning toward another conversation. "Think about it, son. We’ll be watching."
Royce watched him disappear into the crowd, his stomach twisting.
He was no stranger to deals. To power plays. But this? This was a whole different kind of game. And he wasn’t sure yet if he was willing to play.
…
The mirror was too clean, the kind of spotless that came from being wiped down by staff every ten minutes to keep up appearances. Alix leaned over the sink, fingers splayed on the cool marble, watching herself as she took a deep breath. She looked good—better than she felt. The dress hugged her the way it was supposed to, the makeup was just enough without being too much, but all of it felt like a costume.
She wasn’t built for this world. The quiet cattiness. The polished smiles hiding sharp teeth. The way these women spoke in careful codes, as if life revolved around being the right kind of girl for the right kind of man.
The bathroom door swung open, and a girl in red stilettos strutted in, her perfume trailing behind her in a cloud of vanilla and expensive floral. Alix recognized her from social media—Gabrielle, the girlfriend of one of LSU’s more beloved basketball players. The kind of girl that looked like she was bred for this, the type that belonged in these rooms, laughing at booster jokes and sliding into the right social circles with ease.
Gabrielle caught Alix’s gaze in the mirror and smiled, the kind that was more habit than warmth. She pulled a lipstick from her clutch, swiping it across her lips before speaking.
“So,” she said, voice smooth, eyes still on her reflection. “You lock him down yet?”
Alix frowned, turning slightly. “Lock who down?”
Gabrielle’s lips twitched, and she snapped her compact shut before turning to face her fully. “Whoever you messing with,” she said simply, like it was obvious. “I mean, you’re either here because you’re with one of the athletes or you’re here because you’re with your sugar daddy. It works either way.”
Alix blinked, trying to process the words, but Gabrielle picked up on her confusion immediately.
She laughed softly, tilting her head. “Oh, you’re one of those.”
Alix narrowed her eyes. “One of what?”
“The ones that think they got time.” Gabrielle tucked her lipstick away, shifting her weight onto one hip. “Listen, girl. You’re cute. But cute don’t mean shit in a room like this. Cute is a dime a dozen. You better figure out how to secure your future before some other girl does.”
Alix crossed her arms, ignoring the tightness in her chest. “And by that, you mean…?”
Gabrielle gave her a look, like she was debating whether Alix was naive or just slow. “Either convince him to put a ring on it or get him to put a baby in it.”
Alix let out a sharp laugh before she could stop herself. “I think I’m going to pass.”
Gabrielle raised a perfectly arched brow. “You think I’m playing? These boys got a short window before they get rich, and an even shorter one before they forget who was there before the money.” She adjusted her dress, glancing back in the mirror. “So, you better make sure you ain’t just a fun phase.”
Alix felt something cold settle in her stomach, though she refused to let it show.
She leaned against the counter, her own lips curling up in a smirk. “That why you still just a girlfriend?”
For the first time, Gabrielle’s expression flickered. A flash of something in her eyes—annoyance, maybe even doubt—before she masked it with a shrug.
“Not for long,” she said smoothly, pushing off the counter. “I know how to play the game.”
Alix watched as she strutted toward the door, her red heels clicking against the tile, her confidence unwavering.
As the door swung shut behind her, Alix turned back to the mirror, exhaling slowly.
Lock him down.
Her stomach twisted at the thought.
…
The first thing Royce did when they walked into his apartment was yank off his tie and toss it onto the couch like it had personally offended him. He rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply as he pulled at the collar of his shirt.
“Man,” he muttered, shaking his head as he walked toward the kitchen, “I can’t do too many more of these damn events. All that smiling and nodding, letting old white men pat me on the back like I’m some motherfucking mandingo they about to put in the field.” He reached for the bottle of whiskey he had left on the counter, pouring himself a drink.
Alix stepped out of her heels with a relieved sigh, rolling her ankles. She perched on the edge of the couch, leaning her elbows onto her knees as she watched him.
“I just wanna play football,” Royce continued, swirling the liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Ain’t ask for all this extra shit. I go to class ‘cause I have to. I deal with media ‘cause I have to. But these rich folks want you to kiss the ring like they made you.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Like I’m supposed to be grateful they ‘investing’ in me. Like I ain’t putting my own body on the line every week.”
Alix stayed quiet, letting him talk, letting the words spill out in a way they only did when he was around her. She could tell he needed to vent, but there was something in the way he spoke tonight—less fire, more fatigue.
He ran a hand over his head, sighing. “Man, I just wanna ball and go home.”
Alix’s gaze flickered, something unreadable passing over her face. She let the silence stretch between them before she finally spoke, her voice calm but carrying weight.
“What am I to you?”
Royce, in the middle of taking another sip, froze for half a second before setting the glass down on the counter. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t look surprised—just like he had been hoping she wouldn’t ask.
“What do you mean what are you to me?” he said instead, shrugging. “I just took you to a whole event with me. That’s couple shit, ain’t it?”
Alix’s jaw tightened. The way he said it so easily, like that should be enough, made her feel stupid for even asking.
She opened her mouth, ready to argue, to call him out on how he was always just close enough but never all the way in. But as soon as the words formed, she felt it—the exhaustion creeping in, the weight of the night settling on her shoulders.
She shook her head, waving a hand dismissively. “Nevermind. Forget it.”
Royce studied her, watching the way her shoulders slumped slightly, the way she avoided looking directly at him.
“What did I say wrong? You mad?”
Alix exhaled through her nose, standing up from the couch. “Nah. Just tired.”
Royce watched her walk toward his bedroom like she had a hundred times before. But this time, she didn’t have anything slick to say, no teasing remark to throw over her shoulder.
~~~~~~~~~~
Poochie sat on the edge of a stranger’s bed, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress while the other toyed with the chain around his neck. The room smelled like vanilla lotion and fruity perfume, the kind of scent that lingered on skin and sheets longer than it should.
Across from him, Keshawn, his roommate, was on the other bed, leaned back against the pillows, his arm slung lazily over the shoulder of the girl he was entertaining. The girl—Brianna? Brielle?—was giggling at something he said, her manicured fingers tracing patterns on his forearm.
Poochie barely heard them.
Beside him, the girl he was supposed to be entertaining—Sydney, maybe?—shifted closer, her thigh brushing against his. She was saying something, her voice light and teasing, but his mind was elsewhere.
It had been two weeks since the season started, and he hadn’t seen the field once. Not a snap. Not a special teams play. Not even garbage time. Mercer wasn’t Alabama, but somehow, he still wasn’t good enough to get on the damn field.
He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and pulled it out, his stomach clenching when he saw the name on the screen.
Natalia.
He let it ring.
Sydney noticed, peeking at the screen with a smirk. “Somebody important?”
Poochie flipped the phone face-down on the bed. “Nah, some telemarketer or some shit.”
Keshawn snorted from across the room. “Nigga lying,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s his bitch.”
Poochie shot him a look, but Keshawn just laughed, shifting so he could pull Brianna—or whatever her name was—closer.
“Answer that shit and tell her to stop blowing your shit up because she ruining the mood,” Keshawn added. “Tell her ass you at church or some shit.”
Poochie let out a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Fuck I look like telling someone that I’m at church on a Wednesday?”
Keshawn shrugged as he turned his attention back to the girl he was in the bed with. “I don’t know. A church nigga.”
Sydney pouted playfully, running a finger along his forearm. “You’re not saving yourself for marriage or nothing crazy, huh?”
Poochie exhaled through his nose, rubbing his hand down his face. “Fuck no.”
She giggled, tilting her head. “Good.”
He didn’t answer.
His phone buzzed again—Natalia, again—and this time, he picked it up and silenced it completely before shoving it back into his pocket.
He could already hear the frustration in her voice if he picked up. Why you ignoring me? What’s going on with you? Why you acting like this?
He wasn’t trying to hear all that. Not tonight.
Not when the one thing that made him feel like himself—football, the only thing he had ever been good at—was slipping further and further away.
The ballroom gleamed with wealth—gold chandeliers casting a warm glow over polished marble floors, men in tailored suits, and women draped in designer dresses, their laughter bubbling over glasses of champagne. Royce adjusted the cuff of a dark navy Tom Ford suit, a recent purchase he hadn’t even taken the tag off until tonight. It fit him like a second skin, sharp and expensive, a reminder that he was finally in a place where he could buy himself nice things.
And yet, he still felt like a stranger in the room.
All around him were some of LSU’s biggest names, past and present, players whose highlights ran on ESPN and whose names sold jerseys. He spotted Jamal and a couple of gymnasts huddled near a table of boosters who were grinning too wide, talking too smooth. Further back, some of the guys from last year’s baseball team were in a circle, talking about their trip to the College World Series with other big wigs. It was clear that this event wasn’t just about handshakes and small talk—it was about business.
Alix stood beside him, her confidence so effortless it made him feel even more like an outsider. Her black dress was sleek and simple, but the way she carried herself made her look like she belonged here more than he did.
“Mr. Lafitte,” a voice called out, smooth and commanding. Royce turned toward the sound, already tensing.
An older man approached, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than some people’s mortgages. His handshake was firm, his eyes sharp.
“You’re having quite the start to the season, young man,” the booster said, his grin polished like he’d been practicing it in the mirror.
“Just trying my best,” Royce replied, keeping his tone polite.
The booster chuckled, turning to the other men at his table. “You hear that? Modest kid. Just what we like to see.”
Royce felt his jaw tighten, knowing that he was far from modest but having been told enough times by Billy that he needed to do what he needed to do to get the deals.
Alix shifted beside him, reaching for his arm, her fingers just brushing the sleeve of his jacket before she thought better of it. “I need a drink,” she muttered under her breath. “You?”
Royce exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”
They made their way to the bar, and Royce wasted no time ordering a whiskey neat. He knew he should pace himself, but being here, being spoken about like he was an investment instead of a person, made his skin itch.
Alix gave him a look as he downed the drink in one gulp before gesturing for another from the bartender. “Really?”
He arched a brow. “What?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Just don’t forget that we’re not at Fred’s or Reginelli’s. You get drunk and start hitting on these old motherfuckers’ wives and you’re spending a night or two in jail.”
Royce snorted, tipping the glass toward her. “You always got some shit to say.”
Alix smirked. “And I’m usually right.”
He should’ve been annoyed, but her presence—her usual mix of sharp humor and blunt honesty—was grounding in a way he couldn’t explain.
“I’m going to find the ladies’ rom,” she said, already stepping away. “Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
Royce let out a short laugh, but as soon as she disappeared down the hall, the space around him felt heavier. The whiskey burned a little less the second time around.
"Royce, my boy," a voice said behind him, smooth as silk.
Royce turned, immediately recognizing James Ledoux, a booster whose name carried weight in LSU’s athletic circles.
“How are you liking the party?” Ledoux asked, smiling, though his eyes were sharp with calculation.
“It’s… nice,” Royce said, measuring his words.
Ledoux chuckled, sipping his drink. “Nice. That’s a safe answer. Smart kid.”
He let the silence linger just long enough for Royce to feel it before continuing. “Tell me, son. You thinking about declaring after next season?”
Royce tensed. He hadn’t even figured out what he was doing next week, let alone next year.
“I don’t know yet to be honest,” he answered honestly. “We still got a long way to go this year.”
Ledoux hummed like that answer pleased him. “I respect that. But I’ll tell you this—our athletic foundation likes to take care of our own. If you decide to stick around for your senior year, well… let’s just say we’ll make it worth your while.”
Royce stilled.
The words were smooth, but the message was clear.
Stay and play well, and we’ll take care of you. Don’t play well, and it might be better for you to leave sooner rather than later.
Royce had heard threats before. This one just came in a silk-lined package.
He forced a small smile, nodding once. "I appreciate that."
Ledoux clapped him on the back, already turning toward another conversation. "Think about it, son. We’ll be watching."
Royce watched him disappear into the crowd, his stomach twisting.
He was no stranger to deals. To power plays. But this? This was a whole different kind of game. And he wasn’t sure yet if he was willing to play.
…
The mirror was too clean, the kind of spotless that came from being wiped down by staff every ten minutes to keep up appearances. Alix leaned over the sink, fingers splayed on the cool marble, watching herself as she took a deep breath. She looked good—better than she felt. The dress hugged her the way it was supposed to, the makeup was just enough without being too much, but all of it felt like a costume.
She wasn’t built for this world. The quiet cattiness. The polished smiles hiding sharp teeth. The way these women spoke in careful codes, as if life revolved around being the right kind of girl for the right kind of man.
The bathroom door swung open, and a girl in red stilettos strutted in, her perfume trailing behind her in a cloud of vanilla and expensive floral. Alix recognized her from social media—Gabrielle, the girlfriend of one of LSU’s more beloved basketball players. The kind of girl that looked like she was bred for this, the type that belonged in these rooms, laughing at booster jokes and sliding into the right social circles with ease.
Gabrielle caught Alix’s gaze in the mirror and smiled, the kind that was more habit than warmth. She pulled a lipstick from her clutch, swiping it across her lips before speaking.
“So,” she said, voice smooth, eyes still on her reflection. “You lock him down yet?”
Alix frowned, turning slightly. “Lock who down?”
Gabrielle’s lips twitched, and she snapped her compact shut before turning to face her fully. “Whoever you messing with,” she said simply, like it was obvious. “I mean, you’re either here because you’re with one of the athletes or you’re here because you’re with your sugar daddy. It works either way.”
Alix blinked, trying to process the words, but Gabrielle picked up on her confusion immediately.
She laughed softly, tilting her head. “Oh, you’re one of those.”
Alix narrowed her eyes. “One of what?”
“The ones that think they got time.” Gabrielle tucked her lipstick away, shifting her weight onto one hip. “Listen, girl. You’re cute. But cute don’t mean shit in a room like this. Cute is a dime a dozen. You better figure out how to secure your future before some other girl does.”
Alix crossed her arms, ignoring the tightness in her chest. “And by that, you mean…?”
Gabrielle gave her a look, like she was debating whether Alix was naive or just slow. “Either convince him to put a ring on it or get him to put a baby in it.”
Alix let out a sharp laugh before she could stop herself. “I think I’m going to pass.”
Gabrielle raised a perfectly arched brow. “You think I’m playing? These boys got a short window before they get rich, and an even shorter one before they forget who was there before the money.” She adjusted her dress, glancing back in the mirror. “So, you better make sure you ain’t just a fun phase.”
Alix felt something cold settle in her stomach, though she refused to let it show.
She leaned against the counter, her own lips curling up in a smirk. “That why you still just a girlfriend?”
For the first time, Gabrielle’s expression flickered. A flash of something in her eyes—annoyance, maybe even doubt—before she masked it with a shrug.
“Not for long,” she said smoothly, pushing off the counter. “I know how to play the game.”
Alix watched as she strutted toward the door, her red heels clicking against the tile, her confidence unwavering.
As the door swung shut behind her, Alix turned back to the mirror, exhaling slowly.
Lock him down.
Her stomach twisted at the thought.
…
The first thing Royce did when they walked into his apartment was yank off his tie and toss it onto the couch like it had personally offended him. He rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply as he pulled at the collar of his shirt.
“Man,” he muttered, shaking his head as he walked toward the kitchen, “I can’t do too many more of these damn events. All that smiling and nodding, letting old white men pat me on the back like I’m some motherfucking mandingo they about to put in the field.” He reached for the bottle of whiskey he had left on the counter, pouring himself a drink.
Alix stepped out of her heels with a relieved sigh, rolling her ankles. She perched on the edge of the couch, leaning her elbows onto her knees as she watched him.
“I just wanna play football,” Royce continued, swirling the liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Ain’t ask for all this extra shit. I go to class ‘cause I have to. I deal with media ‘cause I have to. But these rich folks want you to kiss the ring like they made you.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Like I’m supposed to be grateful they ‘investing’ in me. Like I ain’t putting my own body on the line every week.”
Alix stayed quiet, letting him talk, letting the words spill out in a way they only did when he was around her. She could tell he needed to vent, but there was something in the way he spoke tonight—less fire, more fatigue.
He ran a hand over his head, sighing. “Man, I just wanna ball and go home.”
Alix’s gaze flickered, something unreadable passing over her face. She let the silence stretch between them before she finally spoke, her voice calm but carrying weight.
“What am I to you?”
Royce, in the middle of taking another sip, froze for half a second before setting the glass down on the counter. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t look surprised—just like he had been hoping she wouldn’t ask.
“What do you mean what are you to me?” he said instead, shrugging. “I just took you to a whole event with me. That’s couple shit, ain’t it?”
Alix’s jaw tightened. The way he said it so easily, like that should be enough, made her feel stupid for even asking.
She opened her mouth, ready to argue, to call him out on how he was always just close enough but never all the way in. But as soon as the words formed, she felt it—the exhaustion creeping in, the weight of the night settling on her shoulders.
She shook her head, waving a hand dismissively. “Nevermind. Forget it.”
Royce studied her, watching the way her shoulders slumped slightly, the way she avoided looking directly at him.
“What did I say wrong? You mad?”
Alix exhaled through her nose, standing up from the couch. “Nah. Just tired.”
Royce watched her walk toward his bedroom like she had a hundred times before. But this time, she didn’t have anything slick to say, no teasing remark to throw over her shoulder.
~~~~~~~~~~
Poochie sat on the edge of a stranger’s bed, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress while the other toyed with the chain around his neck. The room smelled like vanilla lotion and fruity perfume, the kind of scent that lingered on skin and sheets longer than it should.
Across from him, Keshawn, his roommate, was on the other bed, leaned back against the pillows, his arm slung lazily over the shoulder of the girl he was entertaining. The girl—Brianna? Brielle?—was giggling at something he said, her manicured fingers tracing patterns on his forearm.
Poochie barely heard them.
Beside him, the girl he was supposed to be entertaining—Sydney, maybe?—shifted closer, her thigh brushing against his. She was saying something, her voice light and teasing, but his mind was elsewhere.
It had been two weeks since the season started, and he hadn’t seen the field once. Not a snap. Not a special teams play. Not even garbage time. Mercer wasn’t Alabama, but somehow, he still wasn’t good enough to get on the damn field.
He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and pulled it out, his stomach clenching when he saw the name on the screen.
Natalia.
He let it ring.
Sydney noticed, peeking at the screen with a smirk. “Somebody important?”
Poochie flipped the phone face-down on the bed. “Nah, some telemarketer or some shit.”
Keshawn snorted from across the room. “Nigga lying,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s his bitch.”
Poochie shot him a look, but Keshawn just laughed, shifting so he could pull Brianna—or whatever her name was—closer.
“Answer that shit and tell her to stop blowing your shit up because she ruining the mood,” Keshawn added. “Tell her ass you at church or some shit.”
Poochie let out a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Fuck I look like telling someone that I’m at church on a Wednesday?”
Keshawn shrugged as he turned his attention back to the girl he was in the bed with. “I don’t know. A church nigga.”
Sydney pouted playfully, running a finger along his forearm. “You’re not saving yourself for marriage or nothing crazy, huh?”
Poochie exhaled through his nose, rubbing his hand down his face. “Fuck no.”
She giggled, tilting her head. “Good.”
He didn’t answer.
His phone buzzed again—Natalia, again—and this time, he picked it up and silenced it completely before shoving it back into his pocket.
He could already hear the frustration in her voice if he picked up. Why you ignoring me? What’s going on with you? Why you acting like this?
He wasn’t trying to hear all that. Not tonight.
Not when the one thing that made him feel like himself—football, the only thing he had ever been good at—was slipping further and further away.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 8025
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Hopefully the resolution between him and Alix comes soon. Can't imagine they do this song and dance for much longer.