Black men don't cheat.Captain Canada wrote: ↑02 May 2025, 17:14Because Royce has cheated on her with half of the campus so far
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16887
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7888
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
This one does with maximum precision and efficiency
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16887
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Pissed Down Your Leg
Sanford Stadium felt like it was breathing.
Not loud — heavy.
Like something old and alive. Like a place that remembered the names of every team that came in here thinking they were different, and left knowing they weren’t.
#2 Georgia. #4 LSU. Both 4–0.
Top-five matchup. SEC on ESPN. Every seat filled. Every red shirt ironed. Every scream already waiting in people’s throats.
And all Royce could think was: don’t let us fall apart again.
He stood near the thirty, helmet in his hand, wrist taped tight, gloves already sweating through. The air felt thicker here, like it came with weight. He could smell it — barbecue smoke, heat off the turf, blood in his gums from where he bit down too hard on his mouthguard during stretch.
He tried to bounce on his toes. Legs felt fine. Arms loose. Chest tight.
He looked up at the scoreboard and saw the clock ticking down pregame. Saw his name listed under “Defensive Players to Watch.” Saw the camera swing toward the LSU sideline and knew it was finding him.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t nod. Didn’t smile.
He just stood there, breathing slow, trying to keep his stomach from turning.
They’d said this team was different.
But they said that last year too.
And the year before that.
People talked about redemption like it was a prize.
Royce knew better. Redemption didn’t show up unless you dragged it with you.
Kolaj was pacing. Rickie had his helmet off, mouthing something to himself. Coach Lupoi yelled a coverage check, and no one really answered.
Royce didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
He could feel the hum under his cleats. Not from the turf — from the building.
Sanford shook different. Not like Tiger Stadium. Not like Baton Rouge.
This place didn’t erupt. It swallowed.
He looked across the field and saw Georgia lined up for warmups — not bouncing, not flexing, not showboating.
Just waiting.
Like a machine that had been cranked to life every Saturday for decades.
He tightened the strap on his gloves. Pulled his helmet on slow.
Jogged out.
Don’t think.
Don’t blink.
Just don’t be the reason they say LSU folded again.
…
It was still early in the first quarter, both teams having traded punts on their opening drive. That did nothing to quiet the crowd, a low rumbling mass that continued even when the Bulldogs were on offense.
Royce crouched low, sweat already dripping down his temple into the collar of his pads.
The tight end motioned across the formation. Royce shouted an adjustment and mirrored it. Kolaj widened on the opposite side.
Snap.
Gunner Stockton dropped back and was flushed out of the pocket by Da’Shawn.
Royce shoved a crossing receiver away and sprinted toward the boundary, matching Stockton’s arc toward the sideline.
Stockton pointed at Royce. Kendrick Robinson’s head spinning trying to find someone to block.
He slipped by him.
Georgia’s quarterback tried to dart out of bounds.
Boom.
Shoulder to chest. No wrap up. Royce heard the violent crack of pads, the thud of Stockton hitting the ground.
He didn’t even see the ball come from. Just heard the scream---“Ball! Ball! Ball!”—from the sideline, and watched as white jerseys dove on the field to recover it.
The referees blew their whistles and pointed immediately. LSU ball.
The Tigers’ sideline and those who had made the trip erupted.
“There’s that man! LSU’s Royce Lafitte with a monster hit to jar that ball loose! You know this kid is going to make at least one big play every game!”
Royce flexed his bicep and slapped his arm as the rest of the defense slapped him on the shoulder pads and helmet in celebration.
…
“First down, LSU from the Georgia 42 after the turnover—Rickie Collins back in the gun, trips right—Durham offset behind him—snap to Collins—looks right—pumps—fires down the seam—AND IT’S PICKED OFF!”
“Intercepted! Dre Hooks stepped right in front of it!”
“And just like that, Georgia snatches the momentum right back!”
“Hooks bringing it back upfield—past the forty—shoved out of bounds at the forty-seven yard line of Georgia—and this crowd is back on their feet!”
“Rickie Collins trying to go for the kill shot on the very next play, but Hooks read it like a book—and suddenly the energy Royce Lafitte gave the Tigers with that forced fumble is sucked right back out of the air.”
“A critical mistake from the LSU sophomore, and the Bulldogs have a chance now to settle down and go to work with excellent field position.”
…
“Georgia takes over at their own forty-seven after the pick—Gunner Stockton back in the shotgun, two tight ends set—motion across—snap—quick hitter to Anthony Evans on the outside—he’s got room—Evans past midfield—makes a man miss—inside the forty—finally pushed out at the thirty-six!”
“And just like that, Georgia’s in business!”
…
“Next play—Stockton again—play action—looking deep—he’s got a man—fires it over the middle—Tre Kashama with the catch at the twenty-one and brought down there—first down Bulldogs!”
…
“LSU reeling a bit now—Stockton moving fast—snap—hands it to Robinson—follows his blocks off the right guard—drives the pile forward for five, maybe six yards—Georgia imposing their will here early in the second quarter.”
…
“Second and short—Stockton in the gun again—snap—give to Robinson—cuts back left—has the edge—first down and more—inside the ten, down at the eight-yard line!”
…
“Georgia absolutely rolling downhill now—LSU’s defense on its heels after the interception.”
“First and goal—Bulldogs stay in the gun—Robinson still the back—snap—give again—Robinson hits the hole hard—dragging a defender—STILL DRIVING—FALLS INTO THE ENDZONE!”
“TOUCHDOWN GEORGIA!”
“Roderick Robinson just carried half of LSU’s front seven into the paint with him—and the Bulldogs take the lead!”
…
“Georgia with the ball again after another LSU field goal—Stockton under center, ball at their own thirty-nine—snap—drops back—quick slant to Evans—he’s got it—makes a move—and he’s gone up the sideline!”
…
“Evans across midfield—forty-five—forty—stays in bounds—finally shoved out at the LSU thirty-two!”
“Anthony Evans is carving up this secondary—he’s already over seventy yards on the night and we’re not even to halftime.”
…
“First down Bulldogs—Stockton in the gun—snap—fakes the give—play action—has time—he’s going deep—looking for Kashama—CAUGHT! Tre Kashama at the five—drags the defender—TOUCHDOWN GEORGIA!”
“Tre Kashama with a grown-man grab over the middle and Georgia cashes in again!”
…
“That’s seventeen unanswered now for the Bulldogs—LSU can’t seem to stop the bleeding!”
“Extra point is good—Georgia 20, LSU 3 with just over two minutes remaining in the first half.”
“What started as a physical, tone-setting effort by the Tigers has slowly unraveled here in Athens.”
…
Royce stood just off the hash marks, helmet in hand, the white stripe of his gloves pressed against the back of his head.
He looked up.
20–3.
The numbers glared back at him from the scoreboard above the endzone like they were carved into stone.
He swallowed hard, sweat burning down the side of his face. His chest heaved beneath his pads, but it wasn’t exhaustion—it was disappointment. That familiar, bitter weight settling in his gut like a lead weight.
Not again.
Not another one of these games.
Sanford Stadium shook around him—red and black echoing off the stands, fireworks cracking in the Georgia night sky. Fans waving flags, students in the front row pounding on the railing, barking and chanting like they already knew how this ended.
Royce dropped his helmet to his side, flexing his fingers.
They came into Athens 4–0. Undefeated. Talking like it was different this time. That this was the year LSU stopped being a name and started being a threat again.
But standing here, watching Georgia celebrate another touchdown after another missed tackle, another blown coverage, another empty drive on offense… it felt like last year. Like the year before.
It felt like all the noise and hype didn’t matter once the lights hit.
He clenched his jaw and turned away from the scoreboard, chest rising hard.
“Come on,” he muttered to no one in particular. “We not folding. Not again.”
But even as he walked toward the sideline, Whit slapping his shoulder as quiet encouragement, the thought crawled back into his head and wouldn’t leave:
What if this is just who they are?
…
"First and goal Georgia from the nine-yard line, Stockton in the shotgun, Robinson offset to his right. The Bulldogs already lead 20 to 6 midway through the third quarter. LSU showing pressure up the middle—Lafitte barking signals, adjusting the front..."
"Snap to Stockton—hands to Robinson—he’s got a crease! Robinson through the middle—lowers the shoulder—dragging a defender with him—TOUCHDOWN GEORGIA! Roderick Robinson punches it in from nine yards out, and this crowd here at Sanford Stadium is on its feet!"
"That’s his second touchdown of the game, and folks, LSU is reeling. 26 to 6 right now, pending the extra point."
"It’s been all Bulldogs since the opening quarter. What looked like a tone-setting forced fumble from Royce Lafitte early has been completely flipped around. Georgia’s offensive line is owning the trenches, and LSU hasn’t been able to find an answer."
"PAT is up… and good. Georgia extends the lead—it’s 27 to 6 here in Athens. And if LSU’s gonna mount a comeback, it needs to start now.”
“You can feel the air coming out of that LSU sideline right now. Everyone down there knows what this means. Another big game… and it’s slipping away.”
…
Royce ripped his helmet off before the extra point even cleared the netting.
He didn’t wait to reach the sideline.
He hurled the helmet into the bench with a violent clatter, the plastic echoing like a gunshot as it bounced off the metal frame and skidded to the turf.
Heads turned. Coaches looked up.
Royce didn’t care.
“You motherfuckers better wake the fuck up!” he barked, chest heaving, voice raw with frustration and disbelief. “They doing whatever the fuck they want! Is that who you are now?! Just toot it up and let these niggas fuck you like some ponks?!”
Nobody answered. A few eyes dropped. Others stared straight ahead.
Royce stepped forward, jaw tight, fists balled at his sides.
“You waiting for somebody else to fix it? Ain’t nobody coming to save us!”
He pointed at the scoreboard. 27–6. Midway through the third.
“Y’all gotta stop playing scared! Get your shit together!”
Still no words. But there was movement—shoulders straightening, jawlines clenching, helmets being pulled on with a little more force.
Royce turned away, snatched up his helmet off the turf, and walked toward the defensive huddle near the numbers.
Behind him, the sideline shifted.
Slowly.
But it shifted.
…
"Fourth quarter here in Athens, folks—LSU still trailing 27–6, but showing some life on this drive. Rickie Collins in the shotgun, third down and six from the Georgia 27. Tigers need points, and they need them fast."
"Collins claps—takes the snap—Georgia rush bringing pressure—Collins backpedals, steps up—UNLEASHES ONE DEEP DOWN THE RIGHT SIDE—SAMPSON’S THERE—HE’S GOT IT!! SHELTON SAMPSON, JR. INSIDE THE FIVE—DIVES FOR THE PYLON—TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!!"
"Sampson Jr. hits the turbo at the perfect moment—caught it in stride, shrugged off the corner, and soared to the edge! That’s a 27-yard strike from Rickie Collins to give LSU their first touchdown of the night!"
"And just like that, the Tigers show signs of life here in the fourth! They’ll go for two here to make it a 13 point lead… but that’s exactly what the doctor ordered. Sampson with a highlight reel grab. The LSU sideline starting to wake up. Don’t count ‘em out yet, folks!"
…
"Third down and four for Georgia, ball spotted at their own 38-yard line. The Bulldogs are clinging to a 27–13 lead here in the fourth quarter. LSU's defense needs a stop to keep their comeback hopes alive."
"Stockton lines up in the shotgun formation, two receivers to his right, tight end in motion. Snap is away—Stockton drops back, quick throw to the flat—caught by Robinson at the 40—"
"But here comes Royce Lafitte! He closes in like a missile and BOOM! levels Robinson at the 41-yard line! What a textbook open-field tackle!"
"Robinson had nowhere to go, and Lafitte read that play perfectly. No gain on the play, and Georgia's punt team is heading onto the field."
"Folks, that's the kind of defensive stand LSU needed. Royce Lafitte showing why he's the heart and soul of this Tigers defense."
…
“Second down and goal, LSU trying to capitalize—ball on the Georgia six-yard line. Collins in the shotgun, Durham to his left, two receivers wide right… snap to Collins—drops back—looks left—now back middle—throws a dart to the end zone—”
“CAUGHT! ZAVION THOMAS! TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!”
“Zavion Thomas found the soft spot in the zone and Rickie Collins hit him right between the numbers! That’s a huge score for LSU as they continue to climb back into this one in the fourth quarter!”
“Extra point pending—it’s now 27–20, and suddenly this raucous Sanford Stadium crowd is on edge!”
“Thomas ran a perfect little dig route right behind the linebacker and sat down at the exact right moment. That’s a grown-man throw by Collins and a confident grab from his veteran receiver. LSU’s not going anywhere.”
…
“Third down and seven for Georgia, ball at their own thirty-two… Stockton in the gun, three wideouts to the right… here comes the snap—Stockton drops—LSU brings four—Stockton looking, steps up, now fires deep over the middle—”
“INTERCEPTED! PICKED OFF BY ASHTON STAMPS!”
“Stamps jumps the route like he read the play before the snap! That’s a huge turnover for this LSU defense—AND THE TIGERS HAVE LIFE IN ATHENS!”
“Womack brought pressure right up the gut, forced Stockton to rush that throw—and Stamps, playing centerfield, just made a veteran play. You can feel this momentum swinging hard toward the Tigers now.”
“And LSU’s going to take over in plus territory with a chance to tie this ballgame late in the fourth!”
…
“Fourth down and four at the Georgia twelve-yard line—LSU unable to punch it in after the turnover, but they’ll bring out the field goal unit to try and cut this to a four-point game.”
“Here comes Corbello—this will be a 29-yard attempt, dead center of the field. Snap down, hold good… kick is up…”
“AND IT’S GOOD! RIGHT DOWN THE MIDDLE!”
“That’s a big-time kick. Not flashy, but it keeps LSU within one possession. Bramblett’s been steady all year, and that one splits the uprights clean.”
“LSU now trails 27–23, and folks, this stadium is on edge. Tigers down by four with just under five minutes to play!”
…
Georgia came out in a tight bunch set, just inside LSU territory. Third and three. The clock bled down, but Royce didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear much at all—just the dull thump of his heart in his ears, the distant roar of the crowd pressed into a low hum.
He crouched low over his cleats, watching Gunner Stockton survey the defense. The Bulldogs had been leaning on the run all afternoon, trying to grind LSU down, and Royce knew this was another chance for them to slam the door shut.
He gritted his teeth, eyes on the back—Roderick Robinson II. Stockton motioned the tight end in tighter, and that was the tell. They wanted to muscle it.
Fine.
Snap.
The left guard pulled.
Royce read it instantly—power left.
He exploded through the B-gap, ducking under a half-hearted chip from the tight end and squeezing between the center and pulling guard before either could adjust.
Robinson barely had the ball in his hands before Royce hit him like a shot.
Shoulder to hip.
Pads cracking.
Robinson folded, driven backward into a wall of linemen. Royce wrapped and twisted, spinning him sideways and dumping him to the turf.
The whistle blew.
No gain.
Royce popped to his feet and looked toward the Georgia sideline, his chest heaving, helmet tilting as if to ask: “That all y’all got?”
Behind him, Kolaj clapped hard, and Ashton sprinted in from the secondary to slap him on the back.
The stadium surged, the LSU fans making their presence felt again, louder now than they'd been all night.
Georgia’s punt team jogged on.
Royce just turned and walked off the field without celebrating—locked in, jaw tight.
…
“LSU’s offense has stalled out just shy of the red zone once again, but they’ve clawed their way back into this one. It’s going to be a 41-yard attempt from the right hash for Aidan Corbello. The Tigers trailing Georgia by just four with under three minutes to play.”
“Snap is down… the kick is up…”
“And it is GOOD! Right down the middle! Aidan Corbello stays perfect on the season and LSU has now scored twenty unanswered points in this fourth quarter!”
“Folks, it’s 27 to 26, Georgia hanging on by a thread here at Sanford Stadium. You can feel the pressure shift. The Tigers are a problem. Don’t go anywhere—we’ve got a thriller unfolding in Athens.”
…
"Stockton in the gun—Georgia facing 3rd and long, just over two minutes left, and LSU has all the momentum. Trips right, single back. Sanford Stadium holding its breath—this place got awfully quiet."
"Snap to Stockton… drops back… pressure coming off the edge—Reliford closing—Stockton steps up—uncorks one deep down the seam…"
"INTERCEPTED!! KOLAJ COBBINS!!"
"The redshirt junior linebacker read it the whole way, dropped into his zone and snatched it like he was the intended receiver!"
"Kolaj Cobbins with the biggest play of his career, and LSU is going to take over with a chance to take the lead! What a turnaround in Athens! The Tigers were dead in the water heading into the fourth, and now they’ve got a chance to steal one from the number two team in the country!"
"You can hear the LSU sideline erupting from up here in the booth. Cobbins flexing, the defense going wild—this is why you don’t leave early, folks!"
…
Royce crouched near the forty, helmet resting between his cleats, gloved hands clasped over his mouth. The roar of the stadium blurred into white noise, muffled by the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Sweat dripped from his temple, stinging his eye, but he didn’t blink.
Rickie stood in the shotgun, LSU clinging to hope.
Snap.
Royce didn’t move. He watched the play unfold as if underwater—Rickie dropping back, feet too frantic, eyes darting. Royce saw it before it happened. The moment Rickie locked in on Shelton near the sideline, Royce’s heart dropped.
Rickie threw it anyway.
Royce's hands dropped from his face.
The ball floated—not a dart, but a drift. A slow spiral begging to be taken.
Daniel Harris read it like a telegraph. Broke in front of the route and snatched it clean.
“No…” Royce whispered, already standing, already backing up as the Georgia corner turned upfield.
White jerseys scattered. Gold helmets chased in desperation. Royce’s heart raced as Harris sprinted past LSU’s sideline.
Zavion dove—missed.
Caden lunged—brushed air.
Royce’s jaw clenched as Harris crossed the ten… the five…
Finally shoved out of bounds at the LSU four.
The crowd erupted—red and black boiling over in the stands.
Royce just stood there.
Staring.
The scoreboard above the east end zone blinked mercilessly. The ball sat inside the five. And the weight of it all—of the game, the comeback, the near miracle—pressed into Royce’s chest like a fist.
He dropped his helmet onto the bench with a quiet clunk and sat down hard beside it.
All that fight.
All that effort.
All for nothing.
…
"Alright folks, Georgia lining up inside the five… first and goal with 1:08 left on the clock. LSU needs a miracle now, trailing by just one, but the Bulldogs looking to put the dagger in right here."
"Stockton in the shotgun… motion coming from right to left—that’s Anthony Evans—snap to Stockton… flip forward to Evans on the jet sweep—Evans turns the corner—he’s at the three—two—dives! TOUCHDOWN GEORGIA!"
"Anthony Evans on the jet sweep pop pass and that might be the nail in the coffin here in Athens!"
"Sanford Stadium is shaking! Georgia goes up 33–26 pending the extra point—and with just over a minute to go, that quick strike might’ve sealed it for the Bulldogs!"
"Credit to Gunner Stockton for staying poised—just flipped it perfectly into Evans’ stride—and the speedster did the rest!"
"Heartbreak for LSU after climbing all the way back… and Georgia slams the door shut."
…
"Here we go, folks—this is it. Fourth down and ten, LSU at the Georgia thirty-nine yard line. Just twenty-three seconds left on the clock. Down by eight. They have to have it."
"Collins in the gun. Three receivers to the right, one to the left. Durham in the backfield. Georgia showing pressure—snap to Collins—drops back—he’s looking—steps up—pressure coming!"
"Collins fires it over the middle—DEFLECTED! TIPPED AND INCOMPLETE!"
"Hooks got a hand on it! The senior safety closes the door and Georgia takes over on downs!"
"And that will do it. LSU’s furious comeback falls just short here in Athens."
"Final score: Georgia 34, LSU 26. The Bulldogs survive a fourth-quarter storm and remain undefeated."
"What a game… what a finish… but it’s heartbreak for the Tigers today."
Sanford Stadium felt like it was breathing.
Not loud — heavy.
Like something old and alive. Like a place that remembered the names of every team that came in here thinking they were different, and left knowing they weren’t.
#2 Georgia. #4 LSU. Both 4–0.
Top-five matchup. SEC on ESPN. Every seat filled. Every red shirt ironed. Every scream already waiting in people’s throats.
And all Royce could think was: don’t let us fall apart again.
He stood near the thirty, helmet in his hand, wrist taped tight, gloves already sweating through. The air felt thicker here, like it came with weight. He could smell it — barbecue smoke, heat off the turf, blood in his gums from where he bit down too hard on his mouthguard during stretch.
He tried to bounce on his toes. Legs felt fine. Arms loose. Chest tight.
He looked up at the scoreboard and saw the clock ticking down pregame. Saw his name listed under “Defensive Players to Watch.” Saw the camera swing toward the LSU sideline and knew it was finding him.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t nod. Didn’t smile.
He just stood there, breathing slow, trying to keep his stomach from turning.
They’d said this team was different.
But they said that last year too.
And the year before that.
People talked about redemption like it was a prize.
Royce knew better. Redemption didn’t show up unless you dragged it with you.
Kolaj was pacing. Rickie had his helmet off, mouthing something to himself. Coach Lupoi yelled a coverage check, and no one really answered.
Royce didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
He could feel the hum under his cleats. Not from the turf — from the building.
Sanford shook different. Not like Tiger Stadium. Not like Baton Rouge.
This place didn’t erupt. It swallowed.
He looked across the field and saw Georgia lined up for warmups — not bouncing, not flexing, not showboating.
Just waiting.
Like a machine that had been cranked to life every Saturday for decades.
He tightened the strap on his gloves. Pulled his helmet on slow.
Jogged out.
Don’t think.
Don’t blink.
Just don’t be the reason they say LSU folded again.
…
It was still early in the first quarter, both teams having traded punts on their opening drive. That did nothing to quiet the crowd, a low rumbling mass that continued even when the Bulldogs were on offense.
Royce crouched low, sweat already dripping down his temple into the collar of his pads.
The tight end motioned across the formation. Royce shouted an adjustment and mirrored it. Kolaj widened on the opposite side.
Snap.
Gunner Stockton dropped back and was flushed out of the pocket by Da’Shawn.
Royce shoved a crossing receiver away and sprinted toward the boundary, matching Stockton’s arc toward the sideline.
Stockton pointed at Royce. Kendrick Robinson’s head spinning trying to find someone to block.
He slipped by him.
Georgia’s quarterback tried to dart out of bounds.
Boom.
Shoulder to chest. No wrap up. Royce heard the violent crack of pads, the thud of Stockton hitting the ground.
He didn’t even see the ball come from. Just heard the scream---“Ball! Ball! Ball!”—from the sideline, and watched as white jerseys dove on the field to recover it.
The referees blew their whistles and pointed immediately. LSU ball.
The Tigers’ sideline and those who had made the trip erupted.
“There’s that man! LSU’s Royce Lafitte with a monster hit to jar that ball loose! You know this kid is going to make at least one big play every game!”
Royce flexed his bicep and slapped his arm as the rest of the defense slapped him on the shoulder pads and helmet in celebration.
…
“First down, LSU from the Georgia 42 after the turnover—Rickie Collins back in the gun, trips right—Durham offset behind him—snap to Collins—looks right—pumps—fires down the seam—AND IT’S PICKED OFF!”
“Intercepted! Dre Hooks stepped right in front of it!”
“And just like that, Georgia snatches the momentum right back!”
“Hooks bringing it back upfield—past the forty—shoved out of bounds at the forty-seven yard line of Georgia—and this crowd is back on their feet!”
“Rickie Collins trying to go for the kill shot on the very next play, but Hooks read it like a book—and suddenly the energy Royce Lafitte gave the Tigers with that forced fumble is sucked right back out of the air.”
“A critical mistake from the LSU sophomore, and the Bulldogs have a chance now to settle down and go to work with excellent field position.”
…
“Georgia takes over at their own forty-seven after the pick—Gunner Stockton back in the shotgun, two tight ends set—motion across—snap—quick hitter to Anthony Evans on the outside—he’s got room—Evans past midfield—makes a man miss—inside the forty—finally pushed out at the thirty-six!”
“And just like that, Georgia’s in business!”
…
“Next play—Stockton again—play action—looking deep—he’s got a man—fires it over the middle—Tre Kashama with the catch at the twenty-one and brought down there—first down Bulldogs!”
…
“LSU reeling a bit now—Stockton moving fast—snap—hands it to Robinson—follows his blocks off the right guard—drives the pile forward for five, maybe six yards—Georgia imposing their will here early in the second quarter.”
…
“Second and short—Stockton in the gun again—snap—give to Robinson—cuts back left—has the edge—first down and more—inside the ten, down at the eight-yard line!”
…
“Georgia absolutely rolling downhill now—LSU’s defense on its heels after the interception.”
“First and goal—Bulldogs stay in the gun—Robinson still the back—snap—give again—Robinson hits the hole hard—dragging a defender—STILL DRIVING—FALLS INTO THE ENDZONE!”
“TOUCHDOWN GEORGIA!”
“Roderick Robinson just carried half of LSU’s front seven into the paint with him—and the Bulldogs take the lead!”
…
“Georgia with the ball again after another LSU field goal—Stockton under center, ball at their own thirty-nine—snap—drops back—quick slant to Evans—he’s got it—makes a move—and he’s gone up the sideline!”
…
“Evans across midfield—forty-five—forty—stays in bounds—finally shoved out at the LSU thirty-two!”
“Anthony Evans is carving up this secondary—he’s already over seventy yards on the night and we’re not even to halftime.”
…
“First down Bulldogs—Stockton in the gun—snap—fakes the give—play action—has time—he’s going deep—looking for Kashama—CAUGHT! Tre Kashama at the five—drags the defender—TOUCHDOWN GEORGIA!”
“Tre Kashama with a grown-man grab over the middle and Georgia cashes in again!”
…
“That’s seventeen unanswered now for the Bulldogs—LSU can’t seem to stop the bleeding!”
“Extra point is good—Georgia 20, LSU 3 with just over two minutes remaining in the first half.”
“What started as a physical, tone-setting effort by the Tigers has slowly unraveled here in Athens.”
…
Royce stood just off the hash marks, helmet in hand, the white stripe of his gloves pressed against the back of his head.
He looked up.
20–3.
The numbers glared back at him from the scoreboard above the endzone like they were carved into stone.
He swallowed hard, sweat burning down the side of his face. His chest heaved beneath his pads, but it wasn’t exhaustion—it was disappointment. That familiar, bitter weight settling in his gut like a lead weight.
Not again.
Not another one of these games.
Sanford Stadium shook around him—red and black echoing off the stands, fireworks cracking in the Georgia night sky. Fans waving flags, students in the front row pounding on the railing, barking and chanting like they already knew how this ended.
Royce dropped his helmet to his side, flexing his fingers.
They came into Athens 4–0. Undefeated. Talking like it was different this time. That this was the year LSU stopped being a name and started being a threat again.
But standing here, watching Georgia celebrate another touchdown after another missed tackle, another blown coverage, another empty drive on offense… it felt like last year. Like the year before.
It felt like all the noise and hype didn’t matter once the lights hit.
He clenched his jaw and turned away from the scoreboard, chest rising hard.
“Come on,” he muttered to no one in particular. “We not folding. Not again.”
But even as he walked toward the sideline, Whit slapping his shoulder as quiet encouragement, the thought crawled back into his head and wouldn’t leave:
What if this is just who they are?
…
"First and goal Georgia from the nine-yard line, Stockton in the shotgun, Robinson offset to his right. The Bulldogs already lead 20 to 6 midway through the third quarter. LSU showing pressure up the middle—Lafitte barking signals, adjusting the front..."
"Snap to Stockton—hands to Robinson—he’s got a crease! Robinson through the middle—lowers the shoulder—dragging a defender with him—TOUCHDOWN GEORGIA! Roderick Robinson punches it in from nine yards out, and this crowd here at Sanford Stadium is on its feet!"
"That’s his second touchdown of the game, and folks, LSU is reeling. 26 to 6 right now, pending the extra point."
"It’s been all Bulldogs since the opening quarter. What looked like a tone-setting forced fumble from Royce Lafitte early has been completely flipped around. Georgia’s offensive line is owning the trenches, and LSU hasn’t been able to find an answer."
"PAT is up… and good. Georgia extends the lead—it’s 27 to 6 here in Athens. And if LSU’s gonna mount a comeback, it needs to start now.”
“You can feel the air coming out of that LSU sideline right now. Everyone down there knows what this means. Another big game… and it’s slipping away.”
…
Royce ripped his helmet off before the extra point even cleared the netting.
He didn’t wait to reach the sideline.
He hurled the helmet into the bench with a violent clatter, the plastic echoing like a gunshot as it bounced off the metal frame and skidded to the turf.
Heads turned. Coaches looked up.
Royce didn’t care.
“You motherfuckers better wake the fuck up!” he barked, chest heaving, voice raw with frustration and disbelief. “They doing whatever the fuck they want! Is that who you are now?! Just toot it up and let these niggas fuck you like some ponks?!”
Nobody answered. A few eyes dropped. Others stared straight ahead.
Royce stepped forward, jaw tight, fists balled at his sides.
“You waiting for somebody else to fix it? Ain’t nobody coming to save us!”
He pointed at the scoreboard. 27–6. Midway through the third.
“Y’all gotta stop playing scared! Get your shit together!”
Still no words. But there was movement—shoulders straightening, jawlines clenching, helmets being pulled on with a little more force.
Royce turned away, snatched up his helmet off the turf, and walked toward the defensive huddle near the numbers.
Behind him, the sideline shifted.
Slowly.
But it shifted.
…
"Fourth quarter here in Athens, folks—LSU still trailing 27–6, but showing some life on this drive. Rickie Collins in the shotgun, third down and six from the Georgia 27. Tigers need points, and they need them fast."
"Collins claps—takes the snap—Georgia rush bringing pressure—Collins backpedals, steps up—UNLEASHES ONE DEEP DOWN THE RIGHT SIDE—SAMPSON’S THERE—HE’S GOT IT!! SHELTON SAMPSON, JR. INSIDE THE FIVE—DIVES FOR THE PYLON—TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!!"
"Sampson Jr. hits the turbo at the perfect moment—caught it in stride, shrugged off the corner, and soared to the edge! That’s a 27-yard strike from Rickie Collins to give LSU their first touchdown of the night!"
"And just like that, the Tigers show signs of life here in the fourth! They’ll go for two here to make it a 13 point lead… but that’s exactly what the doctor ordered. Sampson with a highlight reel grab. The LSU sideline starting to wake up. Don’t count ‘em out yet, folks!"
…
"Third down and four for Georgia, ball spotted at their own 38-yard line. The Bulldogs are clinging to a 27–13 lead here in the fourth quarter. LSU's defense needs a stop to keep their comeback hopes alive."
"Stockton lines up in the shotgun formation, two receivers to his right, tight end in motion. Snap is away—Stockton drops back, quick throw to the flat—caught by Robinson at the 40—"
"But here comes Royce Lafitte! He closes in like a missile and BOOM! levels Robinson at the 41-yard line! What a textbook open-field tackle!"
"Robinson had nowhere to go, and Lafitte read that play perfectly. No gain on the play, and Georgia's punt team is heading onto the field."
"Folks, that's the kind of defensive stand LSU needed. Royce Lafitte showing why he's the heart and soul of this Tigers defense."
…
“Second down and goal, LSU trying to capitalize—ball on the Georgia six-yard line. Collins in the shotgun, Durham to his left, two receivers wide right… snap to Collins—drops back—looks left—now back middle—throws a dart to the end zone—”
“CAUGHT! ZAVION THOMAS! TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!”
“Zavion Thomas found the soft spot in the zone and Rickie Collins hit him right between the numbers! That’s a huge score for LSU as they continue to climb back into this one in the fourth quarter!”
“Extra point pending—it’s now 27–20, and suddenly this raucous Sanford Stadium crowd is on edge!”
“Thomas ran a perfect little dig route right behind the linebacker and sat down at the exact right moment. That’s a grown-man throw by Collins and a confident grab from his veteran receiver. LSU’s not going anywhere.”
…
“Third down and seven for Georgia, ball at their own thirty-two… Stockton in the gun, three wideouts to the right… here comes the snap—Stockton drops—LSU brings four—Stockton looking, steps up, now fires deep over the middle—”
“INTERCEPTED! PICKED OFF BY ASHTON STAMPS!”
“Stamps jumps the route like he read the play before the snap! That’s a huge turnover for this LSU defense—AND THE TIGERS HAVE LIFE IN ATHENS!”
“Womack brought pressure right up the gut, forced Stockton to rush that throw—and Stamps, playing centerfield, just made a veteran play. You can feel this momentum swinging hard toward the Tigers now.”
“And LSU’s going to take over in plus territory with a chance to tie this ballgame late in the fourth!”
…
“Fourth down and four at the Georgia twelve-yard line—LSU unable to punch it in after the turnover, but they’ll bring out the field goal unit to try and cut this to a four-point game.”
“Here comes Corbello—this will be a 29-yard attempt, dead center of the field. Snap down, hold good… kick is up…”
“AND IT’S GOOD! RIGHT DOWN THE MIDDLE!”
“That’s a big-time kick. Not flashy, but it keeps LSU within one possession. Bramblett’s been steady all year, and that one splits the uprights clean.”
“LSU now trails 27–23, and folks, this stadium is on edge. Tigers down by four with just under five minutes to play!”
…
Georgia came out in a tight bunch set, just inside LSU territory. Third and three. The clock bled down, but Royce didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear much at all—just the dull thump of his heart in his ears, the distant roar of the crowd pressed into a low hum.
He crouched low over his cleats, watching Gunner Stockton survey the defense. The Bulldogs had been leaning on the run all afternoon, trying to grind LSU down, and Royce knew this was another chance for them to slam the door shut.
He gritted his teeth, eyes on the back—Roderick Robinson II. Stockton motioned the tight end in tighter, and that was the tell. They wanted to muscle it.
Fine.
Snap.
The left guard pulled.
Royce read it instantly—power left.
He exploded through the B-gap, ducking under a half-hearted chip from the tight end and squeezing between the center and pulling guard before either could adjust.
Robinson barely had the ball in his hands before Royce hit him like a shot.
Shoulder to hip.
Pads cracking.
Robinson folded, driven backward into a wall of linemen. Royce wrapped and twisted, spinning him sideways and dumping him to the turf.
The whistle blew.
No gain.
Royce popped to his feet and looked toward the Georgia sideline, his chest heaving, helmet tilting as if to ask: “That all y’all got?”
Behind him, Kolaj clapped hard, and Ashton sprinted in from the secondary to slap him on the back.
The stadium surged, the LSU fans making their presence felt again, louder now than they'd been all night.
Georgia’s punt team jogged on.
Royce just turned and walked off the field without celebrating—locked in, jaw tight.
…
“LSU’s offense has stalled out just shy of the red zone once again, but they’ve clawed their way back into this one. It’s going to be a 41-yard attempt from the right hash for Aidan Corbello. The Tigers trailing Georgia by just four with under three minutes to play.”
“Snap is down… the kick is up…”
“And it is GOOD! Right down the middle! Aidan Corbello stays perfect on the season and LSU has now scored twenty unanswered points in this fourth quarter!”
“Folks, it’s 27 to 26, Georgia hanging on by a thread here at Sanford Stadium. You can feel the pressure shift. The Tigers are a problem. Don’t go anywhere—we’ve got a thriller unfolding in Athens.”
…
"Stockton in the gun—Georgia facing 3rd and long, just over two minutes left, and LSU has all the momentum. Trips right, single back. Sanford Stadium holding its breath—this place got awfully quiet."
"Snap to Stockton… drops back… pressure coming off the edge—Reliford closing—Stockton steps up—uncorks one deep down the seam…"
"INTERCEPTED!! KOLAJ COBBINS!!"
"The redshirt junior linebacker read it the whole way, dropped into his zone and snatched it like he was the intended receiver!"
"Kolaj Cobbins with the biggest play of his career, and LSU is going to take over with a chance to take the lead! What a turnaround in Athens! The Tigers were dead in the water heading into the fourth, and now they’ve got a chance to steal one from the number two team in the country!"
"You can hear the LSU sideline erupting from up here in the booth. Cobbins flexing, the defense going wild—this is why you don’t leave early, folks!"
…
Royce crouched near the forty, helmet resting between his cleats, gloved hands clasped over his mouth. The roar of the stadium blurred into white noise, muffled by the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Sweat dripped from his temple, stinging his eye, but he didn’t blink.
Rickie stood in the shotgun, LSU clinging to hope.
Snap.
Royce didn’t move. He watched the play unfold as if underwater—Rickie dropping back, feet too frantic, eyes darting. Royce saw it before it happened. The moment Rickie locked in on Shelton near the sideline, Royce’s heart dropped.
Rickie threw it anyway.
Royce's hands dropped from his face.
The ball floated—not a dart, but a drift. A slow spiral begging to be taken.
Daniel Harris read it like a telegraph. Broke in front of the route and snatched it clean.
“No…” Royce whispered, already standing, already backing up as the Georgia corner turned upfield.
White jerseys scattered. Gold helmets chased in desperation. Royce’s heart raced as Harris sprinted past LSU’s sideline.
Zavion dove—missed.
Caden lunged—brushed air.
Royce’s jaw clenched as Harris crossed the ten… the five…
Finally shoved out of bounds at the LSU four.
The crowd erupted—red and black boiling over in the stands.
Royce just stood there.
Staring.
The scoreboard above the east end zone blinked mercilessly. The ball sat inside the five. And the weight of it all—of the game, the comeback, the near miracle—pressed into Royce’s chest like a fist.
He dropped his helmet onto the bench with a quiet clunk and sat down hard beside it.
All that fight.
All that effort.
All for nothing.
…
"Alright folks, Georgia lining up inside the five… first and goal with 1:08 left on the clock. LSU needs a miracle now, trailing by just one, but the Bulldogs looking to put the dagger in right here."
"Stockton in the shotgun… motion coming from right to left—that’s Anthony Evans—snap to Stockton… flip forward to Evans on the jet sweep—Evans turns the corner—he’s at the three—two—dives! TOUCHDOWN GEORGIA!"
"Anthony Evans on the jet sweep pop pass and that might be the nail in the coffin here in Athens!"
"Sanford Stadium is shaking! Georgia goes up 33–26 pending the extra point—and with just over a minute to go, that quick strike might’ve sealed it for the Bulldogs!"
"Credit to Gunner Stockton for staying poised—just flipped it perfectly into Evans’ stride—and the speedster did the rest!"
"Heartbreak for LSU after climbing all the way back… and Georgia slams the door shut."
…
"Here we go, folks—this is it. Fourth down and ten, LSU at the Georgia thirty-nine yard line. Just twenty-three seconds left on the clock. Down by eight. They have to have it."
"Collins in the gun. Three receivers to the right, one to the left. Durham in the backfield. Georgia showing pressure—snap to Collins—drops back—he’s looking—steps up—pressure coming!"
"Collins fires it over the middle—DEFLECTED! TIPPED AND INCOMPLETE!"
"Hooks got a hand on it! The senior safety closes the door and Georgia takes over on downs!"
"And that will do it. LSU’s furious comeback falls just short here in Athens."
"Final score: Georgia 34, LSU 26. The Bulldogs survive a fourth-quarter storm and remain undefeated."
"What a game… what a finish… but it’s heartbreak for the Tigers today."
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16887
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Ghosts Don’t Leave
The cabin was mostly silent. Not the kind of silence that settles. The kind that hangs — heavy, unfinished. The soft hum of the engines filled in the gaps between shuffling cleats, shifting shoulders, zippers closing too hard.
LSU had lost.
34–26.
A fourth-quarter surge. A fight. A comeback that looked like something — until it didn’t.
Twenty points in the final fifteen minutes, and it still wasn’t enough.
Royce sat by the window with his hood up, arms folded across his chest, one knee bouncing under the tray table. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t speak.
The condensation on the glass caught a dull orange glow from the plane’s wing light, but he was staring past it, into the clouds, somewhere far away.
They had come into Athens undefeated. He’d told himself it was their time.
And now they were just bodies on a plane again. Flying home with nothing to show for it but soreness and the word "almost" echoing in their heads.
It had been a long time since Romeo’s voice came to him. Months, really. The first season after Romeo died, it was constant — every missed tackle, every dropped opportunity, every moment Royce tried to feel like a man. Romeo had been there, in his head, ripping him apart. Telling him he was faking it. That he’d always been faking it.
Eventually, the voice faded. Or maybe Royce learned how to tune it out.
But tonight — high above Baton Rouge, stuck between exhaustion and anger — it came back.
Sharp. Uninvited.
"You looked the part."
The voice curled in from somewhere Royce couldn’t block.
"All that fucking hype. All that fucking talk. And y’all still flew home with the L."
Royce closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the cold wall of the plane.
"Tell me again how you built different. How you him. You couldn’t close the door when it mattered. You couldn’t fucking finish."
He didn’t flinch. But the heat rose in his chest.
Because it wasn’t the blowout losses that triggered this. It was the ones they almost had. The ones they fought for.
That’s what made it worse.
"You fought hard," Romeo’s voice mocked. "Congratulations, fuck nigga. You still lost."
Royce dug his fingers into his forearm, just enough to ground himself. Just enough to stay quiet.
The wheels touched down harder than they should have, bouncing once before catching. The plane rolled forward, engines whirring down.
Royce didn’t move.
The voices around him were low — coaches coordinating the buses, players mumbling about what went wrong, what film would look like. No one had energy left for excuses.
His phone buzzed as they taxied.
Roni.
He opened it. There was a picture.
Two boys drawn in pencil on wide-ruled notebook paper. One labeled "Rome", the other "Ro". Big square shoulders. Capes flapping. Smeared lines and too-big eyes.
He remembered her drawing it. Maybe second grade.
Roni had insisted they were superheroes. Said they’d save the world together. Said they’d always be on the same side.
The message was simple:
“Found this in the shed. Thought you’d want it.”
Royce stared at it for a long time.
Long enough for the aisle to clear.
But he didn’t reply.
Not because he didn’t care.
But because he wasn’t sure if he could be that version of himself anymore — the one in the cape. The one Romeo used to believe in.
He locked the screen, pocketed the phone, and stood.
Outside, the Baton Rouge night waited.
Quiet. Humid. Familiar.
Royce walked off the plane, into the dark, and didn’t look back.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was quiet when Toni pushed the door open, the hallway light off, the TV glowing from the living room like something waiting to pounce.
She slipped off her sneakers by the door, careful not to let them squeak against the tile.
Her back hurt. Her feet ached. Her name tag was still clipped crooked to her shirt from a nine-hour shift behind the counter.
It was nearly ten.
She hadn’t eaten since lunch.
“You were gone a long time.”
Deshawn’s voice came from the couch — low, even. No yelling. Just… cold.
Toni didn’t answer right away. She kept her eyes down.
“We stayed open late,” she said finally. “The register was off and Lina never showed, so I had to close out.”
She didn’t explain more. He didn’t like explanations.
Deshawn sat up, controller still in one hand, his ULL hoodie pulled halfway over his face. On the screen, a paused 2K match glowed across the room.
“You supposed to text,” he said.
“I didn’t know I’d be this late,” she murmured. “I just thought—”
“You thought you could come in when you want.”
She shook her head. “No, I just—”
Deshawn stood up. The controller dropped to the couch behind him.
Toni froze.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t lunge. That wasn’t his way.
Deshawn moved toward her slowly, calmly, like this was a routine.
“You think you being cute?” he asked, stepping too close. “Think this shit fucking funny? Gonna go keke with Keisha and Yazmeen about it?”
“No,” Toni said softly, barely breathing. “I just worked late. That’s all.”
He grabbed her wrist.
Hard.
Tighter than usual.
Toni winced.
Her body went still.
“You belong to me,” he said through clenched teeth. “You get that?”
She nodded fast, trying not to cry.
His grip lingered a second longer before he let her go — sudden, like tossing trash.
She stumbled back, cradling her arm.
Deshawn turned, already heading back toward the couch.
“And don’t think Arianna gon’ save you,” he muttered. “She left you here. That’s all you need to know.”
Toni said nothing.
Just walked straight to the bathroom and shut the door quietly behind her.
The water ran hotter than it should’ve.
Steam billowed up the mirror in thick clouds.
Toni stripped slowly, her hands shaking. She stepped into the tub and dropped to the floor, the water pounding against her shoulders as she hugged her knees to her chest.
She cried without sound.
She’d done this before — too many times.
But this time, something cracked beneath the surface.
The bruise on her wrist was already forming, the shape of his fingers mapped across her skin.
She thought about Arianna, about how her cousin had screamed that night, the last time Deshawn hit her. The way she’d packed up her things in silence the next morning. How she’d begged Toni to come with her.
Toni, please. This isn’t love.
Toni had stayed.
Had told herself Deshawn would change. That it was just pressure from school, or the stress of being watched on campus, or the pain in his knee that flared up in the fall.
But in this moment — sitting in the steam, holding her breath — she finally let the thought take root:
Maybe Arianna hadn’t abandoned her.
Maybe she’d saved herself.
And maybe it wasn’t betrayal to want the same.
~~~~~~~~~~
The grocery store was in that in-between stage — not quite quiet, not quite busy. The kind of late Sunday afternoon where the fluorescent lights felt a little too bright, and nobody was in a rush.
Alix moved slowly, basket in one hand, hoodie sleeves rolled up. She wasn’t in a hurry. She wasn’t really shopping, either. She just needed a reason not to go straight home.
She paused near the dry goods, half-heartedly comparing rice brands even though they were all the same. Her mind kept drifting — not to Royce, exactly, but to the thing between them that had once been alive and was now just waiting for someone to call time of death.
She was standing in front of a row of boxed broth, zoning out, when someone nudged a shopping cart close to hers and said casually:
“Well damn. Didn’t know this was the aisle where dreams came to die.”
She turned, startled.
Co.
He was holding a dented can of black beans in one hand, a six-pack of sparkling water tucked under his arm, and that same lazy grin on his face that made people feel like he’d known them longer than he had.
Alix let out a soft laugh before she could stop herself.
“I think you just walked into a food coma in progress,” she said.
“I’d believe it,” he replied. “You looked like you were mentally bargaining with that jasmine rice.”
She smirked, shaking her head. “I’m trying to pretend I can cook. It’s not going great.”
Co leaned slightly on the cart handle. “Hey, at least you still pretend. I’ve accepted my truth.”
“Which is?”
He held up the can. “If it ain’t in a can, it ain’t for this man. My mama’s gift for whipping in the kitchen didn’t pass down to me.”
Alix actually laughed — the kind that softened her shoulders a little. “Sounds like survival.”
“It is. And also,” he added, gesturing to his basket, “frozen pizza. A cornerstone of the emotionally and culinarily unstable.”
“You’re just gonna call yourself out like that?” she asked, her tone dry but amused.
“Transparency builds trust.”
“Does it?”
He shrugged. “Only with people who aren’t used to getting it.”
Alix went still for a second. Just a second.
Not because it was flirtatious — it wasn’t. But because it was real.
She looked down at the rice box in her hand, then set it gently into her basket and shifted her weight.
Co seemed to notice the change in her posture — just a hair more distant. Not cold. Guarded.
“You good?” he asked, more gently now.
Alix nodded, but not too quickly. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
She wasn’t lying.
She just wasn’t fine.
Co didn’t press. Didn’t tilt his head. Didn’t lace his voice with meaning.
He just said, “You know, I learn a lot about people from working in a hospital. The shit you see? But it all comes down to one thing. People make life harder than it gotta be.”
The words were soft. Unpolished. But they cracked something in her — not wide open, just enough to let air in.
She smiled, real and tired. “Yeah,” she said. “They really do.”
Co smiled back, not trying to turn it into anything.
“I’ll let you get back to your rice crisis,” he said, nudging his cart forward. “Try not to burn water.”
Alix laughed again, softer this time.
He started to roll away, then paused like he was about to say something else — but didn’t.
Just a nod.
See you.
And then he was gone.
Alix stood still for a moment, the smile fading slow, like fog lifting. Not in sadness.
Just in clarity.
For a flicker of time, she let herself imagine what it might feel like to be with someone who didn't make her explain why she wanted to be seen.
Someone who didn’t make affection feel like a negotiation. Someone who didn’t need her to break just to believe she was real.
And maybe she wasn’t ready to want that yet.
But she was finally ready to admit she didn’t want this anymore.
The cabin was mostly silent. Not the kind of silence that settles. The kind that hangs — heavy, unfinished. The soft hum of the engines filled in the gaps between shuffling cleats, shifting shoulders, zippers closing too hard.
LSU had lost.
34–26.
A fourth-quarter surge. A fight. A comeback that looked like something — until it didn’t.
Twenty points in the final fifteen minutes, and it still wasn’t enough.
Royce sat by the window with his hood up, arms folded across his chest, one knee bouncing under the tray table. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t speak.
The condensation on the glass caught a dull orange glow from the plane’s wing light, but he was staring past it, into the clouds, somewhere far away.
They had come into Athens undefeated. He’d told himself it was their time.
And now they were just bodies on a plane again. Flying home with nothing to show for it but soreness and the word "almost" echoing in their heads.
It had been a long time since Romeo’s voice came to him. Months, really. The first season after Romeo died, it was constant — every missed tackle, every dropped opportunity, every moment Royce tried to feel like a man. Romeo had been there, in his head, ripping him apart. Telling him he was faking it. That he’d always been faking it.
Eventually, the voice faded. Or maybe Royce learned how to tune it out.
But tonight — high above Baton Rouge, stuck between exhaustion and anger — it came back.
Sharp. Uninvited.
"You looked the part."
The voice curled in from somewhere Royce couldn’t block.
"All that fucking hype. All that fucking talk. And y’all still flew home with the L."
Royce closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the cold wall of the plane.
"Tell me again how you built different. How you him. You couldn’t close the door when it mattered. You couldn’t fucking finish."
He didn’t flinch. But the heat rose in his chest.
Because it wasn’t the blowout losses that triggered this. It was the ones they almost had. The ones they fought for.
That’s what made it worse.
"You fought hard," Romeo’s voice mocked. "Congratulations, fuck nigga. You still lost."
Royce dug his fingers into his forearm, just enough to ground himself. Just enough to stay quiet.
The wheels touched down harder than they should have, bouncing once before catching. The plane rolled forward, engines whirring down.
Royce didn’t move.
The voices around him were low — coaches coordinating the buses, players mumbling about what went wrong, what film would look like. No one had energy left for excuses.
His phone buzzed as they taxied.
Roni.
He opened it. There was a picture.
Two boys drawn in pencil on wide-ruled notebook paper. One labeled "Rome", the other "Ro". Big square shoulders. Capes flapping. Smeared lines and too-big eyes.
He remembered her drawing it. Maybe second grade.
Roni had insisted they were superheroes. Said they’d save the world together. Said they’d always be on the same side.
The message was simple:
“Found this in the shed. Thought you’d want it.”
Royce stared at it for a long time.
Long enough for the aisle to clear.
But he didn’t reply.
Not because he didn’t care.
But because he wasn’t sure if he could be that version of himself anymore — the one in the cape. The one Romeo used to believe in.
He locked the screen, pocketed the phone, and stood.
Outside, the Baton Rouge night waited.
Quiet. Humid. Familiar.
Royce walked off the plane, into the dark, and didn’t look back.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was quiet when Toni pushed the door open, the hallway light off, the TV glowing from the living room like something waiting to pounce.
She slipped off her sneakers by the door, careful not to let them squeak against the tile.
Her back hurt. Her feet ached. Her name tag was still clipped crooked to her shirt from a nine-hour shift behind the counter.
It was nearly ten.
She hadn’t eaten since lunch.
“You were gone a long time.”
Deshawn’s voice came from the couch — low, even. No yelling. Just… cold.
Toni didn’t answer right away. She kept her eyes down.
“We stayed open late,” she said finally. “The register was off and Lina never showed, so I had to close out.”
She didn’t explain more. He didn’t like explanations.
Deshawn sat up, controller still in one hand, his ULL hoodie pulled halfway over his face. On the screen, a paused 2K match glowed across the room.
“You supposed to text,” he said.
“I didn’t know I’d be this late,” she murmured. “I just thought—”
“You thought you could come in when you want.”
She shook her head. “No, I just—”
Deshawn stood up. The controller dropped to the couch behind him.
Toni froze.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t lunge. That wasn’t his way.
Deshawn moved toward her slowly, calmly, like this was a routine.
“You think you being cute?” he asked, stepping too close. “Think this shit fucking funny? Gonna go keke with Keisha and Yazmeen about it?”
“No,” Toni said softly, barely breathing. “I just worked late. That’s all.”
He grabbed her wrist.
Hard.
Tighter than usual.
Toni winced.
Her body went still.
“You belong to me,” he said through clenched teeth. “You get that?”
She nodded fast, trying not to cry.
His grip lingered a second longer before he let her go — sudden, like tossing trash.
She stumbled back, cradling her arm.
Deshawn turned, already heading back toward the couch.
“And don’t think Arianna gon’ save you,” he muttered. “She left you here. That’s all you need to know.”
Toni said nothing.
Just walked straight to the bathroom and shut the door quietly behind her.
The water ran hotter than it should’ve.
Steam billowed up the mirror in thick clouds.
Toni stripped slowly, her hands shaking. She stepped into the tub and dropped to the floor, the water pounding against her shoulders as she hugged her knees to her chest.
She cried without sound.
She’d done this before — too many times.
But this time, something cracked beneath the surface.
The bruise on her wrist was already forming, the shape of his fingers mapped across her skin.
She thought about Arianna, about how her cousin had screamed that night, the last time Deshawn hit her. The way she’d packed up her things in silence the next morning. How she’d begged Toni to come with her.
Toni, please. This isn’t love.
Toni had stayed.
Had told herself Deshawn would change. That it was just pressure from school, or the stress of being watched on campus, or the pain in his knee that flared up in the fall.
But in this moment — sitting in the steam, holding her breath — she finally let the thought take root:
Maybe Arianna hadn’t abandoned her.
Maybe she’d saved herself.
And maybe it wasn’t betrayal to want the same.
~~~~~~~~~~
The grocery store was in that in-between stage — not quite quiet, not quite busy. The kind of late Sunday afternoon where the fluorescent lights felt a little too bright, and nobody was in a rush.
Alix moved slowly, basket in one hand, hoodie sleeves rolled up. She wasn’t in a hurry. She wasn’t really shopping, either. She just needed a reason not to go straight home.
She paused near the dry goods, half-heartedly comparing rice brands even though they were all the same. Her mind kept drifting — not to Royce, exactly, but to the thing between them that had once been alive and was now just waiting for someone to call time of death.
She was standing in front of a row of boxed broth, zoning out, when someone nudged a shopping cart close to hers and said casually:
“Well damn. Didn’t know this was the aisle where dreams came to die.”
She turned, startled.
Co.
He was holding a dented can of black beans in one hand, a six-pack of sparkling water tucked under his arm, and that same lazy grin on his face that made people feel like he’d known them longer than he had.
Alix let out a soft laugh before she could stop herself.
“I think you just walked into a food coma in progress,” she said.
“I’d believe it,” he replied. “You looked like you were mentally bargaining with that jasmine rice.”
She smirked, shaking her head. “I’m trying to pretend I can cook. It’s not going great.”
Co leaned slightly on the cart handle. “Hey, at least you still pretend. I’ve accepted my truth.”
“Which is?”
He held up the can. “If it ain’t in a can, it ain’t for this man. My mama’s gift for whipping in the kitchen didn’t pass down to me.”
Alix actually laughed — the kind that softened her shoulders a little. “Sounds like survival.”
“It is. And also,” he added, gesturing to his basket, “frozen pizza. A cornerstone of the emotionally and culinarily unstable.”
“You’re just gonna call yourself out like that?” she asked, her tone dry but amused.
“Transparency builds trust.”
“Does it?”
He shrugged. “Only with people who aren’t used to getting it.”
Alix went still for a second. Just a second.
Not because it was flirtatious — it wasn’t. But because it was real.
She looked down at the rice box in her hand, then set it gently into her basket and shifted her weight.
Co seemed to notice the change in her posture — just a hair more distant. Not cold. Guarded.
“You good?” he asked, more gently now.
Alix nodded, but not too quickly. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
She wasn’t lying.
She just wasn’t fine.
Co didn’t press. Didn’t tilt his head. Didn’t lace his voice with meaning.
He just said, “You know, I learn a lot about people from working in a hospital. The shit you see? But it all comes down to one thing. People make life harder than it gotta be.”
The words were soft. Unpolished. But they cracked something in her — not wide open, just enough to let air in.
She smiled, real and tired. “Yeah,” she said. “They really do.”
Co smiled back, not trying to turn it into anything.
“I’ll let you get back to your rice crisis,” he said, nudging his cart forward. “Try not to burn water.”
Alix laughed again, softer this time.
He started to roll away, then paused like he was about to say something else — but didn’t.
Just a nod.
See you.
And then he was gone.
Alix stood still for a moment, the smile fading slow, like fog lifting. Not in sadness.
Just in clarity.
For a flicker of time, she let herself imagine what it might feel like to be with someone who didn't make her explain why she wanted to be seen.
Someone who didn’t make affection feel like a negotiation. Someone who didn’t need her to break just to believe she was real.
And maybe she wasn’t ready to want that yet.
But she was finally ready to admit she didn’t want this anymore.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7888
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
She's almost out 
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16887
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
When She’s Had Enough
The morning light through Royce’s window was gray and dull, stretching in between the buildings like a warning. The apartment was still, thick with the kind of silence that didn’t invite peace — just pressure.
It was Thursday, two days before the Texas game. The air outside was starting to warm, but inside, everything felt cold.
Royce sat on the couch, hunched forward, his hoodie pulled low. He hadn’t touched his phone since practice the day before, hadn’t responded to messages he half-read and dismissed.
Then it buzzed.
Alix.
I’m coming up.
No greeting. No context. Just that.
He stared at the screen.
Locked it.
Stood up.
He walked to the door and opened it without a word.
When she arrived a few minutes later, he didn’t say anything.
Didn’t look at her.
Didn’t move to the side.
He just turned and walked away, leaving the door open behind him like she was someone passing through, not someone he used to hold.
Alix stepped inside.
Closed the door behind her gently.
Paused.
Then followed him into the living room.
He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, his back half turned like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to fight or fold.
“You ain’t answer none of my fucking text,” he said, low. “Not once since we got back from Athens.”
“I know.”
“So now you wanna show up? Like shit cool?”
Alix inhaled slowly. Then spoke.
“No,” she said. “I came to tell you it’s not.”
There was a pause — long enough for the air to stretch between them.
Then she said it.
“I love you,” she began, “even though you refuse to see it.”
Royce looked away.
“I’ve been here,” she continued. “Since you moved to Baton Rouge. Since before you had cleats with your name stitched into them. Before people pointed at you in public. Before anyone cared what your stats were.”
She stepped a little closer, her voice steady but cracking around the edges.
“I was there when you couldn’t get out of bed. When you couldn’t sleep. When you didn’t talk to anyone about your brother. I was the one who held you when you broke — after the shooting, after the hospital, when you didn’t want anyone to see you cry. When you couldn’t walk a dozen steps without tears coming down your face.”
Royce still didn’t speak.
Alix swallowed hard.
“I didn’t run from that. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t need you to be anything but honest with me. And you couldn’t even do that.”
Her voice went quieter, heavier now.
“I knew you cheated on me. All the fucking time. I knew it, Royce. And I stayed. I told myself you were just scared, or lost, or grieving. I let you keep me at arm’s length because I thought love meant patience.”
A breath.
“I let you make me feel second-best. I let you do the one thing I asked you not to. That I could give everything and still be… not enough.”
Royce closed his eyes, just for a second.
“I kept thinking you’d meet me halfway eventually,” she whispered. “That you'd wake up and realize I was still there. Still choosing you. But I don’t think you ever really showed up for this. I think I just finally caught up to the truth.”
A beat passed. She stood there, small but unshaken.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
Just stood still.
Then, finally — flat, cold, empty:
“Get the fuck out then.”
Alix’s eyes didn’t water.
She just nodded, lips pressed tight. Walked to the door without looking back.
As she opened it, he slammed it shut behind her.
Not because he wanted to hurt her.
But because he didn’t know how to hold anything else.
…
Outside, the morning was quiet. Cars passed at a distance. The heat was building slow.
Alix didn’t feel strong. Didn’t feel brave.
She just felt hollow.
Like she’d spent the last year trying to prove she was worth loving — and finally realized she never had to.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bottle was cheap, half-warm whiskey from a corner store. Royce hadn’t even bothered with a glass. He sat on the edge of the couch in his living room, elbows on his knees, head low, the TV dark. No music. No light but the dull kitchen fixture humming behind him.
The apartment was still. Not peaceful — just empty.
The door he’d slammed after Alix left was still cracked. He hadn’t gone to close it.
He took another sip and let the burn trail down the back of his throat. It didn’t hurt enough to count, but it was something.
Her words kept circling, over and over, without asking permission.
“I love you even though you refuse to see it.”
“I let you make me feel second-best.”
“I think I just finally caught up to the truth.”
Every time he thought he was done replaying it, it came back.
And the worst part?
She hadn’t screamed.
Hadn’t begged.
Hadn’t made him fight.
She’d just spoken.
And then she’d left.
His phone lit up beside him on the armrest.
Rana.
He didn’t answer.
He watched the screen buzz, then dim.
A few seconds later, a text came through.
You keep pushing everyone away and one day you’re going to get what you’re looking for.
He stared at it, jaw tight.
There it was again — that guilt dressed up like concern. That quiet edge in her voice, even through a text. It made something sharp rise in his chest. Something like anger, or shame, or both.
He was tired of being everyone’s problem to fix.Tired of people checking in after they already stopped showing up.
Except he knew she was right.
So was Alix.
And that made it worse.
Royce picked up his phone again and scrolled.
Past old messages from teammates. Past missed calls. Past photos he didn’t remember saving.
He stopped on Roni’s name.
Thumb hovered.
His little sister. Always trying. Always watching.
She hadn’t texted tonight. He thought about calling her. Just to hear a voice that didn’t judge him yet.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he put the phone down face-down on the table and leaned back into the couch, letting the quiet crowd him again.
The whiskey was half gone now. He took another pull.
Not because it helped. But because it was easier than feeling.
The room swam a little when he blinked. The buzz in his head wasn’t quite enough to blur the edges of what he’d done.
He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t raging.
He was just… sitting there.
Her voice still circling like smoke in the corners of the room.
And that feeling in his chest — the one he couldn’t name, the one clawing at him like a warning — wouldn’t leave.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Something worse.
Recognition.
She’d seen him clearer than he’d ever let her.
And now she was gone.
And the silence felt earned.
The morning light through Royce’s window was gray and dull, stretching in between the buildings like a warning. The apartment was still, thick with the kind of silence that didn’t invite peace — just pressure.
It was Thursday, two days before the Texas game. The air outside was starting to warm, but inside, everything felt cold.
Royce sat on the couch, hunched forward, his hoodie pulled low. He hadn’t touched his phone since practice the day before, hadn’t responded to messages he half-read and dismissed.
Then it buzzed.
Alix.
I’m coming up.
No greeting. No context. Just that.
He stared at the screen.
Locked it.
Stood up.
He walked to the door and opened it without a word.
When she arrived a few minutes later, he didn’t say anything.
Didn’t look at her.
Didn’t move to the side.
He just turned and walked away, leaving the door open behind him like she was someone passing through, not someone he used to hold.
Alix stepped inside.
Closed the door behind her gently.
Paused.
Then followed him into the living room.
He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, his back half turned like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to fight or fold.
“You ain’t answer none of my fucking text,” he said, low. “Not once since we got back from Athens.”
“I know.”
“So now you wanna show up? Like shit cool?”
Alix inhaled slowly. Then spoke.
“No,” she said. “I came to tell you it’s not.”
There was a pause — long enough for the air to stretch between them.
Then she said it.
“I love you,” she began, “even though you refuse to see it.”
Royce looked away.
“I’ve been here,” she continued. “Since you moved to Baton Rouge. Since before you had cleats with your name stitched into them. Before people pointed at you in public. Before anyone cared what your stats were.”
She stepped a little closer, her voice steady but cracking around the edges.
“I was there when you couldn’t get out of bed. When you couldn’t sleep. When you didn’t talk to anyone about your brother. I was the one who held you when you broke — after the shooting, after the hospital, when you didn’t want anyone to see you cry. When you couldn’t walk a dozen steps without tears coming down your face.”
Royce still didn’t speak.
Alix swallowed hard.
“I didn’t run from that. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t need you to be anything but honest with me. And you couldn’t even do that.”
Her voice went quieter, heavier now.
“I knew you cheated on me. All the fucking time. I knew it, Royce. And I stayed. I told myself you were just scared, or lost, or grieving. I let you keep me at arm’s length because I thought love meant patience.”
A breath.
“I let you make me feel second-best. I let you do the one thing I asked you not to. That I could give everything and still be… not enough.”
Royce closed his eyes, just for a second.
“I kept thinking you’d meet me halfway eventually,” she whispered. “That you'd wake up and realize I was still there. Still choosing you. But I don’t think you ever really showed up for this. I think I just finally caught up to the truth.”
A beat passed. She stood there, small but unshaken.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
Just stood still.
Then, finally — flat, cold, empty:
“Get the fuck out then.”
Alix’s eyes didn’t water.
She just nodded, lips pressed tight. Walked to the door without looking back.
As she opened it, he slammed it shut behind her.
Not because he wanted to hurt her.
But because he didn’t know how to hold anything else.
…
Outside, the morning was quiet. Cars passed at a distance. The heat was building slow.
Alix didn’t feel strong. Didn’t feel brave.
She just felt hollow.
Like she’d spent the last year trying to prove she was worth loving — and finally realized she never had to.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bottle was cheap, half-warm whiskey from a corner store. Royce hadn’t even bothered with a glass. He sat on the edge of the couch in his living room, elbows on his knees, head low, the TV dark. No music. No light but the dull kitchen fixture humming behind him.
The apartment was still. Not peaceful — just empty.
The door he’d slammed after Alix left was still cracked. He hadn’t gone to close it.
He took another sip and let the burn trail down the back of his throat. It didn’t hurt enough to count, but it was something.
Her words kept circling, over and over, without asking permission.
“I love you even though you refuse to see it.”
“I let you make me feel second-best.”
“I think I just finally caught up to the truth.”
Every time he thought he was done replaying it, it came back.
And the worst part?
She hadn’t screamed.
Hadn’t begged.
Hadn’t made him fight.
She’d just spoken.
And then she’d left.
His phone lit up beside him on the armrest.
Rana.
He didn’t answer.
He watched the screen buzz, then dim.
A few seconds later, a text came through.
You keep pushing everyone away and one day you’re going to get what you’re looking for.
He stared at it, jaw tight.
There it was again — that guilt dressed up like concern. That quiet edge in her voice, even through a text. It made something sharp rise in his chest. Something like anger, or shame, or both.
He was tired of being everyone’s problem to fix.Tired of people checking in after they already stopped showing up.
Except he knew she was right.
So was Alix.
And that made it worse.
Royce picked up his phone again and scrolled.
Past old messages from teammates. Past missed calls. Past photos he didn’t remember saving.
He stopped on Roni’s name.
Thumb hovered.
His little sister. Always trying. Always watching.
She hadn’t texted tonight. He thought about calling her. Just to hear a voice that didn’t judge him yet.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he put the phone down face-down on the table and leaned back into the couch, letting the quiet crowd him again.
The whiskey was half gone now. He took another pull.
Not because it helped. But because it was easier than feeling.
The room swam a little when he blinked. The buzz in his head wasn’t quite enough to blur the edges of what he’d done.
He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t raging.
He was just… sitting there.
Her voice still circling like smoke in the corners of the room.
And that feeling in his chest — the one he couldn’t name, the one clawing at him like a warning — wouldn’t leave.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Something worse.
Recognition.
She’d seen him clearer than he’d ever let her.
And now she was gone.
And the silence felt earned.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7888
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
About damn time.-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16887
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16887
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Horns Down
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7888
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Boy took that Alix frustration and took it out against the Longhorns, shit.