Control the Narrative
The clatter of silverware and the low murmur of conversation filled the small breakfast spot on Highland, where the smell of butter and syrup mixed with fresh coffee and eggs. It was early, still hazy with morning light, and most of the tables were taken up by LSU students trying to beat the weekend rush.
Royce sat across from Alix in a booth by the window, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he scrolled through his phone. The messages were endless—coaches reminding him of "voluntary" summer workouts, the team's PR staff sending over tentative media schedules, and even a few brand reps asking about potential appearances.
Alix stirred her coffee, watching him with faint amusement until it started to morph into something closer to disappointment.
“You want creamer for that screen?” she asked, tilting her head.
Royce didn’t look up. “Huh?”
“You been staring at that phone like it owes you money.”
He grunted in response, thumb flicking through another group chat.
Alix reached for the syrup bottle and drizzled it over her pancakes, then said lightly, “I was thinking… if you have a free weekend soon, maybe we could drive out to Florida or something. Just for a couple of days. Beach, drinks, sleep. Sound good?”
Royce didn’t answer. His phone buzzed again.
She waited. Then tried again, a little firmer this time. “Royce.”
“Hm?” he finally looked up, his brows knitting like he’d just remembered she was sitting across from him.
“I was asking about maybe getting away for a weekend,” she said, setting her fork down. “Just us.”
He blinked, then shook his head slightly like he was clearing fog. “You know I’m not gonna have a free weekend. We got film review, workouts, some player summit thing. It’s all gonna stack up.”
Alix leaned back, folding her arms. “You said it was voluntary.”
“It is,” he replied, then set his phone down just enough to pick up a piece of bacon. “But we both know what that means.”
Alix’s jaw tightened. “It means you can say no.”
“Not really,” he muttered around the food.
She went quiet. For a while, the only sound between them was the distant clink of dishes and the whoosh of the espresso machine. Then:
“You gonna tell me what’s actually going on with you, or do I have to read about it in a tweet?”
Royce looked up, confused. “What?”
“You’re not present. You’re not here. You’ve been somewhere else all morning—hell, all week.”
His brow furrowed. “Ain’t nothing going on.”
Alix gave a dry laugh and shook her head. “Of course not. Nothing’s ever going on unless it’s about you.”
He frowned. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem is that you can’t even be bothered to talk to me unless it’s convenient for you.”
Royce’s eyes darted around as a few nearby diners began to glance over. He lowered his voice. “Can you chill with all that? We in public.”
“Oh, now you care what people think?” she said, louder than she intended. “You ignore me all morning and now that people are watching, you want to act like you’re present?”
“I said lower your fucking voice before they call the people on me,” Royce said through clenched teeth.
That was it.
Alix stared at him for a moment, then stood. “I’m not doing this.”
She grabbed her purse from the seat beside her and walked out without another word. The little bell above the door jingled as she left, light and final.
Royce sat still for a beat, the booth suddenly feeling much too big. He exhaled and flagged down the server.
“Can I get the check?”
The server gave him a quick nod and disappeared. Royce reached for his phone again, but the screen stayed blank this time. No texts. No pings. Just a faint reflection of his own face—tired, distant, and for once, unmistakably alone.
~~~~~~~~~~
The room was quiet, polished. Cool air hummed from the ceiling vents, and the walls were bare except for a single framed photo of the Superdome skyline at dusk. The table between them was real wood—thick, dark, expensive—and Royce could feel the weight of it through his forearms where he leaned forward slightly, posture casual but not careless.
Chance Delpit sat across from him, sleeves rolled to the elbows of a pale blue dress shirt, no tie, watch gleaming when it caught the light from the window. His expression was unreadable, which wasn’t unusual. What stood out more was how still he was. No tapping fingers, no phone in his hand.
That was when Royce knew this wasn’t just a check-in.
“You ready to get serious?” Delpit asked.
Royce raised an eyebrow. “Serious about what?”
“About who Royce Lafitte really is.”
Royce blinked. The words hung there a moment.
He leaned back in his chair. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Delpit folded his hands on the table. “You’ve spent the last two years letting people write about you. Talk about you. Speculate. You’re the kid who got shot. The one whose brother died. The linebacker who kept playing. The one from Houma. The one LSU fans love because you hit hard and don’t talk much.”
Royce tilted his head. “And that’s a problem?”
“It’s not a problem,” Delpit said evenly. “It’s a vacuum.”
Royce squinted.
Delpit went on. “You’re a brand now, whether you want to be or not. And for two years, that brand’s been defined by what happened to you and how you responded on the field. That story sells, sure. But it’s static. Tragic. One-note.”
Royce stayed quiet, fingers tightening slightly on the arm of his chair.
Delpit gave him a look—sharp, not unkind. “You want to keep letting other people decide who you are? Or you want to take control of the story?”
Royce exhaled, low and slow. “I never thought too much about being more than anything.”
Delpit nodded. “I figured.”
He stood, walked to the window with his hands in his pockets, and looked out at the cars moving along the street below.
“But maybe it’s time you did,” he said. “You’re going to be a junior. The draft isn’t a rumor anymore. The endorsements aren’t potential—they’re lining up. This is the part where you stop just surviving and start defining. This is the part where you transcend football.”
Royce sat still, the words sinking in.
He didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t sure how to. The idea of being more wasn’t something he’d ever entertained. Survive. Play. Stay ahead of the pain—that had been the game plan.
But now there were cameras. Contracts. Conversations.
And people like Chance, who didn’t just see who he was, but who he could be.
Royce finally spoke, voice low. “And if I don’t want to play the game?”
Delpit turned around. “I keep telling you, youngster. You’ve been in the game since the day you were born. That’s the reality for us. They never tell us that we can control the narrative of our own story just like they do. Just like they’ve been doing for generations.”
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Then Royce nodded once.
“Alright,” he said.
Delpit gave a small smile. “Better late than never.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The laughter came in bursts—sharp and sudden, crackling under the ambient glow of the living room’s salt lamp. Alix sat cross-legged on the couch, her curls piled on top of her head, sweatpants cuffed at the ankle, an oversized LSU tee hanging off one shoulder. Her phone buzzed in her hand, screen lighting up with a reel that Simone had already seen but insisted on sending anyway.
“Okay, but tell me she didn’t just hit the body roll into the backflip,” Madi said, one hand clutching a blanket, the other halfway through a pint of mint chocolate chip.
Alix smiled, eyes still locked on her screen. “How is that real? She just glided into it.”
“I think she’s possessed,” Simone said. “Like, in a good way.”
“She’s possessed by rhythm,” Madi said dramatically, then reached for her wine glass. “And I am not.”
They laughed again, the sound bubbling into the quiet evening.
Then came the knock.
It was sharp but unhurried, like someone confident he was welcome.
Madi looked at Alix, eyes widening with mock surprise. “Is that Co?” she whispered, half-singing the name. “With his little nurse crew? Please tell me there’s scrubs and slow jazz and an intention to entertain.”
Simone nearly choked on her drink. “Co and the Care Team.”
Alix rolled her eyes, already standing. “Y’all are ridiculous.”
She padded barefoot to the front door, heart stuttering once before she even looked through the peephole.
She opened it slowly.
And there he was.
Royce.
Gray hoodie. Joggers. Slides. A plastic grocery bag dangling from one hand and a bouquet of pink and red roses in the other. The tips were still wet from being wrapped in paper.
His voice was low.
“I, uh… I wanted to say sorry. For being a dick lately.”
Alix blinked, frozen in the doorway.
He didn’t smile. Just looked at her—really looked at her—with the kind of quiet that made it hard to dismiss.
She hesitated. Not long, but enough to make it clear she had options.
Then she stepped aside. “Come in.”
As they walked past the living room, Madi and Simone both fell silent. Simone narrowed her eyes slightly. Madi lifted her brows and pursed her lips like she was holding in an entire monologue. Neither of them said anything.
Royce nodded at them. “What’s up?”
Madi took a long, loud sip from her wine glass and said nothing.
Alix led him to her room and closed the door gently behind them. The lamp on her nightstand cast a soft amber glow over the space—small but warm, bed still unmade, a sweatshirt of his folded neatly on the desk chair.
They sat on the bed without speaking. Royce placed the roses on her nightstand like it was instinct, then handed her the grocery bag.
Inside: a bottle of her favorite iced chai, a pack of sour straws, a container of fancy hand cream from the boutique she’d dragged him into once, and a little travel candle that smelled like fig and cedar.
She didn’t say anything at first—just pulled out each item slowly, inspecting them like they might disappear.
Royce lay back on the bed, arms folded under his head, staring at the ceiling.
“I been off lately,” he said quietly. “And I know I keep saying that like it’s an excuse. But it’s just the truth.”
Alix stayed sitting, cradling the candle in both hands like it was fragile.
“I didn’t come here for a fight,” he added. “I just wanted you to know I see it. I feel it. I don’t wanna lose you just ‘cause I don’t know how to talk about what’s in my head.”
The room stayed still.
Alix finally set the candle down on her nightstand and lay beside him, her hair brushing his shoulder, the edge of her hand resting just close enough to touch his.
They didn’t say anything else.
Didn’t need to—not yet.
But she left the roses in water by the window.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7921
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
This trauma bond is insanity
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
You gotta ask Soapy for some noticer lessons because you not noticing
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
One More Thing
Royce woke to his phone buzzing against the nightstand, face half-buried in the pillow, the room dim with morning light bleeding through the blinds. He groaned and rolled over, squinting at the screen.
Roni (8:12 AM)
He blinked once, then tapped to answer. “What’s good?”
“Hey,” she said. Her voice was quiet but steady. “You busy?”
“Not yet.” His voice was still rough from sleep.
There was a pause.
“Can you come by?”
He rubbed his face, staring up at the ceiling. “What’s going on?”
“I just wanna ask you something. I don’t want to text it.”
Royce hesitated. He hadn’t been over to Rana and Tyrell’s in a while—some distance he’d never named, but never corrected either. Still, this was Roni.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be there in a bit.”
…
The door was already unlocked when he got there. He stepped inside and found the house quiet—Rana must’ve been somewhere with the baby, and Tyrell’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.
Roni sat at the dining table, a bowl of cereal in front of her, her phone flipped upside down beside it. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands.
“Hey,” she said.
Royce offered a tired smile. “What’s up?”
She shrugged and poked at her cereal with the spoon. “You want some?”
“Nah, I’m straight.”
He dropped into the chair across from her. There was a comfort to the house—same scuffed tile floors, same faint scent of lavender from one of Rana’s plug-ins. It used to be his space too. Before he became Royce Lafitte, the star.
Roni didn’t look up right away.
“I heard Rana and Ty talking last night,” she said finally. “I wasn’t supposed to, but they weren’t exactly whispering.”
Royce’s stomach tightened. He already knew what this was.
“They said something about Reg,” she continued. “Said he’s sick.”
Royce exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”
She looked up at him now, her eyes sharp. “Is he dying?”
He didn’t lie.
“Shit, to be real with you, I don’t know for sure. But… if it’s what they think it is, then yeah. Probably.”
Roni looked back down at her cereal, jaw tight.
“He used to scare me when I was little,” she said. “He’d yell real loud. Slam doors. Once he broke a lamp and acted like it was my fault for standing too close.”
Royce didn’t say anything. He remembered that lamp.
“But I don’t want him to die.”
“I know.”
She was quiet for a while, chewing slowly.
“What’s dying like, Ro?” she asked suddenly, voice almost too soft to hear.
Royce blinked. “What?”
“You almost died, right? What’s it like?”
He leaned back in the chair, unsure how to answer.
“It’s just… nothing,” he said. “Like falling asleep. Or maybe blacking out. At least that’s how it felt for me. But I came back. So maybe that’s not what it’s really like.”
Roni nodded, lips pressed together. She looked older than she had a year ago—shoulders more squared, gaze more focused. But her hands still fidgeted with her sleeves the same way they did when she was ten.
“You ain’t gotta worry about shit like that,” he said. “You still young. You got time. And you for damn sure not banging needles in your veins like Reg.”
She looked at him, steady. “I’m not that young.”
Royce chuckled. “You fourteen.”
“So?”
He shook his head, grinning now. “Y’all swear y’all grown soon as y’all hit eighth grade.”
“I’m starting high school next year.”
“Sound young to me.”
That got a faint smile out of her. She leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, finally letting her shoulders relax.
Royce looked at her, something warm and heavy settling in his chest. It was the most like a brother he’d felt since Romeo.
“I’m glad you called,” he said quietly.
She didn’t respond.
But when she stood to put her bowl in the sink, she brushed her arm against his and didn’t pull away.
~~~~~~~~~~
There was a knock at the door just as Alix was settling deeper into the couch.
She sighed, eyes flicking toward the entrance, then back to the TV. The credits were rolling, and she wasn’t really watching anyway. The room was quiet, lit by the soft, bluish glow of the screen and a single lamp in the corner. She stood, tucking her legs out from under the blanket, and padded to the door.
Through the peephole, she saw him.
Co.
He stood easy, like always—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, a brown paper grocery bag in one hand and the long white cord of her phone charger wrapped around the other.
Alix pulled the door open, eyebrow already arched. “Returning my property, I see.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he said, holding the charger out to her.
She took it, winding it loosely around her fingers. “What’s in the bag?”
“Thank-you ice cream,” he said, lifting the grocery sack slightly. “Didn’t know your flavor, so I hedged my bets.”
“You bought multiple pints of ice cream because I gave you a charger?”
“Four, to be exact.”
“That’s either incredibly thoughtful or incredibly suspect.”
Co shrugged. “Figured I’d rather be overprepared than rude. Besides, weren’t those other girls your roommates?”
Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “I have a boyfriend.”
The words came sharp, automatic, like she’d touched a hot stove.
Co didn’t blink. “He like ice cream?”
She sighed, embarrassed. “Sorry. That came out weird.”
He smiled, easy. “Nah. I get it.”
She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. “You want to come in?”
He shook his head. “Can’t. I’m headed to work. Got a shift tonight.”
She nodded. “Appreciate the return—and the ice cream.”
Co took a step back, then paused. “What’s he do?”
“What?”
“Your boyfriend.”
Alix shifted her weight. “Plays football.”
That made him stop. Just long enough for his expression to shift—curiosity curling up behind his eyes.
“How old are you?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
He laughed, raising his hands. “Sorry. That just sounded young.”
Alix gave him a dry look. “I’m twenty-one. Junior at LSU.”
“Alright,” he said, smiling now. “I was about to feel real awkward for dropping off dessert like I’m the neighborhood candy man.”
She snorted. “You thought I was in high school?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Football boyfriend, charger rescue, four pints of ice cream—it’s giving... maybe seventeen.”
She crossed her arms, suppressing a smile. “Well, I'm not.”
“Glad to hear it.”
He took another step back, then paused again, playful now. “So… this football boyfriend. He can fight?”
Alix narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never seen him fight. But I’m sure he could.”
Co chuckled, lifting the bag like a peace flag. “No beef. I’m just making sure I’m not gonna have to pull out some karate next time I go to the mailbox.”
Alix smiled despite herself. “Good lord. Is that what works for you?”
“I try.”
He gave her one last nod before heading down the stairs, his silhouette disappearing into the warm evening.
Alix closed the door slowly and carried the bag to the couch. She peeked inside—cookies and cream, mint chocolate chip, pistachio, and strawberry.
She pulled out the strawberry and sat down again, the soft clink of the spoon in the drawer still echoing behind her.
The TV played on, but she didn’t press play.
Not yet.
~~~~~~~~~~
The lights inside the café were soft and gold, flickering against mismatched tables and thrifted chairs. It smelled like chai, cedarwood, and faint old smoke—like something lived in but loved. There was a tiny stage tucked in the corner by the brick wall, framed by string lights and an old mic stand that wobbled if you didn’t handle it right.
Arianna stood just off to the side, fingertips brushing against her jeans as she waited for the last reader to finish. Her name was already on the list. Had been since she walked in. No turning back now.
She wasn’t nervous exactly. Not anymore. But her stomach still flipped every time the applause started to fade and the host walked back up with a smile.
“Alright, y’all,” he said into the mic, “you know her, you love her—back again with something new to knock us on our asses. Give it up for Arianna.”
The room clapped, warm and honest, and she stepped up, her boots quieter than her heartbeat.
She adjusted the mic. Cleared her throat. And read.
Her voice didn’t shake anymore. Not like the first time. It came out clear, measured—sharp in places, soft in others. She’d learned how to lean into the silences. How to let a line breathe before the next one hit. How to carry the weight of her words like they mattered.
Because they did. At least in here, they did.
When she finished, there was a pause, like the room had to catch up. Then applause. Not explosive—but real. A few snaps, a few nods. Someone said, “Goddamn.” And she smiled.
She stepped down, heart still racing, and headed toward the bar where her empty water glass waited.
The bartender—a girl in her mid-twenties with short curls and a nose ring—poured her a refill without asking.
“You killed that,” she said, sliding the glass across the bar.
Arianna gave a shy smile. “Thanks.”
“No seriously,” the bartender said. “You’re really good. Like, you could probably start making money off this if you wanted to.”
Arianna blinked. “Money?”
“Yeah. Some of these spots in Lafayette pay. Or open up for traveling folks. You got something.”
Arianna stared down at the condensation building around her glass. “I’ve never really had something I was… good at.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “You sure? ‘Cause I’m pretty positive you’ve been back here three times in the last two months and each time the crowd gets quieter when you talk.”
Arianna shook her head lightly. “I don’t know. It just feels like a fluke, I guess.”
“Okay, but they keep letting you back. You think they’d let you keep getting up there if you were trash?”
Arianna gave a quiet laugh.
The bartender leaned on her elbows. “Look, this place doesn’t hand out mic time like candy. If you were bombing, somebody would’ve already Sandman’d you off stage.”
“Sandman?”
“You know,” the bartender grinned, doing a little sweeping motion with her hand, “like the Apollo? When they drag you off stage with the hook?”
Arianna laughed, full and real this time. “Wow. That’s cold.”
“Exactly. And it hasn’t happened. So maybe give yourself some credit.”
Arianna looked at her water glass again, then back at the stage. It was empty now. Someone else’s name being read off, someone else finding their voice.
She didn’t know what she was going to do next. But for the first time in a long time, the idea of being “good at something” didn’t sound like a joke.
It sounded like a possibility.
Royce woke to his phone buzzing against the nightstand, face half-buried in the pillow, the room dim with morning light bleeding through the blinds. He groaned and rolled over, squinting at the screen.
Roni (8:12 AM)
He blinked once, then tapped to answer. “What’s good?”
“Hey,” she said. Her voice was quiet but steady. “You busy?”
“Not yet.” His voice was still rough from sleep.
There was a pause.
“Can you come by?”
He rubbed his face, staring up at the ceiling. “What’s going on?”
“I just wanna ask you something. I don’t want to text it.”
Royce hesitated. He hadn’t been over to Rana and Tyrell’s in a while—some distance he’d never named, but never corrected either. Still, this was Roni.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be there in a bit.”
…
The door was already unlocked when he got there. He stepped inside and found the house quiet—Rana must’ve been somewhere with the baby, and Tyrell’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.
Roni sat at the dining table, a bowl of cereal in front of her, her phone flipped upside down beside it. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands.
“Hey,” she said.
Royce offered a tired smile. “What’s up?”
She shrugged and poked at her cereal with the spoon. “You want some?”
“Nah, I’m straight.”
He dropped into the chair across from her. There was a comfort to the house—same scuffed tile floors, same faint scent of lavender from one of Rana’s plug-ins. It used to be his space too. Before he became Royce Lafitte, the star.
Roni didn’t look up right away.
“I heard Rana and Ty talking last night,” she said finally. “I wasn’t supposed to, but they weren’t exactly whispering.”
Royce’s stomach tightened. He already knew what this was.
“They said something about Reg,” she continued. “Said he’s sick.”
Royce exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”
She looked up at him now, her eyes sharp. “Is he dying?”
He didn’t lie.
“Shit, to be real with you, I don’t know for sure. But… if it’s what they think it is, then yeah. Probably.”
Roni looked back down at her cereal, jaw tight.
“He used to scare me when I was little,” she said. “He’d yell real loud. Slam doors. Once he broke a lamp and acted like it was my fault for standing too close.”
Royce didn’t say anything. He remembered that lamp.
“But I don’t want him to die.”
“I know.”
She was quiet for a while, chewing slowly.
“What’s dying like, Ro?” she asked suddenly, voice almost too soft to hear.
Royce blinked. “What?”
“You almost died, right? What’s it like?”
He leaned back in the chair, unsure how to answer.
“It’s just… nothing,” he said. “Like falling asleep. Or maybe blacking out. At least that’s how it felt for me. But I came back. So maybe that’s not what it’s really like.”
Roni nodded, lips pressed together. She looked older than she had a year ago—shoulders more squared, gaze more focused. But her hands still fidgeted with her sleeves the same way they did when she was ten.
“You ain’t gotta worry about shit like that,” he said. “You still young. You got time. And you for damn sure not banging needles in your veins like Reg.”
She looked at him, steady. “I’m not that young.”
Royce chuckled. “You fourteen.”
“So?”
He shook his head, grinning now. “Y’all swear y’all grown soon as y’all hit eighth grade.”
“I’m starting high school next year.”
“Sound young to me.”
That got a faint smile out of her. She leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, finally letting her shoulders relax.
Royce looked at her, something warm and heavy settling in his chest. It was the most like a brother he’d felt since Romeo.
“I’m glad you called,” he said quietly.
She didn’t respond.
But when she stood to put her bowl in the sink, she brushed her arm against his and didn’t pull away.
~~~~~~~~~~
There was a knock at the door just as Alix was settling deeper into the couch.
She sighed, eyes flicking toward the entrance, then back to the TV. The credits were rolling, and she wasn’t really watching anyway. The room was quiet, lit by the soft, bluish glow of the screen and a single lamp in the corner. She stood, tucking her legs out from under the blanket, and padded to the door.
Through the peephole, she saw him.
Co.
He stood easy, like always—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, a brown paper grocery bag in one hand and the long white cord of her phone charger wrapped around the other.
Alix pulled the door open, eyebrow already arched. “Returning my property, I see.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he said, holding the charger out to her.
She took it, winding it loosely around her fingers. “What’s in the bag?”
“Thank-you ice cream,” he said, lifting the grocery sack slightly. “Didn’t know your flavor, so I hedged my bets.”
“You bought multiple pints of ice cream because I gave you a charger?”
“Four, to be exact.”
“That’s either incredibly thoughtful or incredibly suspect.”
Co shrugged. “Figured I’d rather be overprepared than rude. Besides, weren’t those other girls your roommates?”
Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “I have a boyfriend.”
The words came sharp, automatic, like she’d touched a hot stove.
Co didn’t blink. “He like ice cream?”
She sighed, embarrassed. “Sorry. That came out weird.”
He smiled, easy. “Nah. I get it.”
She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. “You want to come in?”
He shook his head. “Can’t. I’m headed to work. Got a shift tonight.”
She nodded. “Appreciate the return—and the ice cream.”
Co took a step back, then paused. “What’s he do?”
“What?”
“Your boyfriend.”
Alix shifted her weight. “Plays football.”
That made him stop. Just long enough for his expression to shift—curiosity curling up behind his eyes.
“How old are you?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
He laughed, raising his hands. “Sorry. That just sounded young.”
Alix gave him a dry look. “I’m twenty-one. Junior at LSU.”
“Alright,” he said, smiling now. “I was about to feel real awkward for dropping off dessert like I’m the neighborhood candy man.”
She snorted. “You thought I was in high school?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Football boyfriend, charger rescue, four pints of ice cream—it’s giving... maybe seventeen.”
She crossed her arms, suppressing a smile. “Well, I'm not.”
“Glad to hear it.”
He took another step back, then paused again, playful now. “So… this football boyfriend. He can fight?”
Alix narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never seen him fight. But I’m sure he could.”
Co chuckled, lifting the bag like a peace flag. “No beef. I’m just making sure I’m not gonna have to pull out some karate next time I go to the mailbox.”
Alix smiled despite herself. “Good lord. Is that what works for you?”
“I try.”
He gave her one last nod before heading down the stairs, his silhouette disappearing into the warm evening.
Alix closed the door slowly and carried the bag to the couch. She peeked inside—cookies and cream, mint chocolate chip, pistachio, and strawberry.
She pulled out the strawberry and sat down again, the soft clink of the spoon in the drawer still echoing behind her.
The TV played on, but she didn’t press play.
Not yet.
~~~~~~~~~~
The lights inside the café were soft and gold, flickering against mismatched tables and thrifted chairs. It smelled like chai, cedarwood, and faint old smoke—like something lived in but loved. There was a tiny stage tucked in the corner by the brick wall, framed by string lights and an old mic stand that wobbled if you didn’t handle it right.
Arianna stood just off to the side, fingertips brushing against her jeans as she waited for the last reader to finish. Her name was already on the list. Had been since she walked in. No turning back now.
She wasn’t nervous exactly. Not anymore. But her stomach still flipped every time the applause started to fade and the host walked back up with a smile.
“Alright, y’all,” he said into the mic, “you know her, you love her—back again with something new to knock us on our asses. Give it up for Arianna.”
The room clapped, warm and honest, and she stepped up, her boots quieter than her heartbeat.
She adjusted the mic. Cleared her throat. And read.
Her voice didn’t shake anymore. Not like the first time. It came out clear, measured—sharp in places, soft in others. She’d learned how to lean into the silences. How to let a line breathe before the next one hit. How to carry the weight of her words like they mattered.
Because they did. At least in here, they did.
When she finished, there was a pause, like the room had to catch up. Then applause. Not explosive—but real. A few snaps, a few nods. Someone said, “Goddamn.” And she smiled.
She stepped down, heart still racing, and headed toward the bar where her empty water glass waited.
The bartender—a girl in her mid-twenties with short curls and a nose ring—poured her a refill without asking.
“You killed that,” she said, sliding the glass across the bar.
Arianna gave a shy smile. “Thanks.”
“No seriously,” the bartender said. “You’re really good. Like, you could probably start making money off this if you wanted to.”
Arianna blinked. “Money?”
“Yeah. Some of these spots in Lafayette pay. Or open up for traveling folks. You got something.”
Arianna stared down at the condensation building around her glass. “I’ve never really had something I was… good at.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “You sure? ‘Cause I’m pretty positive you’ve been back here three times in the last two months and each time the crowd gets quieter when you talk.”
Arianna shook her head lightly. “I don’t know. It just feels like a fluke, I guess.”
“Okay, but they keep letting you back. You think they’d let you keep getting up there if you were trash?”
Arianna gave a quiet laugh.
The bartender leaned on her elbows. “Look, this place doesn’t hand out mic time like candy. If you were bombing, somebody would’ve already Sandman’d you off stage.”
“Sandman?”
“You know,” the bartender grinned, doing a little sweeping motion with her hand, “like the Apollo? When they drag you off stage with the hook?”
Arianna laughed, full and real this time. “Wow. That’s cold.”
“Exactly. And it hasn’t happened. So maybe give yourself some credit.”
Arianna looked at her water glass again, then back at the stage. It was empty now. Someone else’s name being read off, someone else finding their voice.
She didn’t know what she was going to do next. But for the first time in a long time, the idea of being “good at something” didn’t sound like a joke.
It sounded like a possibility.
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djp73
- Posts: 13199
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Co a gentleman?
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Because I Got High
Poochie sat stiff on the edge of the old leather couch, one hand draped between his knees, jaw clenched, eyes locked on a muted cooking show flashing across the TV. The sound was off, but the judgment in the room was deafening. Plastic still lined the armrests from years ago, and the A/C clicked on in hard bursts, like even the house was sick of holding its breath.
Natalia sat beside him, angled slightly toward him but saying nothing. Her leg bounced, restless.
Across the room, his mother was planted in the recliner, arms folded. His stepfather leaned against the wall by the hallway entrance, thumb hooked in his pocket, the other hand pressed against his chin like he was trying not to say what he’d already decided needed saying.
“You just gonna sit there and keep pretending this ain’t your life?” his stepfather said finally, voice low but hot. “We let you come back here. You said you needed a minute. That minute turned into months.”
Poochie didn’t flinch.
“I get it,” his mother added. “Things didn’t go the way you wanted. But you don’t get to just shut down because you weren’t the man right away.”
Her voice cracked slightly, not from weakness but from the edge of being worn out.
“You threw your whole life away ‘cause you couldn’t handle not being the best,” his stepfather said. “One school told you to sit for a season and you acted like they asked you to die.”
Still, Poochie said nothing. His eyes stayed locked on the TV—some chef flambéing something way too fancy for this house.
“You childish,” the man continued. “You think this is man shit? Sulking? Smoking? Hiding in the back room like a ghost? You either get a job or you get out.”
Poochie’s mother rubbed her temple. “You don’t even talk to us. You don’t eat with us. All you do is disappear and show up smelling like smoke.”
She looked at him, tired. “We can’t keep carrying you through a life you don’t want.”
There was silence then.
The show on TV cut to commercial.
Poochie stood.
No yelling. No door slamming. Just stood and walked toward the front.
“Don’t walk away while we’re talking to you,” his stepfather said sharply, stepping forward.
But Natalia was already up, grabbing her bag off the floor and chasing after him. “Poochie, wait—”
He didn’t.
He pushed the door open and stepped outside into the heavy evening air. The porch creaked under his steps.
Natalia caught him at the end of the driveway. “You can’t keep doing this.”
He paused long enough to pull a half-smoked blunt from the pocket of his hoodie and light it with a flick. Flame flared, faded.
“You think if you keep running, it’ll just get better on its own?”
He took a slow drag.
“I’m serious,” she said. “You got people trying to help you, and you’re acting like you’d rather drown.”
Poochie finally looked at her, eyes bloodshot, face blank.
She shook her head. “Say something. Anything.”
He exhaled smoke and turned for the car without a word.
“Eric.”
But he was already sliding into the driver’s seat. The door slammed, low and solid, and the engine turned over with a tired groan.
Natalia stood on the edge of the driveway, arms folded tight against her chest.
He didn’t look back.
She didn’t call again.
But she didn’t go inside either—just watched as he rolled down the street and vanished, the smell of smoke still clinging to the air like something that refused to let go.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sky was bright enough to squint through, the sun already cooking the sidewalk into something you could almost hear cracking. It was the kind of Louisiana heat that got under your clothes and stayed there, a wet press of air that clung to every inch of exposed skin.
But Toni didn’t flinch.
She wore a cream-colored turtleneck, sleeves pulled down tight past her wrists, the fabric clinging to her arms like armor. Her jeans were high-waisted, no rips, no breathing room, and her dark braids were pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck. She looked perfect. Put together. Clean. She always did.
Deshawn walked beside her with the easy confidence of someone who was never questioned. His shoulders rolled like he was still on the field—back when he had a team and cleats and jerseys with his name stitched across the back.
They walked in silence into the restaurant—an old spot in Arnaudville with chipped tiles, faded framed photos of jazz musicians on the walls, and the familiar hum of a slow-turning ceiling fan that never did much.
The host sat them near the window, where the light spilled across the table and made the sweat at Toni’s hairline glisten.
The waiter was young, polite, maybe in college. He handed them menus, smiled, and promised to be right back.
Deshawn didn’t look at his.
Toni did, even though she already knew the place. She traced a finger along the page. Something about having her hands busy made it easier to breathe.
When the waiter returned, pad out, smile still polite, he turned toward Toni first. “Y’all ready to order?”
“I think I’ll do the—” she started.
Deshawn turned his head. Just slightly. A single glance.
That was all it took.
Toni’s voice caught. Her hand froze where it hovered above the menu. Then she set it down slowly and gestured toward him with a nod, like it had always been his call.
Deshawn didn’t miss a beat.
“She’ll have the blackened catfish. No sides. Just the house salad, no onions. I’ll do the shrimp po’boy, fries, extra sauce.”
The waiter blinked once. “Yes, sir. Got it.”
He walked away without a word.
Toni stared down at the table. Her fingers curled around the edge of the napkin in her lap.
Across from her, Deshawn sipped his water. His phone buzzed once on the table, and he looked down without picking it up.
“You hot?” he asked casually.
Toni glanced up. “No.”
“You sure? Wearing all that?”
“I’m fine.”
He nodded, not looking at her. “Good.”
The silence came back, thick as the heat outside.
From the street, the sound of a car horn floated through the window. A breeze slipped in under the door but didn’t stay long.
Toni’s knuckles were white around the napkin, but her voice, when it came, was steady.
“Thank you for ordering.”
Deshawn looked up then, smirking slightly. “Someone’s gotta know what you want.”
She smiled, just enough for it to pass.
And then the waiter came back with their drinks, and the moment folded itself up like it had never happened.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Five was quieter than usual for early afternoon, the lull between summer session classes making the place feel almost like a private lounge. A few students sat hunched over laptops in the corner, headphones in, food half-eaten. The air inside was cool and sharp, laced with the scent of grilled meat and cheap detergent from the janitor’s closet that always seemed to leak into the vents.
Royce pushed through the door, tugging at the neck of his shirt as sweat clung to his chest. He’d just come from the weight room, where the defense had run through voluntary circuits that didn’t feel very voluntary. His body ached in familiar places—thighs tight, shoulders burning, fingers twitching from gripping weights too long—but the ache kept him grounded. Kept him focused. Especially when everything else felt like it was unraveling around the edges.
He grabbed a bottle of water and a chicken wrap, nodding at the girl behind the counter who didn’t even pretend to hide the way her eyes trailed after him as he walked toward the tables.
And then he saw her.
Effie.
Sitting alone by the window in that oversized T-shirt she always wore like it meant something, with her legs tucked beneath her and a paperback novel opened beside a steaming bowl of noodles. She wasn’t reading it. Just resting her chin on her hand, staring out the glass like the sunlight might reach in and explain something.
Royce hesitated, mid-step.
Then made his way over.
“Well damn,” she said without looking up. “I didn’t know the Five delivered.”
Royce grinned and sank into the seat across from her. “They don’t. I just saw a lonely table and thought I’d offer it some company.”
She turned toward him, arching an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d be here. Thought football royalty had private chefs and elevators that take them straight to their meals.”
“You stalking me now?”
“Not even close.”
He chuckled, pulling his wrap out of the paper. “You live on campus now?”
Effie stabbed her noodles. “I could ask you the same.”
“I got practice. What’s your excuse?”
She glanced at him, then back at her bowl. “I stayed.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
He smiled, letting the silence between them stretch. “So, seriously. What are you doing here between semesters?”
Effie shrugged. “Had plans. They fell through. Now I’m just... existing. Eating lunch alone. Crushing my way through overpriced Asian fusion bowls.”
“You’re dodging.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe not.”
Royce studied her, chewing slowly. There was something different about her today—less armor in her voice, more space between the syllables. She looked tired, but not in a physical way. More like her soul had spent too long leaning against a locked door.
He took a sip of water. “So… you doing anything tonight?”
Effie’s mouth twitched like she was trying not to laugh. “That your line?”
“It’s a question.”
“Yeah, and that’s a deflection.”
Royce raised both eyebrows. “I was just gonna take a friend out. Thought maybe after a breakup, a night out would help.”
Effie leaned back, resting her arm across the edge of the seat. “That’s what you’d want?”
He nodded. “Sure. You feel like shit, you need to get out. Get distracted. Fuck something. Doesn’t have to be deep.”
“Mm,” she hummed, like she didn’t fully buy it. “Noted.”
He pointed his water bottle at her. “For the record—nobody breaks up with me.”
She gave a slow blink. “They just disappear?”
He smirked. “Wouldn’t know. They don’t do that either.”
She turned her eyes to the window again. The sunlight caught her cheek, softened the lines of her face.
“I’m not looking for a rebound, Royce.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Royce didn’t respond.
Because she was right.
But he also didn’t know what else to say. He just liked sitting here. With her. The calm in it. The lack of expectation. No rehearsed lines. No social media noise. Just… this.
Effie went back to her noodles, breaking the moment like it was a twig between her fingers.
He followed suit, chewing slowly, his eyes still drifting back to her every few seconds without meaning to.
They ate in silence after that—but it wasn’t empty.
Poochie sat stiff on the edge of the old leather couch, one hand draped between his knees, jaw clenched, eyes locked on a muted cooking show flashing across the TV. The sound was off, but the judgment in the room was deafening. Plastic still lined the armrests from years ago, and the A/C clicked on in hard bursts, like even the house was sick of holding its breath.
Natalia sat beside him, angled slightly toward him but saying nothing. Her leg bounced, restless.
Across the room, his mother was planted in the recliner, arms folded. His stepfather leaned against the wall by the hallway entrance, thumb hooked in his pocket, the other hand pressed against his chin like he was trying not to say what he’d already decided needed saying.
“You just gonna sit there and keep pretending this ain’t your life?” his stepfather said finally, voice low but hot. “We let you come back here. You said you needed a minute. That minute turned into months.”
Poochie didn’t flinch.
“I get it,” his mother added. “Things didn’t go the way you wanted. But you don’t get to just shut down because you weren’t the man right away.”
Her voice cracked slightly, not from weakness but from the edge of being worn out.
“You threw your whole life away ‘cause you couldn’t handle not being the best,” his stepfather said. “One school told you to sit for a season and you acted like they asked you to die.”
Still, Poochie said nothing. His eyes stayed locked on the TV—some chef flambéing something way too fancy for this house.
“You childish,” the man continued. “You think this is man shit? Sulking? Smoking? Hiding in the back room like a ghost? You either get a job or you get out.”
Poochie’s mother rubbed her temple. “You don’t even talk to us. You don’t eat with us. All you do is disappear and show up smelling like smoke.”
She looked at him, tired. “We can’t keep carrying you through a life you don’t want.”
There was silence then.
The show on TV cut to commercial.
Poochie stood.
No yelling. No door slamming. Just stood and walked toward the front.
“Don’t walk away while we’re talking to you,” his stepfather said sharply, stepping forward.
But Natalia was already up, grabbing her bag off the floor and chasing after him. “Poochie, wait—”
He didn’t.
He pushed the door open and stepped outside into the heavy evening air. The porch creaked under his steps.
Natalia caught him at the end of the driveway. “You can’t keep doing this.”
He paused long enough to pull a half-smoked blunt from the pocket of his hoodie and light it with a flick. Flame flared, faded.
“You think if you keep running, it’ll just get better on its own?”
He took a slow drag.
“I’m serious,” she said. “You got people trying to help you, and you’re acting like you’d rather drown.”
Poochie finally looked at her, eyes bloodshot, face blank.
She shook her head. “Say something. Anything.”
He exhaled smoke and turned for the car without a word.
“Eric.”
But he was already sliding into the driver’s seat. The door slammed, low and solid, and the engine turned over with a tired groan.
Natalia stood on the edge of the driveway, arms folded tight against her chest.
He didn’t look back.
She didn’t call again.
But she didn’t go inside either—just watched as he rolled down the street and vanished, the smell of smoke still clinging to the air like something that refused to let go.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sky was bright enough to squint through, the sun already cooking the sidewalk into something you could almost hear cracking. It was the kind of Louisiana heat that got under your clothes and stayed there, a wet press of air that clung to every inch of exposed skin.
But Toni didn’t flinch.
She wore a cream-colored turtleneck, sleeves pulled down tight past her wrists, the fabric clinging to her arms like armor. Her jeans were high-waisted, no rips, no breathing room, and her dark braids were pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck. She looked perfect. Put together. Clean. She always did.
Deshawn walked beside her with the easy confidence of someone who was never questioned. His shoulders rolled like he was still on the field—back when he had a team and cleats and jerseys with his name stitched across the back.
They walked in silence into the restaurant—an old spot in Arnaudville with chipped tiles, faded framed photos of jazz musicians on the walls, and the familiar hum of a slow-turning ceiling fan that never did much.
The host sat them near the window, where the light spilled across the table and made the sweat at Toni’s hairline glisten.
The waiter was young, polite, maybe in college. He handed them menus, smiled, and promised to be right back.
Deshawn didn’t look at his.
Toni did, even though she already knew the place. She traced a finger along the page. Something about having her hands busy made it easier to breathe.
When the waiter returned, pad out, smile still polite, he turned toward Toni first. “Y’all ready to order?”
“I think I’ll do the—” she started.
Deshawn turned his head. Just slightly. A single glance.
That was all it took.
Toni’s voice caught. Her hand froze where it hovered above the menu. Then she set it down slowly and gestured toward him with a nod, like it had always been his call.
Deshawn didn’t miss a beat.
“She’ll have the blackened catfish. No sides. Just the house salad, no onions. I’ll do the shrimp po’boy, fries, extra sauce.”
The waiter blinked once. “Yes, sir. Got it.”
He walked away without a word.
Toni stared down at the table. Her fingers curled around the edge of the napkin in her lap.
Across from her, Deshawn sipped his water. His phone buzzed once on the table, and he looked down without picking it up.
“You hot?” he asked casually.
Toni glanced up. “No.”
“You sure? Wearing all that?”
“I’m fine.”
He nodded, not looking at her. “Good.”
The silence came back, thick as the heat outside.
From the street, the sound of a car horn floated through the window. A breeze slipped in under the door but didn’t stay long.
Toni’s knuckles were white around the napkin, but her voice, when it came, was steady.
“Thank you for ordering.”
Deshawn looked up then, smirking slightly. “Someone’s gotta know what you want.”
She smiled, just enough for it to pass.
And then the waiter came back with their drinks, and the moment folded itself up like it had never happened.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Five was quieter than usual for early afternoon, the lull between summer session classes making the place feel almost like a private lounge. A few students sat hunched over laptops in the corner, headphones in, food half-eaten. The air inside was cool and sharp, laced with the scent of grilled meat and cheap detergent from the janitor’s closet that always seemed to leak into the vents.
Royce pushed through the door, tugging at the neck of his shirt as sweat clung to his chest. He’d just come from the weight room, where the defense had run through voluntary circuits that didn’t feel very voluntary. His body ached in familiar places—thighs tight, shoulders burning, fingers twitching from gripping weights too long—but the ache kept him grounded. Kept him focused. Especially when everything else felt like it was unraveling around the edges.
He grabbed a bottle of water and a chicken wrap, nodding at the girl behind the counter who didn’t even pretend to hide the way her eyes trailed after him as he walked toward the tables.
And then he saw her.
Effie.
Sitting alone by the window in that oversized T-shirt she always wore like it meant something, with her legs tucked beneath her and a paperback novel opened beside a steaming bowl of noodles. She wasn’t reading it. Just resting her chin on her hand, staring out the glass like the sunlight might reach in and explain something.
Royce hesitated, mid-step.
Then made his way over.
“Well damn,” she said without looking up. “I didn’t know the Five delivered.”
Royce grinned and sank into the seat across from her. “They don’t. I just saw a lonely table and thought I’d offer it some company.”
She turned toward him, arching an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d be here. Thought football royalty had private chefs and elevators that take them straight to their meals.”
“You stalking me now?”
“Not even close.”
He chuckled, pulling his wrap out of the paper. “You live on campus now?”
Effie stabbed her noodles. “I could ask you the same.”
“I got practice. What’s your excuse?”
She glanced at him, then back at her bowl. “I stayed.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
He smiled, letting the silence between them stretch. “So, seriously. What are you doing here between semesters?”
Effie shrugged. “Had plans. They fell through. Now I’m just... existing. Eating lunch alone. Crushing my way through overpriced Asian fusion bowls.”
“You’re dodging.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe not.”
Royce studied her, chewing slowly. There was something different about her today—less armor in her voice, more space between the syllables. She looked tired, but not in a physical way. More like her soul had spent too long leaning against a locked door.
He took a sip of water. “So… you doing anything tonight?”
Effie’s mouth twitched like she was trying not to laugh. “That your line?”
“It’s a question.”
“Yeah, and that’s a deflection.”
Royce raised both eyebrows. “I was just gonna take a friend out. Thought maybe after a breakup, a night out would help.”
Effie leaned back, resting her arm across the edge of the seat. “That’s what you’d want?”
He nodded. “Sure. You feel like shit, you need to get out. Get distracted. Fuck something. Doesn’t have to be deep.”
“Mm,” she hummed, like she didn’t fully buy it. “Noted.”
He pointed his water bottle at her. “For the record—nobody breaks up with me.”
She gave a slow blink. “They just disappear?”
He smirked. “Wouldn’t know. They don’t do that either.”
She turned her eyes to the window again. The sunlight caught her cheek, softened the lines of her face.
“I’m not looking for a rebound, Royce.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Royce didn’t respond.
Because she was right.
But he also didn’t know what else to say. He just liked sitting here. With her. The calm in it. The lack of expectation. No rehearsed lines. No social media noise. Just… this.
Effie went back to her noodles, breaking the moment like it was a twig between her fingers.
He followed suit, chewing slowly, his eyes still drifting back to her every few seconds without meaning to.
They ate in silence after that—but it wasn’t empty.
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djp73
- Posts: 13199
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
gotta get some oddmakers in here on who is going to take Royce out on draft night
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Soapy
- Posts: 16756
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
Didn't realize I was that far behind, that boy hurrying to wrap this up 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47