D1 hater over here
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16997
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16997
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Maybe Keep It Down
The gym smelled like rubber soles and concession nachos, and the buzz of early evening energy pulsed through the crowd. It was packed for a middle school game—standing room only along the back wall, people pressed shoulder to shoulder on the bleachers. Parents, cousins, classmates, and a few local coaches all leaned in to see if the rumors about number five were true.
Royce knew the kid in question better than most of them.
“D got his hair braided just for this,” he muttered, squinting at the court.
Beside him, Alix smirked. “He said it makes him faster.”
Royce chuckled. “If it don’t, it’s at least making him cockier.”
Across the court, Darius bounced on the balls of his feet near the top of the key, headband on tight, arms wiry and tense like a sprinter waiting for the gun.
Royce leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. He didn’t know when this had become routine—being here, with Alix, for Darius—but it felt natural now. Familiar.
Next to Alix sat Carmen, polite and poised, hands resting on a paper program folded neatly in her lap. She gave Royce a small nod when they sat down. Not cold. Not warm. Just enough to acknowledge he was there.
Beside her sat Marc in a black quarter-zip LSU pullover and jeans. Casual. Comfortable. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes tracked the court like he was scouting every play. He’d greeted Royce with a handshake and a nod, said “Good to see you again” in a tone that was hard to read. It wasn’t shade—but it wasn’t invitation either.
Royce took it in stride.
On the court, the other team set up in a half-court press. Darius caught the inbounds, broke past two defenders, crossed the last one so clean the kid almost fell.
Royce shot up from the bench.
“Yooo! Break that nigga ankles, D!”
Laughter rippled through the student section. A few kids echoed it. Darius shot Royce a grin from the court, puffed up, proud and pointed at him, pounding his chest.
But beside him, everything quieted.
Marc turned, slow and deliberate.
“That language,” he said, not raising his voice. “It’s not it.”
Royce looked at him. “It’s basketball.”
Marc’s face didn’t change. “And this is a gym full of kids. You think that’s how you talk in front of his classmates? His teachers?”
Royce blinked. “I’m hyping him up. You worried about the word?”
“I’m worried about what follows him when you say it.”
Royce’s mouth twitched. “He Black like me and you. He ain’t embarrassed. You are.”
Marc straightened slightly in his seat. “I’m his father. It’s my job to think further than the moment.”
Royce waved off the comment. “You can keep that shit to yourself. You not about to check me like I’m your kid.”
“You’re right,” Marc said calmly. “Because mine knows better.”
The line hit sharper than Royce expected. He stared down at Marc.
“You ain’t my fucking daddy.”
Marc looked back without blinking. “Isn’t he in jail?”
Alix turned sharply. “Marc—”
But it was too late.
Royce’s face hardened. His breath caught low in his chest. He stood, jaw clenched, and moved down the bleachers without another word.
The air outside was cooler than inside the gym, but it didn’t do much to settle him. He stood by his car, fists in his hoodie pocket, breathing like he’d just come off a hard sprint.
Alix caught up seconds later.
“Royce—”
He didn’t look at her.
“I didn’t know he was gonna say that.”
He shook his head. “Don’t matter.”
“It does.”
He turned toward her, finally. “He’s just waiting to find something. The way I talk. The way I walk. The way I breathe. Ain’t nothing I do gonna be good enough. I ain’t grow up in the motherfucking suburbs.”
“He doesn’t know you,” Alix said. “Not really.”
Royce gave a humorless laugh. “He don’t wanna. You need to tell his ass I am who I am and I ain’t gonna fucking change. For nobody.”
Alix stepped closer, voice soft. “You were there for Darius. You’ve always been there.”
Royce’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I’m just trying to show bro some support.”
“I know.”
“I ain’t really trying to talk about this shit right now, Alix.”
Alix nodded. “You wanna go home?”
He exhaled. “Yeah, I just wanna go to sleep.”
The gym lights stayed bright behind them, and Darius—somewhere on the court, unaware—kept playing his game.
But out here, Royce had already walked off the court.
And the silence between him and Marc would stretch longer than the season.
~~~~~~~~~~
Poochie drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his thigh to the beat leaking from the speakers. The AC was low, the sun high, and the BMW hummed smooth under him, eating up I-10 as the green road signs started showing familiar exits.
Baton Rouge hadn’t changed much. As had been expected.
Same cracked medians, same faded murals, same kids posted up at the gas station like they were guarding treasure. But the closer he got to the neighborhoods he used to ghost through in cleats and team hoodies, the more it felt like something had changed.
Him.
The BMW was clean—windows tinted, seats still smelling like leather and ambition. He hadn’t bought it. It had been a gift. Not from a dealership, but from a whisper. A nod. A booster who knew that if Poochie ran hard and looked good, he could carry a brand.
That was before.
Now, he rolled through Old South Baton Rouge with tinted windows and no jersey. Just hunger.
He turned down a side street with two speed bumps and a busted streetlight and pulled up to a shotgun house that sagged slightly to one side. Same one he remembered.
Meech was out front, posted on the porch in a tank top and slides, phone to his ear, nodding slow at whatever was being said. He looked up when he heard the engine—recognized it before he even saw who was inside.
Poochie threw it in park and stepped out, shades low on his face, dust still clinging to the corners of his shoes.
Meech finished his call, lowered the phone. “Shit, you back lil’ cuz?”
Poochie smirked. “I guess so.”
Meech’s laugh was quiet, chest-deep. “Shouldn’t have gone up there and let them white folks use you anyway.”
They clasped hands, pulled each other into a brief hug.
“You eat?” Meech asked.
“Nah. Been driving all day.”
“Come inside. Tia made red beans.”
Poochie shook his head. “I’m not here for a plate.”
Meech raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“I’m ready to work.”
Meech leaned against the porch rail, studying him. “You ready now, huh?”
“I should’ve never left.”
Meech nodded like he’d already known that.
“You done with football?”
“I’m done chasing something that ain’t chasing me back.”
Meech let that hang.
Then he stepped inside for a second and came back with a folded sheet of paper. Names. Numbers. Amounts.
“Start here. Nothing major. Pickups. Collections.”
Poochie took it without hesitation.
“You remember what I told you back in the day?”
“Yeah,” Poochie said.
Meech smiled, but only a little. “Let’s see if you remember how to wait.”
…
The next few hours moved slow and sticky. Poochie rolled through blocks he used to sprint down during workouts, now creeping in a German-engineered machine that turned heads everywhere he went. Not everyone recognized him anymore. Some did. Others just clocked the car.
First stop: A barbershop off Plank. Envelope ready at the front counter before he even stepped all the way in.
Second stop: A corner store—money handed over at the register, along with a bag of chips and a “Tell Meech I’m straight now.”
Third stop: Different vibe. Guy took a minute to open the door. Peered out like he didn’t believe what he saw.
“You Meech’s people?”
“Yeah.”
Pause.
Then the door opened wider. Cash came slower. No words.
Just a transaction.
Poochie didn’t need conversation.
Just confirmation.
…
By dusk, he was back at Meech’s.
The BMW gleamed under the porch light, catching the last of the orange sun. Inside, Tia passed him a plate without a word—rice, beans, sausage sliced and slick with gravy.
Meech sat across the table, arms folded.
“You handle it?”
“Clean.”
“No noise?”
Poochie nodded. “All quiet.”
Meech studied him for a second, then leaned back.
“You keep moving like that, I might let you sit in on something bigger.”
Poochie didn’t smile, but his eyes sparked.
This wasn’t football.
But it was still a team.
And tonight, he felt like he’d just earned his jersey back.
The gym smelled like rubber soles and concession nachos, and the buzz of early evening energy pulsed through the crowd. It was packed for a middle school game—standing room only along the back wall, people pressed shoulder to shoulder on the bleachers. Parents, cousins, classmates, and a few local coaches all leaned in to see if the rumors about number five were true.
Royce knew the kid in question better than most of them.
“D got his hair braided just for this,” he muttered, squinting at the court.
Beside him, Alix smirked. “He said it makes him faster.”
Royce chuckled. “If it don’t, it’s at least making him cockier.”
Across the court, Darius bounced on the balls of his feet near the top of the key, headband on tight, arms wiry and tense like a sprinter waiting for the gun.
Royce leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. He didn’t know when this had become routine—being here, with Alix, for Darius—but it felt natural now. Familiar.
Next to Alix sat Carmen, polite and poised, hands resting on a paper program folded neatly in her lap. She gave Royce a small nod when they sat down. Not cold. Not warm. Just enough to acknowledge he was there.
Beside her sat Marc in a black quarter-zip LSU pullover and jeans. Casual. Comfortable. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes tracked the court like he was scouting every play. He’d greeted Royce with a handshake and a nod, said “Good to see you again” in a tone that was hard to read. It wasn’t shade—but it wasn’t invitation either.
Royce took it in stride.
On the court, the other team set up in a half-court press. Darius caught the inbounds, broke past two defenders, crossed the last one so clean the kid almost fell.
Royce shot up from the bench.
“Yooo! Break that nigga ankles, D!”
Laughter rippled through the student section. A few kids echoed it. Darius shot Royce a grin from the court, puffed up, proud and pointed at him, pounding his chest.
But beside him, everything quieted.
Marc turned, slow and deliberate.
“That language,” he said, not raising his voice. “It’s not it.”
Royce looked at him. “It’s basketball.”
Marc’s face didn’t change. “And this is a gym full of kids. You think that’s how you talk in front of his classmates? His teachers?”
Royce blinked. “I’m hyping him up. You worried about the word?”
“I’m worried about what follows him when you say it.”
Royce’s mouth twitched. “He Black like me and you. He ain’t embarrassed. You are.”
Marc straightened slightly in his seat. “I’m his father. It’s my job to think further than the moment.”
Royce waved off the comment. “You can keep that shit to yourself. You not about to check me like I’m your kid.”
“You’re right,” Marc said calmly. “Because mine knows better.”
The line hit sharper than Royce expected. He stared down at Marc.
“You ain’t my fucking daddy.”
Marc looked back without blinking. “Isn’t he in jail?”
Alix turned sharply. “Marc—”
But it was too late.
Royce’s face hardened. His breath caught low in his chest. He stood, jaw clenched, and moved down the bleachers without another word.
The air outside was cooler than inside the gym, but it didn’t do much to settle him. He stood by his car, fists in his hoodie pocket, breathing like he’d just come off a hard sprint.
Alix caught up seconds later.
“Royce—”
He didn’t look at her.
“I didn’t know he was gonna say that.”
He shook his head. “Don’t matter.”
“It does.”
He turned toward her, finally. “He’s just waiting to find something. The way I talk. The way I walk. The way I breathe. Ain’t nothing I do gonna be good enough. I ain’t grow up in the motherfucking suburbs.”
“He doesn’t know you,” Alix said. “Not really.”
Royce gave a humorless laugh. “He don’t wanna. You need to tell his ass I am who I am and I ain’t gonna fucking change. For nobody.”
Alix stepped closer, voice soft. “You were there for Darius. You’ve always been there.”
Royce’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I’m just trying to show bro some support.”
“I know.”
“I ain’t really trying to talk about this shit right now, Alix.”
Alix nodded. “You wanna go home?”
He exhaled. “Yeah, I just wanna go to sleep.”
The gym lights stayed bright behind them, and Darius—somewhere on the court, unaware—kept playing his game.
But out here, Royce had already walked off the court.
And the silence between him and Marc would stretch longer than the season.
~~~~~~~~~~
Poochie drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his thigh to the beat leaking from the speakers. The AC was low, the sun high, and the BMW hummed smooth under him, eating up I-10 as the green road signs started showing familiar exits.
Baton Rouge hadn’t changed much. As had been expected.
Same cracked medians, same faded murals, same kids posted up at the gas station like they were guarding treasure. But the closer he got to the neighborhoods he used to ghost through in cleats and team hoodies, the more it felt like something had changed.
Him.
The BMW was clean—windows tinted, seats still smelling like leather and ambition. He hadn’t bought it. It had been a gift. Not from a dealership, but from a whisper. A nod. A booster who knew that if Poochie ran hard and looked good, he could carry a brand.
That was before.
Now, he rolled through Old South Baton Rouge with tinted windows and no jersey. Just hunger.
He turned down a side street with two speed bumps and a busted streetlight and pulled up to a shotgun house that sagged slightly to one side. Same one he remembered.
Meech was out front, posted on the porch in a tank top and slides, phone to his ear, nodding slow at whatever was being said. He looked up when he heard the engine—recognized it before he even saw who was inside.
Poochie threw it in park and stepped out, shades low on his face, dust still clinging to the corners of his shoes.
Meech finished his call, lowered the phone. “Shit, you back lil’ cuz?”
Poochie smirked. “I guess so.”
Meech’s laugh was quiet, chest-deep. “Shouldn’t have gone up there and let them white folks use you anyway.”
They clasped hands, pulled each other into a brief hug.
“You eat?” Meech asked.
“Nah. Been driving all day.”
“Come inside. Tia made red beans.”
Poochie shook his head. “I’m not here for a plate.”
Meech raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“I’m ready to work.”
Meech leaned against the porch rail, studying him. “You ready now, huh?”
“I should’ve never left.”
Meech nodded like he’d already known that.
“You done with football?”
“I’m done chasing something that ain’t chasing me back.”
Meech let that hang.
Then he stepped inside for a second and came back with a folded sheet of paper. Names. Numbers. Amounts.
“Start here. Nothing major. Pickups. Collections.”
Poochie took it without hesitation.
“You remember what I told you back in the day?”
“Yeah,” Poochie said.
Meech smiled, but only a little. “Let’s see if you remember how to wait.”
…
The next few hours moved slow and sticky. Poochie rolled through blocks he used to sprint down during workouts, now creeping in a German-engineered machine that turned heads everywhere he went. Not everyone recognized him anymore. Some did. Others just clocked the car.
First stop: A barbershop off Plank. Envelope ready at the front counter before he even stepped all the way in.
Second stop: A corner store—money handed over at the register, along with a bag of chips and a “Tell Meech I’m straight now.”
Third stop: Different vibe. Guy took a minute to open the door. Peered out like he didn’t believe what he saw.
“You Meech’s people?”
“Yeah.”
Pause.
Then the door opened wider. Cash came slower. No words.
Just a transaction.
Poochie didn’t need conversation.
Just confirmation.
…
By dusk, he was back at Meech’s.
The BMW gleamed under the porch light, catching the last of the orange sun. Inside, Tia passed him a plate without a word—rice, beans, sausage sliced and slick with gravy.
Meech sat across the table, arms folded.
“You handle it?”
“Clean.”
“No noise?”
Poochie nodded. “All quiet.”
Meech studied him for a second, then leaned back.
“You keep moving like that, I might let you sit in on something bigger.”
Poochie didn’t smile, but his eyes sparked.
This wasn’t football.
But it was still a team.
And tonight, he felt like he’d just earned his jersey back.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16861
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
GO CALL YO DADDY IN JAIL, NIGGA!
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16997
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Movers and Shakers
There wasn’t a sign out front—just a black awning, warm amber lighting, and a valet who nodded when Royce pulled up. He stepped out dressed in a tailored charcoal shirt, black slacks and clean Chelsea boots. Chance Delpit may have told him to leave the jewelry at home, but that didn’t mean that he was going to be walking around looking like a bum.
“Your keys, sir,” the valet said.
Royce looked at the young man, likely his age, who wore an expectant look on his face.
Sensing the hesitation, the valet added, “To park your car. Just over there.” He pointed across the street to a private parking lot with a security guard sitting on the corner.
Royce nodded slowly and dropped the keys into the valet’s hand. The valet handed him a ticket and opened the door to the restaurant for him.
Inside, the restaurant was quiet. Not empty—just purposeful. The air smelled like dry-aged steak and old money, and the noise level was a careful hum, like everyone had agreed to keep their voices just below a certain threshold.
The hostess led Royce to a private back room where Delpit sat with five other people, mid-conversation.
Delpit stood up and gestured for Royce to sit down in a chair next to him. “I hope y’all don’t mind that I brought company. This is Royce Lafitte. I’m sure y’all have heard of him. I think this young man has a big future and wanted to get him some face time with some of you important types.”
There were three men and two women already seated. All Black. All dressed in ways that whispered power instead of shouting it. Their jewelry was modest, their watches expensive, and their smiles polite but observant.
Delpit gestured as Royce sat. “That’s Andre,” he said, nodding to the man with the gray curls. “Oldest Black hedge fund manager in the city.”
“Willa,” he continued, nodding to a woman in a cream suit and gold hoops. “She negotiates land deals so large most folks think it’s fiction.”
“Malcolm—contract law,” he added, tapping the shoulder of the man closest to Royce. “If the Saints breathe wrong, he gets a call.”
The others needed no names. Just presence.
Royce nodded to each of them with a quiet “Nice to meet you.” They all returned it in their own tempo.
Willa raised her glass. “We’ve read about you.”
Malcolm added, “And read up on you.”
Royce smiled, guarded but curious. “That good or bad?”
“Just due diligence,” Willa said. “We don’t sit with strangers.”
The food was already on the way—no menus, no orders. Whatever it was, it smelled expensive and slow-cooked. Royce folded his hands in his lap, letting the grown-folk conversation settle over him like an unfamiliar coat.
Delpit poured Royce a glass of water from a chilled bottle in a silver holder. No server approached. This room was closed off, quiet, deliberate.
“You know what makes you special?” Delpit said, turning toward Royce. “People already watching.”
Royce sipped. “Trying to make sure they watch for the right reasons.”
“That’s the start,” Delpit said. “But you need to think past that.”
He folded his hands on the table. “You’re gonna make a few hundred thousand dollars next year, maybe more. If you do what I think you will, you’ll make millions after that. And that’s beautiful.”
He paused, letting the air rest heavy.
“But you need to start thinking bigger than that. Beyond the NFL.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “You trying to get me to retire before I start?”
The table chuckled. Even Malcolm cracked a smile.
“No,” Delpit said, “I’m trying to get you to stop thinking like a product and start thinking like a platform. The league is a door. But there’s still rooms beyond that.”
Royce nodded, slow. He didn’t speak, but he was listening. Closely.
Delpit leaned back. “The average career lasts what—three years? Four if you’re lucky? And most of these boys leave broke. Or broken. Or both. But the ones who survive—really survive—they do it by understanding the business.”
Royce’s lips quirked. “I got that in my DNA.”
Delpit paused, then tilted his head. “Yeah?”
Royce’s eyes didn’t waver. “If y’all read up on me, then y’all know that my pops used to flip packs. Before he got locked up, that is.”
There was a brief, thoughtful pause at the table.
Then Andre nodded. “Selling dope is still sales.”
Willa added, “Still marketing, still risk management, still supply chain.”
Malcolm said, “It just shouldn't be the goal.”
Royce gave a slow grin. “He’d probably agree with you now.”
Delpit chuckled, but his eyes stayed steady. “That’s why you’re different than a lot of these other guys playing ball. You’ve seen the good and the bad of the streets from a young age. Fast money isn’t, hasn’t appealed to you. And I’d bet good money you’d rather write checks than count singles and look over your shoulder waiting for Johnny Law.”
Willa leaned in then. “You’ve got the field. But what do you know about real estate?”
Royce blinked. “Like... houses?”
“Like blocks,” she said. “Like neighborhoods. Like land ownership. Wealth you can pass down.”
Malcolm chimed in. “You ever sit with someone about licensing your image?”
Royce nodded. “Yeah, I got a guy.”
Delpit watched it all. Quiet now. Like a chess player satisfied with the opening moves.
“You don’t have to answer anything tonight,” he said. “Just listen. See the room. Get used to being the only one in it who people came to see—and still being the one who knows the least.”
Royce nodded. No shame in the truth. Just recognition.
For the rest of the dinner, Royce didn’t say much—but he didn’t miss a word either. The talk shifted to legislation, NIL loopholes, property taxes, and how to own land in places people weren’t looking yet. He didn’t have the language for all of it—but he caught the rhythm.
When they left, Royce shook hands again—firmer this time—and nodded with more confidence than when he arrived.
Outside, the city felt different. Like he’d been given a glimpse of something just beneath the surface.
Delpit didn’t say much on the walk out of the restaurant.
But right before they split, he clapped Royce on the shoulder.
“You belong in those rooms,” he said. “Even if you don’t know the language yet.”
Royce nodded. “I’m learning.”
Delpit smiled. “Good. Because those rooms get smaller the bigger your name gets.”
~~~~~~~~~~
’Sushi tonight?’
Royce shook his head before tapping out a quick reply to Alix. Pocketing his phone, he walked into Billy’s office, nodding at the receptionist, who has halfway through a smoothie and waved him toward the back.
Billy was already standing when Royce walked in.
“Royce, my man,” Billy said with a grin, extending a hand across the desk. “You’re early.”
“Felt like being first today. I know you’ve been working with ol’ boy on the basketball team and I wanted to remind you that I’m number one.”
Billy laughed. “Akeem? He’s going pro in a few months. I don’t think he’s ready, but you know those basketball guys love that one and done thing.”
They shook hands, then Royce dropped into the leather chair across from the desk. He rested one ankle on his knee, relaxed but focused. He’d skipped the hoodie today. Came in wearing a fitted black shirt. Still no jewelry.
“You meet with Delpit?” Billy asked, already unlocking his laptop.
Royce nodded. “Dinner. Real grown folk shit.”
Billy smirked. “Did you talk or just listen?”
“Little bit of both.”
“Good. Man knows how to move.”
Royce leaned forward. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Billy raised an eyebrow. “Delpit?”
“Nah,” Royce said. “Money.”
Billy tilted his head. “You trying to restructure something?”
“I’m trying to know what’s in motion.”
Billy leaned back, studying him for a second. “We’re working. Got something coming, actually. Biggest deal of your college career.”
Royce’s brow lifted.
Billy nodded. “Could be game-changing. But—” He clicked something on his screen, swiveled the laptop to face Royce. “It hinges on this.”
On the screen: a draft board. ESPN-style graphics. A list of the Top 25 Draft-Eligible Middle Linebackers for the upcoming season. Royce’s name was there.
#18 – Royce Lafitte, LSU
“Top twenty,” Royce said, tone unreadable.
“Solid,” Billy agreed. “But not ‘jump now’ solid.”
Royce narrowed his eyes. “Depends how I play next season.”
“Exactly.”
Billy sat forward again, folding his hands.
“This deal I’m cooking? They want you on the field. They want you visible. They’re not trying to spend real money if you disappear into a practice squad six months after signing.”
Royce nodded, slow.
“They’re looking for the guy who shows up in the Butkus Award conversation,” Billy continued. “Not the guy who gets drafted in the fifth round and buried on a depth chart.”
Royce didn’t flinch. But his jaw tensed.
“You telling me I gotta stay?” he said.
“I’m telling you your stock isn’t where you think it is.”
Royce nodded again, eyes fixed on the list. Some names he recognized. A couple he’d played against. One or two he knew he was better than.
“Never know what can happen in a season,” Royce said.
Billy smiled. “That’s what I’m banking on.”
The air between them settled into something mutual—understanding, not pressure.
Royce closed the laptop gently and handed it back.
“Look, I got money so I ain’t running to the league if it ain’t looking right. If I can get up from that shit to a first rounder if I stay and get some money? Fuck it, let’s do it.”
Billy nodded once. “Then let’s get to work.”
There wasn’t a sign out front—just a black awning, warm amber lighting, and a valet who nodded when Royce pulled up. He stepped out dressed in a tailored charcoal shirt, black slacks and clean Chelsea boots. Chance Delpit may have told him to leave the jewelry at home, but that didn’t mean that he was going to be walking around looking like a bum.
“Your keys, sir,” the valet said.
Royce looked at the young man, likely his age, who wore an expectant look on his face.
Sensing the hesitation, the valet added, “To park your car. Just over there.” He pointed across the street to a private parking lot with a security guard sitting on the corner.
Royce nodded slowly and dropped the keys into the valet’s hand. The valet handed him a ticket and opened the door to the restaurant for him.
Inside, the restaurant was quiet. Not empty—just purposeful. The air smelled like dry-aged steak and old money, and the noise level was a careful hum, like everyone had agreed to keep their voices just below a certain threshold.
The hostess led Royce to a private back room where Delpit sat with five other people, mid-conversation.
Delpit stood up and gestured for Royce to sit down in a chair next to him. “I hope y’all don’t mind that I brought company. This is Royce Lafitte. I’m sure y’all have heard of him. I think this young man has a big future and wanted to get him some face time with some of you important types.”
There were three men and two women already seated. All Black. All dressed in ways that whispered power instead of shouting it. Their jewelry was modest, their watches expensive, and their smiles polite but observant.
Delpit gestured as Royce sat. “That’s Andre,” he said, nodding to the man with the gray curls. “Oldest Black hedge fund manager in the city.”
“Willa,” he continued, nodding to a woman in a cream suit and gold hoops. “She negotiates land deals so large most folks think it’s fiction.”
“Malcolm—contract law,” he added, tapping the shoulder of the man closest to Royce. “If the Saints breathe wrong, he gets a call.”
The others needed no names. Just presence.
Royce nodded to each of them with a quiet “Nice to meet you.” They all returned it in their own tempo.
Willa raised her glass. “We’ve read about you.”
Malcolm added, “And read up on you.”
Royce smiled, guarded but curious. “That good or bad?”
“Just due diligence,” Willa said. “We don’t sit with strangers.”
The food was already on the way—no menus, no orders. Whatever it was, it smelled expensive and slow-cooked. Royce folded his hands in his lap, letting the grown-folk conversation settle over him like an unfamiliar coat.
Delpit poured Royce a glass of water from a chilled bottle in a silver holder. No server approached. This room was closed off, quiet, deliberate.
“You know what makes you special?” Delpit said, turning toward Royce. “People already watching.”
Royce sipped. “Trying to make sure they watch for the right reasons.”
“That’s the start,” Delpit said. “But you need to think past that.”
He folded his hands on the table. “You’re gonna make a few hundred thousand dollars next year, maybe more. If you do what I think you will, you’ll make millions after that. And that’s beautiful.”
He paused, letting the air rest heavy.
“But you need to start thinking bigger than that. Beyond the NFL.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “You trying to get me to retire before I start?”
The table chuckled. Even Malcolm cracked a smile.
“No,” Delpit said, “I’m trying to get you to stop thinking like a product and start thinking like a platform. The league is a door. But there’s still rooms beyond that.”
Royce nodded, slow. He didn’t speak, but he was listening. Closely.
Delpit leaned back. “The average career lasts what—three years? Four if you’re lucky? And most of these boys leave broke. Or broken. Or both. But the ones who survive—really survive—they do it by understanding the business.”
Royce’s lips quirked. “I got that in my DNA.”
Delpit paused, then tilted his head. “Yeah?”
Royce’s eyes didn’t waver. “If y’all read up on me, then y’all know that my pops used to flip packs. Before he got locked up, that is.”
There was a brief, thoughtful pause at the table.
Then Andre nodded. “Selling dope is still sales.”
Willa added, “Still marketing, still risk management, still supply chain.”
Malcolm said, “It just shouldn't be the goal.”
Royce gave a slow grin. “He’d probably agree with you now.”
Delpit chuckled, but his eyes stayed steady. “That’s why you’re different than a lot of these other guys playing ball. You’ve seen the good and the bad of the streets from a young age. Fast money isn’t, hasn’t appealed to you. And I’d bet good money you’d rather write checks than count singles and look over your shoulder waiting for Johnny Law.”
Willa leaned in then. “You’ve got the field. But what do you know about real estate?”
Royce blinked. “Like... houses?”
“Like blocks,” she said. “Like neighborhoods. Like land ownership. Wealth you can pass down.”
Malcolm chimed in. “You ever sit with someone about licensing your image?”
Royce nodded. “Yeah, I got a guy.”
Delpit watched it all. Quiet now. Like a chess player satisfied with the opening moves.
“You don’t have to answer anything tonight,” he said. “Just listen. See the room. Get used to being the only one in it who people came to see—and still being the one who knows the least.”
Royce nodded. No shame in the truth. Just recognition.
For the rest of the dinner, Royce didn’t say much—but he didn’t miss a word either. The talk shifted to legislation, NIL loopholes, property taxes, and how to own land in places people weren’t looking yet. He didn’t have the language for all of it—but he caught the rhythm.
When they left, Royce shook hands again—firmer this time—and nodded with more confidence than when he arrived.
Outside, the city felt different. Like he’d been given a glimpse of something just beneath the surface.
Delpit didn’t say much on the walk out of the restaurant.
But right before they split, he clapped Royce on the shoulder.
“You belong in those rooms,” he said. “Even if you don’t know the language yet.”
Royce nodded. “I’m learning.”
Delpit smiled. “Good. Because those rooms get smaller the bigger your name gets.”
~~~~~~~~~~
’Sushi tonight?’
Royce shook his head before tapping out a quick reply to Alix. Pocketing his phone, he walked into Billy’s office, nodding at the receptionist, who has halfway through a smoothie and waved him toward the back.
Billy was already standing when Royce walked in.
“Royce, my man,” Billy said with a grin, extending a hand across the desk. “You’re early.”
“Felt like being first today. I know you’ve been working with ol’ boy on the basketball team and I wanted to remind you that I’m number one.”
Billy laughed. “Akeem? He’s going pro in a few months. I don’t think he’s ready, but you know those basketball guys love that one and done thing.”
They shook hands, then Royce dropped into the leather chair across from the desk. He rested one ankle on his knee, relaxed but focused. He’d skipped the hoodie today. Came in wearing a fitted black shirt. Still no jewelry.
“You meet with Delpit?” Billy asked, already unlocking his laptop.
Royce nodded. “Dinner. Real grown folk shit.”
Billy smirked. “Did you talk or just listen?”
“Little bit of both.”
“Good. Man knows how to move.”
Royce leaned forward. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Billy raised an eyebrow. “Delpit?”
“Nah,” Royce said. “Money.”
Billy tilted his head. “You trying to restructure something?”
“I’m trying to know what’s in motion.”
Billy leaned back, studying him for a second. “We’re working. Got something coming, actually. Biggest deal of your college career.”
Royce’s brow lifted.
Billy nodded. “Could be game-changing. But—” He clicked something on his screen, swiveled the laptop to face Royce. “It hinges on this.”
On the screen: a draft board. ESPN-style graphics. A list of the Top 25 Draft-Eligible Middle Linebackers for the upcoming season. Royce’s name was there.
#18 – Royce Lafitte, LSU
“Top twenty,” Royce said, tone unreadable.
“Solid,” Billy agreed. “But not ‘jump now’ solid.”
Royce narrowed his eyes. “Depends how I play next season.”
“Exactly.”
Billy sat forward again, folding his hands.
“This deal I’m cooking? They want you on the field. They want you visible. They’re not trying to spend real money if you disappear into a practice squad six months after signing.”
Royce nodded, slow.
“They’re looking for the guy who shows up in the Butkus Award conversation,” Billy continued. “Not the guy who gets drafted in the fifth round and buried on a depth chart.”
Royce didn’t flinch. But his jaw tensed.
“You telling me I gotta stay?” he said.
“I’m telling you your stock isn’t where you think it is.”
Royce nodded again, eyes fixed on the list. Some names he recognized. A couple he’d played against. One or two he knew he was better than.
“Never know what can happen in a season,” Royce said.
Billy smiled. “That’s what I’m banking on.”
The air between them settled into something mutual—understanding, not pressure.
Royce closed the laptop gently and handed it back.
“Look, I got money so I ain’t running to the league if it ain’t looking right. If I can get up from that shit to a first rounder if I stay and get some money? Fuck it, let’s do it.”
Billy nodded once. “Then let’s get to work.”
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Soapy
- Posts: 16861
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
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djp73
- Posts: 13249
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Man almost forgot about Billy just like that 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16997
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
You’re the Captain Now
The fluorescent lights in the meeting room hummed with a kind of quiet that demanded attention. Royce sat in the second row, arms folded, hoodie halfway pulled over his head. Around him, teammates shuffled in, most still shaking off sleep or the soreness of early spring conditioning. A few whispers darted between players—names of guys who had hit the transfer portal, guesses about the new faces they’d seen walking the halls. The door shut, and the room fell into silence.
Coach Lanning stepped to the front, tall and measured, eyes scanning the room with that familiar intensity. He didn’t have to yell to command the room.
“You all know why we’re here.”
No one responded. Royce’s jaw flexed.
“There’s been movement. Guys leaving. Guys coming in. And with that movement comes responsibility—for the ones who stay.”
A low murmur of affirmation rippled through the room.
“This season,” Lanning continued, “isn’t about making a bowl game. It’s not about being ranked. It’s about chasing greatness. SEC Championship. College Football Playoff. Period.”
Royce felt the words sink into him like weight plates on a barbell. Every syllable added more pressure to the air around him.
“We’re raising the standard. If you’re still here, you’re here because we believe in what you bring. But belief,” he said, looking pointedly toward Royce, “don’t mean shit if you don’t carry your part.”
Lanning moved on to logistics—training schedules, player expectations, the usual—and Royce sat motionless, grinding his teeth behind closed lips. He felt Earl elbow him lightly as if to say he’s talking about you, bro. Royce didn’t move.
The meeting ended, players rose and filtered out, chatter erupting again in bursts.
But Royce stayed in his seat.
He knew it wasn’t over.
Sure enough, Coach Lanning called his name, nodding toward the front. Coach Lupoi, broad and silent, already stood with arms crossed.
Royce pushed off the chair and walked down like a man headed into the ring.
“Royce,” Lanning said. No warmth, but no ice either. “Appreciate you staying back.”
Royce nodded.
“You’ve had a hell of a start to your college career,” Lupoi said, stepping into the silence. “I’m not bullshitting you when I say that you have the chops for the next level. Face of the program in a lot of ways.”
“I just play hard, Coach.”
Lanning raised an eyebrow. “You do more than that. And now we need more from you.”
Royce tilted his head, unsure where this was going.
“You’re going to be one of our captains this year.”
The words didn’t hit like Royce expected them to. They didn’t lift him. Didn’t electrify him.
They felt heavy. Like a brick placed on top of every other weight he’d been carrying.
“I… appreciate that.”
“We didn’t pick you to make you feel good,” Lupoi said. “We picked you because people follow you. Whether you mean to or not.”
“You set the tone,” Lanning added. “In the locker room. On the field. In the media. Hell, even off-campus. That kind of attention doesn’t go away, Royce. So, you need to decide what kind of man you’re going to be under that light.”
Royce looked at the floor, his sneakers tapping against the rubber tile. His father’s voice echoed in his head: Don’t be soft. Lead.
But what did leading mean?
He thought about Romeo. About the funeral. About the silence at the house afterward.
He thought about the night the cops knocked on his door. About the demands from his family. The girls in his DMs. The people watching.
Lead how? he wanted to ask. When no one taught me?
“Got it,” Royce said instead, voice low.
Lupoi gave a short nod. “Good. You’ve got the tools, Royce. It’s time to build something.”
Lanning’s gaze softened. “One last thing—this isn’t a solo mission. You’ve got a staff. You’ve got teammates. Don’t try to carry it all alone. That’s how you break.”
Royce nodded once more.
As he walked out into the hallway, the sunlight from the exit door hit him hard. He blinked.
Captain.
Leader.
Face of the defense.
He hadn’t asked for any of it.
But he knew there was no backing out now.
He had a team to lead.
Even if he had no idea where to start.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sky in Reno stretched wide and clean, blue like it had been scrubbed down overnight. Malik pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his elbows and took off down the hill behind the dorms. It was early, but the sun was already warming the sidewalks. The cold clung low in the shade, dry and sharp, slicing each inhale like a fresh edge.
Running helped. Not like lifting, where he had to think about reps or pace. This was different—he could just move, let the thoughts run as fast or as slow as they wanted to.
Left. Right.
Left. Right.
The city was still waking up. Sprinklers ticked in manicured lawns. A mail truck crept around a corner. The mountains stood out in the distance, watching like they had all the time in the world.
By the time Malik rounded back toward the empty practice field, his lungs burned, and his hoodie stuck to his back. He slowed to a jog, then a walk, sucking in dry air that made his throat feel like sandpaper.
A car horn chirped once.
Malik turned. Jazlyn was parked at the curb, one arm out the window, sunglasses on, hair thrown into a bun like she hadn’t tried—but still looked like she did.
“Who runs this early on purpose?” she asked as he approached the car.
Malik grinned and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Shit, me. I gotta stay sharp.”
“You already sharp,” she said, playfully. “This just showing off.”
He chuckled, opened the passenger door, and dropped into the seat. The car smelled like vanilla and lemon and something else he couldn’t name but had started to associate with her.
Inside, the music was low—some vibey R&B loop he didn’t recognize but liked right away.
“You good?” she asked.
“Yeah. Just clearing my head.”
She looked over, then back at the road as she pulled off. “You think a lot when you run?”
“Too much.”
They drove in comfortable silence for a while. The kind where neither of them felt pressed to perform. Malik leaned into the seat, watching trees pass and the sun bounce off storefront windows.
“You miss home?” she asked eventually.
He took a beat. “Some parts.”
“Like what?”
“Just… certain feelings. Familiar stuff. But I don’t think I’m built to stay still.”
Jazlyn nodded. “Same. I used to think I was broken because I didn’t want to go back.”
“You’re not broken,” Malik said, quietly. “You just know what’s not for you.”
She smiled a little at that. “You always talk like you halfway writing a book.”
Malik laughed. “I’m trying to be like Dr. Sebi and Dr. Umar. Have niggas calling me Dr. Malik.”
“Stop it,” she said, laughing. She then nodded again, softer this time. “You seem lighter.”
“I feel lighter.”
No one from back home really knew what to make of his transfer. Some said he bailed. Others didn’t say anything at all. But here—he didn’t owe anyone explanations. He just ran. Trained. Got up. Showed up. Started figuring out what peace actually felt like.
They pulled up to her apartment complex. She parked but didn’t turn off the engine right away.
“You ever get scared it’s not gonna work out?” she asked.
“All the time,” Malik said. “But staying stuck somewhere I ain’t happy? That scared me more.”
She looked over at him, eyes catching his in the space between words.
“Wanna come up?” she asked.
Malik looked at her for a beat.
Then nodded.
“Yeah.”
The fluorescent lights in the meeting room hummed with a kind of quiet that demanded attention. Royce sat in the second row, arms folded, hoodie halfway pulled over his head. Around him, teammates shuffled in, most still shaking off sleep or the soreness of early spring conditioning. A few whispers darted between players—names of guys who had hit the transfer portal, guesses about the new faces they’d seen walking the halls. The door shut, and the room fell into silence.
Coach Lanning stepped to the front, tall and measured, eyes scanning the room with that familiar intensity. He didn’t have to yell to command the room.
“You all know why we’re here.”
No one responded. Royce’s jaw flexed.
“There’s been movement. Guys leaving. Guys coming in. And with that movement comes responsibility—for the ones who stay.”
A low murmur of affirmation rippled through the room.
“This season,” Lanning continued, “isn’t about making a bowl game. It’s not about being ranked. It’s about chasing greatness. SEC Championship. College Football Playoff. Period.”
Royce felt the words sink into him like weight plates on a barbell. Every syllable added more pressure to the air around him.
“We’re raising the standard. If you’re still here, you’re here because we believe in what you bring. But belief,” he said, looking pointedly toward Royce, “don’t mean shit if you don’t carry your part.”
Lanning moved on to logistics—training schedules, player expectations, the usual—and Royce sat motionless, grinding his teeth behind closed lips. He felt Earl elbow him lightly as if to say he’s talking about you, bro. Royce didn’t move.
The meeting ended, players rose and filtered out, chatter erupting again in bursts.
But Royce stayed in his seat.
He knew it wasn’t over.
Sure enough, Coach Lanning called his name, nodding toward the front. Coach Lupoi, broad and silent, already stood with arms crossed.
Royce pushed off the chair and walked down like a man headed into the ring.
“Royce,” Lanning said. No warmth, but no ice either. “Appreciate you staying back.”
Royce nodded.
“You’ve had a hell of a start to your college career,” Lupoi said, stepping into the silence. “I’m not bullshitting you when I say that you have the chops for the next level. Face of the program in a lot of ways.”
“I just play hard, Coach.”
Lanning raised an eyebrow. “You do more than that. And now we need more from you.”
Royce tilted his head, unsure where this was going.
“You’re going to be one of our captains this year.”
The words didn’t hit like Royce expected them to. They didn’t lift him. Didn’t electrify him.
They felt heavy. Like a brick placed on top of every other weight he’d been carrying.
“I… appreciate that.”
“We didn’t pick you to make you feel good,” Lupoi said. “We picked you because people follow you. Whether you mean to or not.”
“You set the tone,” Lanning added. “In the locker room. On the field. In the media. Hell, even off-campus. That kind of attention doesn’t go away, Royce. So, you need to decide what kind of man you’re going to be under that light.”
Royce looked at the floor, his sneakers tapping against the rubber tile. His father’s voice echoed in his head: Don’t be soft. Lead.
But what did leading mean?
He thought about Romeo. About the funeral. About the silence at the house afterward.
He thought about the night the cops knocked on his door. About the demands from his family. The girls in his DMs. The people watching.
Lead how? he wanted to ask. When no one taught me?
“Got it,” Royce said instead, voice low.
Lupoi gave a short nod. “Good. You’ve got the tools, Royce. It’s time to build something.”
Lanning’s gaze softened. “One last thing—this isn’t a solo mission. You’ve got a staff. You’ve got teammates. Don’t try to carry it all alone. That’s how you break.”
Royce nodded once more.
As he walked out into the hallway, the sunlight from the exit door hit him hard. He blinked.
Captain.
Leader.
Face of the defense.
He hadn’t asked for any of it.
But he knew there was no backing out now.
He had a team to lead.
Even if he had no idea where to start.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sky in Reno stretched wide and clean, blue like it had been scrubbed down overnight. Malik pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his elbows and took off down the hill behind the dorms. It was early, but the sun was already warming the sidewalks. The cold clung low in the shade, dry and sharp, slicing each inhale like a fresh edge.
Running helped. Not like lifting, where he had to think about reps or pace. This was different—he could just move, let the thoughts run as fast or as slow as they wanted to.
Left. Right.
Left. Right.
The city was still waking up. Sprinklers ticked in manicured lawns. A mail truck crept around a corner. The mountains stood out in the distance, watching like they had all the time in the world.
By the time Malik rounded back toward the empty practice field, his lungs burned, and his hoodie stuck to his back. He slowed to a jog, then a walk, sucking in dry air that made his throat feel like sandpaper.
A car horn chirped once.
Malik turned. Jazlyn was parked at the curb, one arm out the window, sunglasses on, hair thrown into a bun like she hadn’t tried—but still looked like she did.
“Who runs this early on purpose?” she asked as he approached the car.
Malik grinned and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Shit, me. I gotta stay sharp.”
“You already sharp,” she said, playfully. “This just showing off.”
He chuckled, opened the passenger door, and dropped into the seat. The car smelled like vanilla and lemon and something else he couldn’t name but had started to associate with her.
Inside, the music was low—some vibey R&B loop he didn’t recognize but liked right away.
“You good?” she asked.
“Yeah. Just clearing my head.”
She looked over, then back at the road as she pulled off. “You think a lot when you run?”
“Too much.”
They drove in comfortable silence for a while. The kind where neither of them felt pressed to perform. Malik leaned into the seat, watching trees pass and the sun bounce off storefront windows.
“You miss home?” she asked eventually.
He took a beat. “Some parts.”
“Like what?”
“Just… certain feelings. Familiar stuff. But I don’t think I’m built to stay still.”
Jazlyn nodded. “Same. I used to think I was broken because I didn’t want to go back.”
“You’re not broken,” Malik said, quietly. “You just know what’s not for you.”
She smiled a little at that. “You always talk like you halfway writing a book.”
Malik laughed. “I’m trying to be like Dr. Sebi and Dr. Umar. Have niggas calling me Dr. Malik.”
“Stop it,” she said, laughing. She then nodded again, softer this time. “You seem lighter.”
“I feel lighter.”
No one from back home really knew what to make of his transfer. Some said he bailed. Others didn’t say anything at all. But here—he didn’t owe anyone explanations. He just ran. Trained. Got up. Showed up. Started figuring out what peace actually felt like.
They pulled up to her apartment complex. She parked but didn’t turn off the engine right away.
“You ever get scared it’s not gonna work out?” she asked.
“All the time,” Malik said. “But staying stuck somewhere I ain’t happy? That scared me more.”
She looked over at him, eyes catching his in the space between words.
“Wanna come up?” she asked.
Malik looked at her for a beat.
Then nodded.
“Yeah.”
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djp73
- Posts: 13249
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Is Royce built to be a leader? 
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Soapy
- Posts: 16861
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42