Overexposed
The media room inside the football ops building was unusually quiet, the hum of the lights overhead the only thing filling the silence between camera setups. Royce sat in front of the LSU backdrop, a pair of microphones on the table angled toward him like eager mouths. His posture was relaxed, almost slouched, the thick gold LSU hoodie stretched slightly across his chest. But his eyes were still tired, and the faint shadows under them refused to go unnoticed.
The playoff berth had changed the headlines, but not the tension in his shoulders.
A member of the LSU media team gave the countdown, and the first hand went up from the front row.
“Royce, what’s it like preparing to face the same team twice in three weeks?”
Royce leaned forward. “We treating it like a new game. Film’s film. They’ll make adjustments, we’ll make ours. Can’t take nothing for granted, especially not this time of year.”
Another hand.
“What’s the mood been like in the locker room since finding out y’all made the playoffs?”
He smirked, just barely. “Loud. Lot of energy, but everybody know we didn’t play our best the last time. We grateful for another shot. But we know what it mean.”
The questions kept coming—some predictable, some reflective. Royce navigated them on autopilot, nodding, speaking just enough without saying too much. Until—
A hand in the back row. A face he vaguely recognized: Perry Cormier, the Advocate.
“Royce,” Perry started, not bothering to raise his voice. “Some scouts have you as high as a third-rounder. Maybe even second if you test well. A lotta folks wondering if this is your last game in purple and gold.”
Royce’s jaw flexed.
“That something you been thinking about?”
The silence that followed wasn’t long. But it was long enough to feel different.
“That sounds like you’re saying we’re going to lose,” Royce said.
Perry didn’t blink. “So you haven’t decided?”
Royce looked directly at him, expression even.
“I haven’t decided.”
That was all he said. The LSU rep stepped in, quickly thanking the media and ushering an end to the availability. Royce stood, the chairs screeching softly as reporters packed up their things, the sound of zippers and murmured comments rising around him.
Back in the hallway, the quiet returned.
He didn’t even make it out the building before his phone buzzed.
Billy: That wasn’t bad. You held the line. But I’ve got something I need you to look at when you get back. Something good. Big-picture good.
Royce stared at the message.
He thought about replying. He didn’t.
He walked outside into the cold December air, stuffing the phone deep in his pocket.
He wasn’t ready to talk about the future. Not when the past still felt like it hadn’t let go. Not when the next game felt like an entire weight pressing on his shoulders. Not when he still didn’t know if this was the end—or just a pause.
He pulled his hoodie up and kept walking.
~~~~~~~~~~
Downtown Natchitoches shimmered under a canopy of Christmas lights, the kind of spectacle that made you feel like you’d stumbled onto the set of a holiday movie. Trees wrapped in gold and red, lampposts with garlands, and rows of glowing ornaments stretched across the street. Music floated from hidden speakers, soft and old-fashioned, Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole weaving nostalgia into the air.
Mike walked beside Laila, his hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, the breath between them hanging in the cold. She wore a long coat and a knit beanie, her curls peeking out in dark ringlets that framed her cheeks, her gloved hand looped through his arm.
“You ever been to something like this before?” she asked, tilting her head back to take in a row of hanging stars.
“Nah. Wasn’t really my crowd,” he said, voice low.
Laila looked at him sideways. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He gave a small shrug. “Just not used to all this... joy.”
They passed a small stall selling cider and kettle corn, steam curling upward like it was trying to join the lights. Laila stopped and bought two cups, handing one to him. The cider was scalding but good, and they lingered near the stall, listening to the distant laughter of kids chasing each other near the lit-up riverbank.
Mike stared down into the cup for a long moment. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think I’m ever gonna play again.”
Laila blinked. “What?”
“I mean, maybe not for real. Not at the level I thought I would. I been here for months, and I’m still not on the depth chart. I feel like I’m running in place, like... like the game kept moving without me.”
Laila was quiet for a beat, her breath fogging out in front of her. “Do you still love it?”
Mike hesitated. “I don’t know anymore. I used to. But lately it just feels like something I was good at. Something people expected.”
She took a sip of her cider. “That’s not the same as still wanting it.”
Mike looked at her, then out over the street again. “If I don’t play, I don’t know who I am.”
Laila reached out, fingers brushing his cheek. “Then maybe it’s time to figure that out. You don’t gotta be just one thing your whole life. You’ve already been through more than most people twice your age. You’ve earned the right to become someone new.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just let her words settle.
After a moment, he pulled his phone from his pocket, angling it toward her as she leaned back slightly, framed by the soft lights strung overhead. He took the photo without asking—just clicked it while she was mid-laugh, her smile wide and her eyes lit from within.
She glanced at the screen and then at him.
“You smile different here,” she said.
Mike looked at the photo. Then looked at her.
“Maybe I feel different here,” he said quietly.
They stood in the glow for a long time, the hum of the festival wrapping around them like warmth. For the first time in a while, Mike wasn’t thinking about football, or who he used to be, or what people expected him to become.
He was just here—with her—and that felt like enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
The darkroom smelled like chemicals and quiet. There was always something sacred about the silence there—like grief could hang in the air beside the developer trays, like memory had a place to float without asking permission.
Effie moved carefully between stations, her hands steady, her breath low. Most students didn’t stay this late, not on a Thursday, not with finals creeping in. But she liked the solitude. Needed it. The hum of the enlarger, the red light bathing everything in a slow, suspended glow. It was a kind of sanctuary—an in-between space where the world softened.
She pulled a photo from the fixer tray with tongs, let the liquid drip before pinning it to the line. Then another. And then another. She moved in a rhythm, barely thinking, until her fingers paused.
The last photo hadn’t been planned. Not exactly.
It was of Royce.
He was sitting alone outside the Union, hunched forward on a bench, elbows resting on his knees, chin tucked in one hand like he was holding himself together with that grip alone. His eyes weren’t visible—the angle was too low—but his shoulders were heavy, his body language all unspoken weight. The picture was a little overexposed around the edges, the lighting too stark in places, the focus imperfect.
Effie stared at it, unmoving.
She hadn’t meant to photograph him. She’d been testing film speed that day, trying to catch movement and stillness in the same shot. He’d just... been there. Not posing. Not aware. Just there. Present the way a bruise is present after a fight: quiet, tender, undeniable.
She stepped closer, tilting her head slightly. You could almost see the conversation playing out in his silence—whatever he was telling himself in that moment. Maybe he was waiting for someone. Maybe he was hiding. Maybe he didn’t even know which one it was.
Effie didn’t know what it meant that she’d printed this one.
She gently clipped it beside the others, then turned off the enlarger. The red light flickered, then died, swallowing the room in black. She didn’t move from where she stood, just leaned her back against the wall and stared into the dark.
The image of Royce lingered in her mind—blurry, raw, unguarded.
“You can’t fix the picture,” she whispered into the quiet, “but sometimes it still says something worth keeping.”
She closed her eyes, not sure if she was talking about the photo.
Or him.
~~~~~~~~~~
The meeting room smelled faintly of sweat and black coffee, even though it had been hours since anyone had touched either. The film screen cast flickering light across tired faces, and the occasional click of Coach Lupoi’s remote was the only sound outside of his gruff voice.
“First and ten. Late third. Watch the right edge,” he said.
On the screen, Texas A&M’s tight end chipped the defensive end and slipped into the flat. The linebacker—Whit—bit inside on the play-action, just long enough for the ball to leave Connor Weigman’s hand.
Twelve yards. First down. Silence.
Lupoi rewound the play again. Slower this time.
Nobody needed to say what they already knew. The linebacker corps had been out of rhythm in that game. Confused. Exposed.
Royce sat at the end of the front row, ankle still taped, notebook unopened in his lap. His jaw tightened as the play played out again, the same mistake unspooling on loop. He didn’t look at the screen.
“Whit, what were you seeing here?” Coach Lupoi asked.
Whit leaned forward slightly. “I thought he was sealing the edge. Tried to fill early.”
“Did he seal the edge?” Lupoi asked.
“No, sir.”
Lupoi didn’t answer, just let the tape roll forward to the next clip.
Royce exhaled sharply, almost scoffing. “You guessing now?”
The room went still.
Whit turned slowly in his chair, eyebrows raised. “You got something to say?”
Royce leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low but sharp. “We in the playoffs because defense kept us alive. You start pissing down your leg again, we going home quick.”
Whit’s shoulders squared. “You right,” he said. “Just like you when you disappeared the whole second quarter last time we played them.”
Royce’s eyes snapped up. A beat passed. Then another.
He stood. Not all the way—just enough to shift the air.
Kolaj stood too, faster.
“Yo, enough,” Kolaj said, voice firm. “Ain’t nobody perfect. Everybody in this room made mistakes in that game.”
Whit looked like he wanted to keep going. Royce didn’t look away.
Kolaj pointed between them. “Y’all can swing at each other in the parking lot after we win a natty. Right now? We not doing this.”
Coach Lupoi didn’t intervene. He didn’t need to.
Royce sat back down, jaw still tight. Whit looked back at the screen and crossed his arms.
The next play loaded up. Lupoi hit pause.
“Get your minds right,” he said quietly. “Because next time you guess wrong, it won’t be a first down. It’ll be your season.”
The room fell into a tense, uneasy quiet.
And the film kept rolling.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7856
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
If I speak, I'll be in trouble 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
might as well. Y’all been dogging Royce all season.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Long Road Back
The team gathered in the film room Tuesday afternoon, bodies heavy from practice, minds wired from the weight of what was coming. The room smelled like turf and recovery shakes, damp and electric. Shoulder pads clicked against the backs of chairs. Cleats scuffed the linoleum. Nobody was talking much. The buzz of low conversation faded as Coach Dan Lanning walked in, clipboard tucked under his arm, jaw set.
Royce sat near the center aisle, arms folded tight across his chest. The bruise around his ankle had faded, but the memory hadn’t. He hadn’t spoken to anyone all day, not really. A few head nods, a couple grunts in film. He’d kept to himself.
Lanning didn’t start right away. He looked over the room—row after row of tired, beat-up young men who were, somehow, still standing after everything the season had thrown at them.
“Everybody good?” he asked, voice quiet.
A few guys mumbled yeah. Most just nodded.
Lanning set his clipboard down on the table at the front. “We’ve been here before,” he said. “Same team. Same place. Some of y’all still got bruises from it.”
No one had to say who. Everyone remembered.
“You lost that game because you lost the fourth quarter,” Lanning said, pointing toward the back of the room. “Not because you weren’t better. Because they finished. And you didn’t.”
A tight silence settled in. Royce shifted in his seat, jaw tightening. Eric tapped a pen against his knee. Kolaj stared straight ahead.
“But you get to change that,” Lanning continued. “That’s the thing people forget. They think the record defines you. That once it’s down in the books, that’s it. But not this time.”
He let that hang for a second. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead.
“We’re not backing in. We earned this spot. All year long, we bled for it. Sweated for it. We got told we weren’t gonna get here. We got told y’all were too young, too banged up, too whatever. But you made it. You’re in.”
Royce could feel his heartbeat now, steady but hard. He didn’t let it show.
“They don’t expect us to make a run. They think we’re lucky just to be here. They think we’re gonna roll over and let A&M have it again, like we ain’t embarrassed about that fourth quarter. Like we don’t remember what it felt like to walk off their field with our heads down.”
Lanning’s voice dropped.
“I remember.”
A long beat.
“I know what it’s like to be tired. To want the season to just end. But that ain’t how this story finishes. Not if you got pride. Not if you got heart.”
He took a step forward, eyes sweeping the room.
“You want revenge? Don’t say it. Show it. Every snap. Every hit. You owe yourselves. And if you got something left to give, this is the time. Because there’s no second chances after this. Just the truth.”
Royce didn’t move. But something inside him flickered. He glanced across the room and caught Kolaj nodding. Whit leaned forward. Even Gio, half-asleep when they walked in, sat a little straighter now.
Lanning finally picked the clipboard back up.
“Get your minds right,” he said. “This ain’t about A&M anymore. It’s about what kind of team you want to be remembered as.”
He walked out, door swinging quietly behind him.
And for the first time all week, the room felt alive again.
~~~~~~~~~~
The road to Houma stretched long and flat, the kind of drive that let silence crawl inside the car like fog. Royce didn’t turn on music. Didn’t call anyone. The hum of tires against the pavement was enough.
It had been months since he’d been back. Maybe longer. He wasn’t sure anymore. Everything outside Baton Rouge felt like a past life—muted and distant, like something he dreamed instead of lived. But after practice, something pulled at him. Not guilt. Not exactly. Just a weight. A quiet urging.
He parked crooked at the edge of the cemetery, wheels half on the grass. It was late—sun already dipping low behind the trees, casting everything in soft gold. His cleats were still in the trunk, so he changed into beat-up sneakers before walking up the small hill.
The grave was near the back, shaded by a pecan tree that had started dropping brittle leaves all around the headstones. Romeo’s name etched into the marble still looked too new. Too sharp.
The flowers were dead.
Not wilted. Not browning around the edges. Dead. Britni must’ve stopped coming. Or maybe she’d just missed a week. Either way, the petals were brittle and curled like ash, their color long drained away. The glass vase leaned sideways in the dirt.
Royce crouched slowly, pressing his forearms to his thighs. He didn’t touch the flowers. Didn’t fix them. He just stared.
“I was gonna bring fresh ones,” he muttered, even though no one was there. “Forgot.”
The wind picked up, shivering through the trees. Leaves danced down around him. He didn’t move.
A couple rows down, an old man in a Saints cap adjusted a flag on another grave, then walked away without looking up. It was just the two of them now—Royce and his brother, and all the words that had never been said.
“You’d probably say I’m being soft,” Royce muttered. “Dragging my ass out here like this.”
He cleared his throat. The lump sat there anyway.
“I ain’t forget you. I don’t want you thinking that.”
A pause. His fingers dug into the grass.
“I just... I can’t keep carrying everything.”
He looked up then, eyes tracing the name etched in stone. Romeo Lafitte. Beloved son. Twin brother.
“I’m tired, man.”
The words came out quieter than he meant. Like they weren’t meant to be spoken at all. He pressed his palm to the edge of the grave, grounding himself.
“I don’t know what I’m doing no more.”
He didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t get one. Just the rustle of branches, the steady hum of dusk.
When he finally stood, he stayed for another few seconds. Then he reached down, gently tilting the vase upright again. He didn’t fix the flowers. Didn’t throw them out.
He just left them there. Wilted things. Like most of what he’d been holding inside.
As he walked back to the car, the sun dipped below the trees, and Houma slid back into shadow.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment smelled like popcorn and sandalwood—the scent of a candle she didn’t remember lighting and a bowl she’d stopped eating from twenty minutes ago. Britni sat cross-legged on the couch, her cheek tucked against a throw pillow, eyes on the TV but not really watching. Some comedy special hummed in the background, the laugh track too loud in places it shouldn’t have been.
Beside her, Aaron—soft-voiced, always warm—was scrolling on his phone, occasionally chuckling at something on Twitter and nudging her with his elbow to show her. She’d look, offer a smile, maybe a little laugh, but nothing that reached too deep.
She was wearing Romeo’s hoodie.
It was too big on her, swallowing her frame the same way it had when he first gave it to her—laughing that she stole it, even though he’d dropped it over her shoulders himself that night they sat on the hood of his car outside Sonic, talking about everything and nothing at once. The hoodie had seen too many washes since then, the lettering at the chest faded: SOUTHERN FOOTBALL. When Aaron first asked about it, she’d told him it was her dad’s. He believed her without question. Or maybe he just let it be.
Her fingers tugged at the sleeve now, idly rubbing the edge between her thumb and knuckle. She didn’t even notice she was doing it until Aaron glanced over.
“You cold?” he asked, nodding toward her cocooned position.
She shook her head. “Nah. Just cozy.”
He smiled and leaned into her, wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders. His touch was different from Romeo’s—not better or worse. Just different. Softer. Less electric. More like a slow tide than a summer storm.
They sat in silence for a while. The comedian on the screen told a story about family, something clumsy and exaggerated. Britni’s laugh came late—halfhearted. Then quiet again.
Her therapist would’ve asked what the silence meant.
Would’ve asked what she was holding onto, and what she was finally letting go.
In the last six months, she’d said Romeo’s name more times than she had in the year before. Said it in a safe room, with a box of tissues nearby and a woman across from her who didn’t flinch when Britni said things like I hated him for dying, or I didn’t know who I was without him. She’d cried until her ribs hurt. Until her head throbbed from the weight of it all. Then, slowly, she started to breathe again.
Now, with December creeping in, she didn’t cry as much. Some days she didn’t cry at all. That was something.
Aaron yawned beside her, then kissed her temple. “I’m gonna get a drink. You want anything?”
She blinked, pulled herself back. “Water’s fine.”
When he got up, she looked down at the hoodie again. The sleeves were worn thin. A tiny hole had started to fray near the hem. She tugged it closed with her fingers, just for a second. Then she exhaled.
She didn’t wear it every day. And she didn’t sleep with it like armor against the dark. But she hadn’t packed it away either. Some things didn’t need to be buried to be healed. Some things just stayed, quietly, like a bookmark in a chapter she no longer needed to reread.
Aaron returned with the water and a fresh blanket. “For extra cozy,” he joked, draping it over her legs.
She smiled, a real one this time. “Thanks.”
And when he settled back next to her, she didn’t pull away. She let herself lean in, hoodie and all.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun was already sinking by the time Royce pulled onto the narrow street in Houma, his car creeping past the sagging mailboxes and leaning chain-link fences of the neighborhood he used to call home. Most of the porches were empty now, save for the occasional flicker of a cigarette or the orange glow of a Saints flag twisted around a gutter. The house on the corner still had the cracked windowpane he remembered from middle school. Some things didn’t change.
He parked and sat there for a moment, engine ticking as it cooled. His hands stayed on the wheel, tight-knuckled. The house in front of him looked smaller than it used to. Or maybe he’d just grown too much.
Still, he got out.
Three slow steps up the porch, and he knocked. Not loud. Just enough.
It took longer than expected, but the door finally cracked open.
His mother stood there, wearing a long house dress and slippers, her face sharp with confusion—then sharper with recognition.
“You,” she said, not moving from the doorframe.
Royce nodded once. “Me.”
Her eyes swept him, from the chain down to his sneakers, unimpressed. “You must be bored if you decided to drop in.”
He didn’t rise to it. “I heard Reg’s not doing good.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you heard something late,” she said, arms crossing over her chest. “Still, I guess miracles happen.”
He swallowed whatever instinct told him to walk away. “I ain’t here to fight.”
“No?” Her tone was skeptical. “Then what, Ro? You here to play hero? Say some words and vanish again like always?”
“I ain’t going to apologize for being a child,” he said evenly. “Your child.”
That caught her. Not enough to soften, but enough to still her mouth. She looked past him for a beat, then back.
“You gonna come in and see your brother, or what?”
He nodded, jaw clenched. She stepped aside, and he walked past her into the house.
It smelled like it always had—like lemon cleaner and something older, something heavy. The hallway was dim, the same crooked picture still hung beside the thermostat. He kept his eyes ahead.
Reg was in the back bedroom. The oxygen machine clicked rhythmically beside the bed, its low hum more present than the man it served. Reg lay still under a thin blanket, sunken into himself. His skin had yellowed, and his arms looked too thin for his frame. The kind of thin that came with pain that didn’t ease and time that didn’t forgive.
Royce stood in the doorway at first, not sure if he should enter. Then he did. Quietly.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood at the foot of the bed and stared.
Reg stirred. His eyelids fluttered, and for a second, Royce thought he might be asleep. But then they opened—just barely.
They locked eyes.
Reg’s lips moved, trying to shape something—maybe a name, maybe a curse. But nothing came out. Not even air. His chest rose, shaky, then stilled again.
Royce didn’t move. His expression didn’t shift. But inside, something knotted.
This wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even closure.
It was just showing up.
He took one step closer. His fingers twitched at his side. Then he turned and walked out, the machine still humming behind him, the room cold and thick with unspoken things.
His mother didn’t ask how it went. She was sitting in the kitchen, watching an old game show on mute, pretending not to care. He didn’t stop there either.
The door closed softly behind him.
Back in the car, Royce sat for a long moment before starting the engine. The dashboard light flared to life, casting his face in blue. His hands gripped the wheel again—tighter this time.
Then he pulled off, heading north, toward Baton Rouge, toward whatever came next.
The radio stayed off the whole way home.
~~~~~~~~~~
The grocery store was quiet for a weekday. Cold air clung to the produce section like fog off the Mississippi, and Christmas songs played softly overhead—old Motown renditions muffled by distance and dusty speakers. Alix trailed behind her mother and little brother, one hand resting on the handle of the cart, the other tucked into the pocket of her tan coat. She didn’t need anything. She wasn’t really there to shop. But her mother had asked if she wanted to tag along and Alix, still in her work clothes and somewhere between tired and restless, said yes.
They were making slow passes through the aisles now, her mother inspecting ingredients like she was judging character, and Darius pushing the cart ahead like a bored racecar driver.
“Don’t forget the cranberry sauce,” Sharon called back, scanning a can of yams.
“I’m not eating no cranberry sauce,” Darius said, wrinkling his nose.
“You don’t have to. Just grab two cans. The good kind.”
“The good kind is fake,” Alix added.
Her mom gave her a look. “Don’t start.”
Alix smirked and wandered a few paces away, letting the rows pull her in. The candy aisle wasn’t on their list. But there it was, humming like muscle memory.
She paused in front of it—colorful wrappers stacked in neat boxes, brands that hadn’t changed in decades. Her eyes skimmed the familiar labels, half-looking. Then she saw it.
A purple-wrapped bar with gold foil along the edges, nestled between a stack of peanut clusters and discount seasonal peppermint bark.
Royce’s favorite.
She picked it up without thinking. The weight of it in her hand was familiar—stupidly so. The last time she bought one, she’d thrown it on his passenger seat after a gas station stop. He’d grinned like a kid and ripped it open before they even left the parking lot.
She hadn’t thought about that day in weeks.
Alix turned the bar over in her hand, reading the nutrition facts like they meant something. Her fingers tightened around it. Then loosened. Then tightened again.
“Babe,” Sharon said from the end of the aisle. “You good?”
Alix glanced over her shoulder. Her mother was watching, casually—but not without awareness. Behind her, Darius had already moved on to the cereal section.
Alix smiled, small. “Yeah. Just…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Just gently placed the candy bar back on the shelf, smoothing the edge so it sat right. Like she hadn’t touched it at all.
Sharon didn’t say anything.
They walked the rest of the store without mention. But later, as they unloaded groceries into the backseat of the car, her mom said, almost offhand, “It’s okay to miss things. Just don’t buy ‘em back out of habit.”
Alix didn’t respond right away. She tucked a brown bag into the corner of the trunk and closed it softly.
“I wasn’t going to,” she said finally, voice low.
Sharon nodded. “I know.”
The ride home was quiet, filled with radio static and the soft rattle of paper bags.
Some things, Alix thought, weren’t meant to be said. Just noticed.
~~~~~~~~~~
The coffee shop was tucked just off campus—one of those cozy, slightly-too-dim places that smelled like ground beans and cinnamon syrup. The windows were fogged from the December chill, but the inside hummed with quiet conversation and the rhythmic clatter of mugs meeting saucers.
Arianna sat near the back, her fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic cup, watching the door. She’d picked the seat facing the entrance without thinking—old habit from too many years waiting for people who showed up late or not at all.
But Toni came. Ten minutes early.
She stood in the doorway for a beat, glancing around. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, coat zipped to the top. She looked tired. Not in the surface way, but in that deep, behind-the-eyes kind of way. Their eyes met, and Arianna lifted her hand.
Toni walked over, her steps slow but steady.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey.”
Toni slid into the seat across from her, shrugging out of her coat. She didn’t order anything. Didn’t look around. Just folded her hands on the table like they might anchor her.
“I should’ve reached out sooner,” Toni began, voice thin.
Arianna shook her head before the sentence could fully land.
“I don’t need you to explain,” she said gently. “I just want you to be okay.”
Toni blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed again. The silence between them stretched—but it wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even uncomfortable. It just… held space.
Toni looked down at her hands. “I wasn’t.”
Arianna nodded. “I figured.”
“I’m still not,” she added, quieter.
The heater kicked on, rattling slightly above them. Arianna took a slow sip of her coffee. She didn’t push. Didn’t ask questions Toni wasn’t ready to answer.
“I saw the flyer,” Toni said suddenly. “For the showcase. You were amazing.”
Arianna gave a small smile. “You saw that?”
Toni nodded. “Someone sent me the clip. I watched it too many times.”
A pause.
“I wrote something, too,” Toni said, surprising herself. “Haven’t said it out loud yet. Not even to myself.”
Arianna leaned forward just a little, eyes warm. “When you do… I’ll be there.”
Toni nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”
They didn’t hug. They didn’t cry. But when Arianna reached across the table and rested her hand lightly over Toni’s, Toni didn’t pull away.
Sometimes, forgiveness wasn’t loud. It was just coffee, and presence, and a quiet kind of grace.
Outside, the sky had turned overcast, the clouds swollen with the promise of rain. Inside, the warmth lingered.
The team gathered in the film room Tuesday afternoon, bodies heavy from practice, minds wired from the weight of what was coming. The room smelled like turf and recovery shakes, damp and electric. Shoulder pads clicked against the backs of chairs. Cleats scuffed the linoleum. Nobody was talking much. The buzz of low conversation faded as Coach Dan Lanning walked in, clipboard tucked under his arm, jaw set.
Royce sat near the center aisle, arms folded tight across his chest. The bruise around his ankle had faded, but the memory hadn’t. He hadn’t spoken to anyone all day, not really. A few head nods, a couple grunts in film. He’d kept to himself.
Lanning didn’t start right away. He looked over the room—row after row of tired, beat-up young men who were, somehow, still standing after everything the season had thrown at them.
“Everybody good?” he asked, voice quiet.
A few guys mumbled yeah. Most just nodded.
Lanning set his clipboard down on the table at the front. “We’ve been here before,” he said. “Same team. Same place. Some of y’all still got bruises from it.”
No one had to say who. Everyone remembered.
“You lost that game because you lost the fourth quarter,” Lanning said, pointing toward the back of the room. “Not because you weren’t better. Because they finished. And you didn’t.”
A tight silence settled in. Royce shifted in his seat, jaw tightening. Eric tapped a pen against his knee. Kolaj stared straight ahead.
“But you get to change that,” Lanning continued. “That’s the thing people forget. They think the record defines you. That once it’s down in the books, that’s it. But not this time.”
He let that hang for a second. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead.
“We’re not backing in. We earned this spot. All year long, we bled for it. Sweated for it. We got told we weren’t gonna get here. We got told y’all were too young, too banged up, too whatever. But you made it. You’re in.”
Royce could feel his heartbeat now, steady but hard. He didn’t let it show.
“They don’t expect us to make a run. They think we’re lucky just to be here. They think we’re gonna roll over and let A&M have it again, like we ain’t embarrassed about that fourth quarter. Like we don’t remember what it felt like to walk off their field with our heads down.”
Lanning’s voice dropped.
“I remember.”
A long beat.
“I know what it’s like to be tired. To want the season to just end. But that ain’t how this story finishes. Not if you got pride. Not if you got heart.”
He took a step forward, eyes sweeping the room.
“You want revenge? Don’t say it. Show it. Every snap. Every hit. You owe yourselves. And if you got something left to give, this is the time. Because there’s no second chances after this. Just the truth.”
Royce didn’t move. But something inside him flickered. He glanced across the room and caught Kolaj nodding. Whit leaned forward. Even Gio, half-asleep when they walked in, sat a little straighter now.
Lanning finally picked the clipboard back up.
“Get your minds right,” he said. “This ain’t about A&M anymore. It’s about what kind of team you want to be remembered as.”
He walked out, door swinging quietly behind him.
And for the first time all week, the room felt alive again.
~~~~~~~~~~
The road to Houma stretched long and flat, the kind of drive that let silence crawl inside the car like fog. Royce didn’t turn on music. Didn’t call anyone. The hum of tires against the pavement was enough.
It had been months since he’d been back. Maybe longer. He wasn’t sure anymore. Everything outside Baton Rouge felt like a past life—muted and distant, like something he dreamed instead of lived. But after practice, something pulled at him. Not guilt. Not exactly. Just a weight. A quiet urging.
He parked crooked at the edge of the cemetery, wheels half on the grass. It was late—sun already dipping low behind the trees, casting everything in soft gold. His cleats were still in the trunk, so he changed into beat-up sneakers before walking up the small hill.
The grave was near the back, shaded by a pecan tree that had started dropping brittle leaves all around the headstones. Romeo’s name etched into the marble still looked too new. Too sharp.
The flowers were dead.
Not wilted. Not browning around the edges. Dead. Britni must’ve stopped coming. Or maybe she’d just missed a week. Either way, the petals were brittle and curled like ash, their color long drained away. The glass vase leaned sideways in the dirt.
Royce crouched slowly, pressing his forearms to his thighs. He didn’t touch the flowers. Didn’t fix them. He just stared.
“I was gonna bring fresh ones,” he muttered, even though no one was there. “Forgot.”
The wind picked up, shivering through the trees. Leaves danced down around him. He didn’t move.
A couple rows down, an old man in a Saints cap adjusted a flag on another grave, then walked away without looking up. It was just the two of them now—Royce and his brother, and all the words that had never been said.
“You’d probably say I’m being soft,” Royce muttered. “Dragging my ass out here like this.”
He cleared his throat. The lump sat there anyway.
“I ain’t forget you. I don’t want you thinking that.”
A pause. His fingers dug into the grass.
“I just... I can’t keep carrying everything.”
He looked up then, eyes tracing the name etched in stone. Romeo Lafitte. Beloved son. Twin brother.
“I’m tired, man.”
The words came out quieter than he meant. Like they weren’t meant to be spoken at all. He pressed his palm to the edge of the grave, grounding himself.
“I don’t know what I’m doing no more.”
He didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t get one. Just the rustle of branches, the steady hum of dusk.
When he finally stood, he stayed for another few seconds. Then he reached down, gently tilting the vase upright again. He didn’t fix the flowers. Didn’t throw them out.
He just left them there. Wilted things. Like most of what he’d been holding inside.
As he walked back to the car, the sun dipped below the trees, and Houma slid back into shadow.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment smelled like popcorn and sandalwood—the scent of a candle she didn’t remember lighting and a bowl she’d stopped eating from twenty minutes ago. Britni sat cross-legged on the couch, her cheek tucked against a throw pillow, eyes on the TV but not really watching. Some comedy special hummed in the background, the laugh track too loud in places it shouldn’t have been.
Beside her, Aaron—soft-voiced, always warm—was scrolling on his phone, occasionally chuckling at something on Twitter and nudging her with his elbow to show her. She’d look, offer a smile, maybe a little laugh, but nothing that reached too deep.
She was wearing Romeo’s hoodie.
It was too big on her, swallowing her frame the same way it had when he first gave it to her—laughing that she stole it, even though he’d dropped it over her shoulders himself that night they sat on the hood of his car outside Sonic, talking about everything and nothing at once. The hoodie had seen too many washes since then, the lettering at the chest faded: SOUTHERN FOOTBALL. When Aaron first asked about it, she’d told him it was her dad’s. He believed her without question. Or maybe he just let it be.
Her fingers tugged at the sleeve now, idly rubbing the edge between her thumb and knuckle. She didn’t even notice she was doing it until Aaron glanced over.
“You cold?” he asked, nodding toward her cocooned position.
She shook her head. “Nah. Just cozy.”
He smiled and leaned into her, wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders. His touch was different from Romeo’s—not better or worse. Just different. Softer. Less electric. More like a slow tide than a summer storm.
They sat in silence for a while. The comedian on the screen told a story about family, something clumsy and exaggerated. Britni’s laugh came late—halfhearted. Then quiet again.
Her therapist would’ve asked what the silence meant.
Would’ve asked what she was holding onto, and what she was finally letting go.
In the last six months, she’d said Romeo’s name more times than she had in the year before. Said it in a safe room, with a box of tissues nearby and a woman across from her who didn’t flinch when Britni said things like I hated him for dying, or I didn’t know who I was without him. She’d cried until her ribs hurt. Until her head throbbed from the weight of it all. Then, slowly, she started to breathe again.
Now, with December creeping in, she didn’t cry as much. Some days she didn’t cry at all. That was something.
Aaron yawned beside her, then kissed her temple. “I’m gonna get a drink. You want anything?”
She blinked, pulled herself back. “Water’s fine.”
When he got up, she looked down at the hoodie again. The sleeves were worn thin. A tiny hole had started to fray near the hem. She tugged it closed with her fingers, just for a second. Then she exhaled.
She didn’t wear it every day. And she didn’t sleep with it like armor against the dark. But she hadn’t packed it away either. Some things didn’t need to be buried to be healed. Some things just stayed, quietly, like a bookmark in a chapter she no longer needed to reread.
Aaron returned with the water and a fresh blanket. “For extra cozy,” he joked, draping it over her legs.
She smiled, a real one this time. “Thanks.”
And when he settled back next to her, she didn’t pull away. She let herself lean in, hoodie and all.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun was already sinking by the time Royce pulled onto the narrow street in Houma, his car creeping past the sagging mailboxes and leaning chain-link fences of the neighborhood he used to call home. Most of the porches were empty now, save for the occasional flicker of a cigarette or the orange glow of a Saints flag twisted around a gutter. The house on the corner still had the cracked windowpane he remembered from middle school. Some things didn’t change.
He parked and sat there for a moment, engine ticking as it cooled. His hands stayed on the wheel, tight-knuckled. The house in front of him looked smaller than it used to. Or maybe he’d just grown too much.
Still, he got out.
Three slow steps up the porch, and he knocked. Not loud. Just enough.
It took longer than expected, but the door finally cracked open.
His mother stood there, wearing a long house dress and slippers, her face sharp with confusion—then sharper with recognition.
“You,” she said, not moving from the doorframe.
Royce nodded once. “Me.”
Her eyes swept him, from the chain down to his sneakers, unimpressed. “You must be bored if you decided to drop in.”
He didn’t rise to it. “I heard Reg’s not doing good.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you heard something late,” she said, arms crossing over her chest. “Still, I guess miracles happen.”
He swallowed whatever instinct told him to walk away. “I ain’t here to fight.”
“No?” Her tone was skeptical. “Then what, Ro? You here to play hero? Say some words and vanish again like always?”
“I ain’t going to apologize for being a child,” he said evenly. “Your child.”
That caught her. Not enough to soften, but enough to still her mouth. She looked past him for a beat, then back.
“You gonna come in and see your brother, or what?”
He nodded, jaw clenched. She stepped aside, and he walked past her into the house.
It smelled like it always had—like lemon cleaner and something older, something heavy. The hallway was dim, the same crooked picture still hung beside the thermostat. He kept his eyes ahead.
Reg was in the back bedroom. The oxygen machine clicked rhythmically beside the bed, its low hum more present than the man it served. Reg lay still under a thin blanket, sunken into himself. His skin had yellowed, and his arms looked too thin for his frame. The kind of thin that came with pain that didn’t ease and time that didn’t forgive.
Royce stood in the doorway at first, not sure if he should enter. Then he did. Quietly.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood at the foot of the bed and stared.
Reg stirred. His eyelids fluttered, and for a second, Royce thought he might be asleep. But then they opened—just barely.
They locked eyes.
Reg’s lips moved, trying to shape something—maybe a name, maybe a curse. But nothing came out. Not even air. His chest rose, shaky, then stilled again.
Royce didn’t move. His expression didn’t shift. But inside, something knotted.
This wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even closure.
It was just showing up.
He took one step closer. His fingers twitched at his side. Then he turned and walked out, the machine still humming behind him, the room cold and thick with unspoken things.
His mother didn’t ask how it went. She was sitting in the kitchen, watching an old game show on mute, pretending not to care. He didn’t stop there either.
The door closed softly behind him.
Back in the car, Royce sat for a long moment before starting the engine. The dashboard light flared to life, casting his face in blue. His hands gripped the wheel again—tighter this time.
Then he pulled off, heading north, toward Baton Rouge, toward whatever came next.
The radio stayed off the whole way home.
~~~~~~~~~~
The grocery store was quiet for a weekday. Cold air clung to the produce section like fog off the Mississippi, and Christmas songs played softly overhead—old Motown renditions muffled by distance and dusty speakers. Alix trailed behind her mother and little brother, one hand resting on the handle of the cart, the other tucked into the pocket of her tan coat. She didn’t need anything. She wasn’t really there to shop. But her mother had asked if she wanted to tag along and Alix, still in her work clothes and somewhere between tired and restless, said yes.
They were making slow passes through the aisles now, her mother inspecting ingredients like she was judging character, and Darius pushing the cart ahead like a bored racecar driver.
“Don’t forget the cranberry sauce,” Sharon called back, scanning a can of yams.
“I’m not eating no cranberry sauce,” Darius said, wrinkling his nose.
“You don’t have to. Just grab two cans. The good kind.”
“The good kind is fake,” Alix added.
Her mom gave her a look. “Don’t start.”
Alix smirked and wandered a few paces away, letting the rows pull her in. The candy aisle wasn’t on their list. But there it was, humming like muscle memory.
She paused in front of it—colorful wrappers stacked in neat boxes, brands that hadn’t changed in decades. Her eyes skimmed the familiar labels, half-looking. Then she saw it.
A purple-wrapped bar with gold foil along the edges, nestled between a stack of peanut clusters and discount seasonal peppermint bark.
Royce’s favorite.
She picked it up without thinking. The weight of it in her hand was familiar—stupidly so. The last time she bought one, she’d thrown it on his passenger seat after a gas station stop. He’d grinned like a kid and ripped it open before they even left the parking lot.
She hadn’t thought about that day in weeks.
Alix turned the bar over in her hand, reading the nutrition facts like they meant something. Her fingers tightened around it. Then loosened. Then tightened again.
“Babe,” Sharon said from the end of the aisle. “You good?”
Alix glanced over her shoulder. Her mother was watching, casually—but not without awareness. Behind her, Darius had already moved on to the cereal section.
Alix smiled, small. “Yeah. Just…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Just gently placed the candy bar back on the shelf, smoothing the edge so it sat right. Like she hadn’t touched it at all.
Sharon didn’t say anything.
They walked the rest of the store without mention. But later, as they unloaded groceries into the backseat of the car, her mom said, almost offhand, “It’s okay to miss things. Just don’t buy ‘em back out of habit.”
Alix didn’t respond right away. She tucked a brown bag into the corner of the trunk and closed it softly.
“I wasn’t going to,” she said finally, voice low.
Sharon nodded. “I know.”
The ride home was quiet, filled with radio static and the soft rattle of paper bags.
Some things, Alix thought, weren’t meant to be said. Just noticed.
~~~~~~~~~~
The coffee shop was tucked just off campus—one of those cozy, slightly-too-dim places that smelled like ground beans and cinnamon syrup. The windows were fogged from the December chill, but the inside hummed with quiet conversation and the rhythmic clatter of mugs meeting saucers.
Arianna sat near the back, her fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic cup, watching the door. She’d picked the seat facing the entrance without thinking—old habit from too many years waiting for people who showed up late or not at all.
But Toni came. Ten minutes early.
She stood in the doorway for a beat, glancing around. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, coat zipped to the top. She looked tired. Not in the surface way, but in that deep, behind-the-eyes kind of way. Their eyes met, and Arianna lifted her hand.
Toni walked over, her steps slow but steady.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey.”
Toni slid into the seat across from her, shrugging out of her coat. She didn’t order anything. Didn’t look around. Just folded her hands on the table like they might anchor her.
“I should’ve reached out sooner,” Toni began, voice thin.
Arianna shook her head before the sentence could fully land.
“I don’t need you to explain,” she said gently. “I just want you to be okay.”
Toni blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed again. The silence between them stretched—but it wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even uncomfortable. It just… held space.
Toni looked down at her hands. “I wasn’t.”
Arianna nodded. “I figured.”
“I’m still not,” she added, quieter.
The heater kicked on, rattling slightly above them. Arianna took a slow sip of her coffee. She didn’t push. Didn’t ask questions Toni wasn’t ready to answer.
“I saw the flyer,” Toni said suddenly. “For the showcase. You were amazing.”
Arianna gave a small smile. “You saw that?”
Toni nodded. “Someone sent me the clip. I watched it too many times.”
A pause.
“I wrote something, too,” Toni said, surprising herself. “Haven’t said it out loud yet. Not even to myself.”
Arianna leaned forward just a little, eyes warm. “When you do… I’ll be there.”
Toni nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”
They didn’t hug. They didn’t cry. But when Arianna reached across the table and rested her hand lightly over Toni’s, Toni didn’t pull away.
Sometimes, forgiveness wasn’t loud. It was just coffee, and presence, and a quiet kind of grace.
Outside, the sky had turned overcast, the clouds swollen with the promise of rain. Inside, the warmth lingered.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7856
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Some growth in the Houma crowd? Say it ain't so
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Lightning Doesn’t Strike Twice
It was raining.
Royce stood on the sideline at Kyle Field, watching the rain sheet down under the stadium lights like it had been waiting all week to make its entrance. It wasn’t a drizzle—it was the kind of downpour that blurred the lines on the field and made every breath feel damp in your chest. The kind of rain that turned cleats into anchors and mud into traps.
A few weeks ago, they’d stood here in this same place and walked away embarrassed. Beaten. Outplayed. Outcoached. Drenched in loss and silence. That one had hurt more than most—not just because of what it did to their playoff hopes, but because they’d never showed up. Not really.
Now they were back. Same stadium. Same field. Same noise—loud and taunting and electric in a way only College Station could conjure. But this time, it wasn’t a regular season game. This time, it was the College Football Playoff.
Royce held his helmet in his left hand, the other hanging at his side as if it were too tired to bother clenching. The rain had soaked through everything already—his jersey, his socks, even the elastic in his gloves. He stared straight ahead, past the sideline traffic and the haze of water and light, toward the fifty-yard line.
Around him, the team buzzed. Some guys bounced in place. Others clapped and shouted to each other, hyping themselves up. It was all noise to him.
“You ready, big dawg?” Kolaj said from beside him, tugging on his gloves.
Royce didn’t look over. Just nodded once.
He wasn’t sure what he felt. Tired, maybe. Empty. Like his body had one more game in it, and after that… who knew? He wasn’t thinking about the draft. Or Alix. Or Reg. Or Romeo. Not right now. Right now it was just noise and rain and one last shot to fix what had gone wrong.
At midfield, the captains went through the coin toss under a sea of umbrellas and rain gear. The coin flipped, and the Aggie crowd let out a roar as the referee turned toward the press box, pointing toward LSU’s end zone.
A&M would take the ball.
Of course they would.
Royce finally raised his helmet and slid it on, the facemask narrowing his world into familiar lines. He snapped the chinstrap and blinked water out of his lashes. The lights above flared and fractured through the rain. Somewhere behind him, Lanning barked orders, and Lupoi gave a sharp call for the defense to stay locked.
This was it.
Redemption or repeat.
He didn’t feel brave. He didn’t feel scared.
He just felt here.
The ball was placed on the tee. The whistle blew.
Kickoff.
And the rain kept falling.
…
The rain made everything slower. Slower to see, slower to close, slower to trust what your eyes were telling you.
Royce stood behind the line, crouched just off-center, his cleats sunk into the wet turf like stakes. Third and two. The ball on the Aggies’ 34. This was the kind of down that didn't show up in the box score, not really—but it decided drives. It set tones.
He bounced once, then stilled.
Texas A&M broke the huddle with purpose. Royce clocked the alignment—tight end motion, heavy set, probably run, but Conner Weigman was twitchy in the pocket already today. Could be a boot. Could be a flare. Could be a damn lie.
Rain pelted his facemask. His gloves were already slick.
The ball snapped.
Royce exploded laterally, eyes tracking the tight end—Platt, tall and wide-bodied and moving just a little too clean for a decoy. Weigman rolled, shallow right, shoulders squared, ball out in a blink.
Quick throw.
Royce surged.
Platt had barely turned upfield when Royce met him—low, violent, hands wrapped tight around the waist and knees driving through. The hit echoed louder than it should have under the roar of the crowd and the splatter of rain. They went down in a tangled slide, mud flying, the ball clutched just across the line.
The whistle blew.
Fourth and inches.
Royce didn’t celebrate. He just pushed off the turf and looked toward the sideline, water running down his helmet. His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breath.
…
"Third down and six for LSU at their own 29… Rickie Collins in the gun, Caden Durham in the backfield… trips left, single receiver right… here’s the snap—Collins drops back—pressure off the edge—he fires quickly and it’s incomplete! Tried to get it to Billiot on a quick slant, but it was behind him!"
"That’s a three and out, Chris. And not the kind LSU wanted to open with. No rhythm, no push up front, and already you can feel the nerves tightening a bit."
"Badger Hargett jogs on for the punt and this Kyle Field crowd is feeding off it. A&M beat LSU here just a few weeks ago, and they’re looking to prove it wasn’t a fluke. Tigers go three and out to open this College Football Playoff matchup."
…
Royce stood just past the white chalk of the sideline, helmet in hand, watching as the rain slicked across the field in sheets. His gloves were soaked, his forearms chilled, but none of that mattered. He wasn’t in the game, and that sat heavier than the weather ever could.
It was third and fifteen. Too long for base personnel. Too risky for him to be out there, or at least that’s what the coaches had decided.
He could see Texas A&M lining up from where he stood—Weigman in the shotgun, three wide, tight end flexed off the line. LSU’s dime package shifted late, showing man.
Snap.
Weigman’s drop was quick. Royce’s eyes tracked the route developing across the middle—knew what was coming a half-second before it did. The tight end cleared the middle with a fade, drawing the safety. That left Jonah Wilson on a deep curl, turning just as the ball hit his numbers near the front pylon.
Touchdown.
Royce didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked. A&M’s student section erupted in the distance, blurred banners of maroon flapping behind the end zone.
On the sideline, Coach Lupoi cursed under his breath and slammed his headset onto the bench. Royce exhaled, short and sharp.
He didn’t say a word. Just reached for his helmet.
…
“First and goal for the Tigers from the four-yard line—Durham in the backfield, Collins under center for the first time tonight… tight formation here.”
“They’ve gone heavy, Chris. Looks like they’re trying to muscle this one in.”
“Snap to Collins… hands to Caden Durham, off left guard—he’s got a crease! Durham pushing—spins at the goal line—touchdown! Caden Durham bulldozes his way in from four yards out and LSU is on the board!”
“That’s how you answer, baby! Big-boy football in the red zone, and Caden Durham just dropped the hammer. Tie ballgame in College Station.”
“7-7 now with :44 left in the first quarter. A&M struck first, but LSU’s not backing down.”
…
The rain came down in sheets, turning Kyle Field into a blur of noise and motion. On 3rd and 7 from the Aggies’ 28, Royce stood just behind the line, his cleats sunk into the damp turf, rain streaking off the brim of his helmet. The call had come in from the sideline—a nickel look, soft zone behind. His job was to spy the back, then sink into the hook zone if nothing released.
Texas A&M motioned their slot receiver, but Royce didn’t flinch. He locked eyes with Connor Weigman, watching his cadence, watching his feet. Ball snapped.
Royce dropped back two steps, his eyes darting between the quarterback and the flat. Weigman pump-faked, then pivoted toward the sideline—trying to catch Micah Tease on a quick out.
But Stamps was already breaking.
The ball was barely out of Weigman’s hand when Ashton closed the cushion, driving through the route like he’d been waiting on it. He planted and extended, swatting the ball away clean before it ever touched Tease’s hands.
The crowd groaned. On LSU’s sideline, helmets clanged and fists flew into the air. Royce jogged over to Stamps and smacked him hard on the back of the helmet. No words. Just pride.
Three and out.
Royce turned toward the sideline and pointed up, signaling for the offense. “Let’s eat,” he barked, voice hoarse in the rain.
…
"Early second quarter here at Kyle Field, all tied up at seven apiece. LSU with a fresh set of downs at midfield—second down and seven. Rickie Collins lines up in the shotgun, Caden Durham to his left. Snap to Collins—hands it to Durham—he bounces it right—finds a crease! There goes Durham across the forty—cuts inside the thirty-five—and dragged down at the thirty-yard line! A bruising twenty-yard run by the junior, and LSU is cooking!"
"That’s Caden Durham doing what he does best—finding daylight and accelerating through it. Great patience at the line, then that burst—it’s what separates him. He’s got the juice tonight."
…
"Second down and ten now from the Texas A&M thirty-one. Collins in the gun—three wide. Takes the snap—pressure coming—delivers over the middle—caught! Zavion Thomas! He snatches it in at the sixteen-yard line and tumbles forward to the fifteen. Move the chains again!"
"Zavion’s got such great hands, and that was a dart from Collins. You can feel the rhythm starting to build for this offense. A&M’s defense is on its heels."
…
"First and ten from the fifteen, LSU threatening to take the lead for the first time tonight. Collins calls for it—fakes the handoff—no, gives it to Durham on the swing—he’s got room! To the ten—the five—untouched! Touchdown Tigers! Caden Durham again! A fifteen-yard reception puts LSU in front, 13–7 with the extra point coming!"
"Perfect play call in the red zone—got the linebackers flowing one way and slipped Durham out to the other side. That was smooth. And man, you can feel the confidence rising in this young back. LSU’s got something going now."
…
"Third down and nine for LSU from their own forty-five—Collins in the shotgun, trips right, Watkins split out wide left. Snap to Collins—Aggies bringing pressure—Collins steps up, launches deep down the sideline—Watkins is there—makes the grab at the fifteen—he’s gone! Touchdown LSU! Jelani Watkins takes it sixty-five yards to the house on third and long, and the Tigers are pouring it on in the second quarter! It’s 20–7 with the PAT coming."
"Oh, that’s a dagger. Rickie Collins just dropped it in the bucket, and Jelani Watkins did the rest—pure speed. You blink and he’s behind the secondary. LSU’s offense is humming, and Texas A&M looks stunned."
…
"Second and seven for the Aggies, ball at midfield—Weigman under center, Rueben Owens the lone back. It’s a zone run off right guard—Owens trying to slip through a crease, but Royce Lafitte sniffs it out! He flies in from the second level and drags Owens down after a short gain—maybe three yards, and that’s being generous."
"That’s instinct and film work right there. Lafitte read that like it was printed on the page—shot the gap and made sure it didn’t turn into anything more. You need that kind of discipline in this matchup."
…
"Third down and seven from the LSU thirty-nine—Weigman in the gun, four wide. Snap comes—pocket holds—fires over the middle—caught! Jonah Wilson brings it in at the fifteen and he’s wrestled down near the fourteen! That’s a big-time conversion for the Aggies on third and long."
"Jonah Wilson’s been quiet tonight, but that’s a grown-man catch in traffic. Brown was a step late in coverage rotating back across the middle, and A&M takes advantage."
…
"Second and eight from the eleven—Weigman hands to Owens—big hole up the middle—Owens cuts left, dives! Touchdown Aggies! Rueben Owens punches it in from eleven yards out, and just like that, we’ve got a ballgame in College Station!"
"Credit that Aggie offensive line—they cleared the lane, and Owens made one decisive cut. LSU’s defense just got caught leaning, and the lead is down to seven."
…
The rain hadn’t let up, turning the turf into a slick sheet under Royce’s cleats. The stadium lights threw halos through the mist, and the roar of the Aggie crowd behind the end zone beat like war drums against the back of his helmet.
First and goal from the seven.
Royce crouched in the middle of the defense, cleats staggered, fingers twitching on his thighs. He glanced at the backfield—no motion, just a wide set. Trips to the right. He knew the route combo before they even broke—Wilson in the slot, that little hesitation off the line that meant slant or whip. Royce barked out a shift, his voice barely audible over the crowd.
Weigman took the snap.
The protection held. Royce felt the hesitation in the air—this wasn’t a handoff.
Eyes scanned, knees bent, he started to drift toward the middle zone. Wilson stuttered, then cut inside—Royce’s eyes flashed to the quarterback. Weigman let it go early, a tight spiral ripping through the wet air.
The pass was perfect. Wilson darted between Ashton and Michael, body angled just right to shield the ball as it hit his chest at the front of the goal line. Royce stepped forward instinctively, but it was a half-second too late. The receiver cradled the ball and tucked as he crossed into the end zone untouched.
The whistle blew. The crowd detonated.
Royce stopped a few yards from the play, hands on his hips. He could hear the Aggies barking down from the stands. Could hear nothing from his own sideline. No one said it out loud, but the momentum had shifted, and LSU had just watched a 14-point cushion vanish in the blink of an eye.
…
The air in the locker room at Kyle Field was thick with sweat, steam, and tension. Rain still slicked the players’ uniforms as they stripped off their soaked pads, the smell of wet turf and adrenaline clinging to the walls. Cleats clattered on the concrete floors, voices overlapped, and somewhere near the back, a speaker crackled with garbled stats no one was really listening to.
Coach Lanning’s voice cut through it all.
“Get settled. Now.”
The room didn’t go quiet, not completely—someone was still coughing, a trainer was taping an ankle, and Kolaj was yelling at Whit across the room for blowing an assignment on a draw play. But the volume dipped just enough for the whiteboard markers to start squeaking.
Lanning stood at the front, eyes sharp under the glare of fluorescent lights. The collar of his polo was damp from the storm outside, and his tone held that edge that said this wasn’t just another game. This was one they had no business losing—again.
“They got two chunk plays on you. Two. That’s it. The rest of it? We’re beating ourselves.”
Coach Lupoi was already drawing up zone coverages on the board behind him, barking adjustments without waiting for silence.
“D-line, you gotta control the inside shoulder. Stop getting washed out on zone. Royce, we need better communication between you and Michael in the red zone.”
Royce didn’t look up from where he sat on the bench, hunched forward, fingers laced together, breathing steady but heavy. His socks were soaked. His eyes were hollow. He hadn’t said much since the Wilson touchdown.
“Collins,” one of the offensive assistants called out, “the timing’s fine when you set your feet. You’re overstriding on the checkdowns. Take what’s there. We’re not gonna outrun that safety—use the seams.”
Rickie, helmet in lap, just nodded. He looked young again, like a kid in a room full of men. Caden was toweling off next to him, jaw clenched like he was biting down words.
Near the back, Gio was pacing.
“Man, I’m not losing to these bitch ass niggas twice.”
“Then fucking tackle somebody,” Dorian muttered, but didn’t look at him.
It was loud again—spiky with frustration. Coaches shouting, players jawing, trainers pushing past with bottles and towels. The whole place pulsed with barely restrained energy. A team caught between resolve and collapse.
Lanning raised his voice.
“This game is ours if we take it. But you keep playing scared, playing tired, and they’ll rip your heart out again. You want that feeling again? You want to walk out of here with that taste in your mouth for the next nine months?”
No one answered.
“You better decide now,” he said. “Because kickoff’s in eight minutes.”
Silence, then movement—pads buckled, jerseys tugged down, voices rose with the clatter of helmets against lockers.
Royce finally stood, eyes fixed forward.
No fire, no speeches—just motion. Just noise. Just war about to resume.
…
"LSU trying to retake the lead here early in the third quarter. This’ll be a 49-yard attempt for Aeron Burrell. Ball spotted at the right hash… snap down, kick is up—"
"Has the leg—"
"And it’s good! Right down the pipe from forty-nine! Aeron Burrell delivers, and the Tigers jump back on top, 24–21, to open the second half!"
"That’s a big-time kick in enemy territory. Rain’s still coming down, crowd’s buzzing, and he just buried it. That’s confidence."
…
"First and ten, Texas A&M from their own 25. Weigman in the shotgun, takes the snap, drops back—looks left—fires over the middle—"
"That’s tight coverage—"
"Picked off! Intercepted! LSU’s got it! Zackary Evans steps right in front of the route and takes it away! Tigers with the first turnover of the night, and they'll take over deep in Aggie territory!"
"What a read by Evans! That was textbook—watched Weigman’s eyes the whole way, jumped it, and now LSU’s got a golden chance to make this crowd sit down early in the second half."
…
"First and goal from the Aggie 3… LSU knocking on the door again. Collins under center, Durham in the backfield. Motion from Billiot… here’s the snap—Durham up the gut—lowers the shoulder… and he’s in! Touchdown Tigers! Caden Durham punches it in from three yards out!"
"That’s the kind of run that wears a defense down, Chris. Durham ran that with bad intentions—lowered the pads, found the crease, and powered right through. LSU extends the lead, 31-21, and you can feel the momentum shift back purple and gold."
…
"Third down and three from the Aggie 27… Collins in the pistol, Durham behind him… snap to Rickie, hands to Caden Durham—off the right side, finds a crease—Durham breaks free! Twenty, fifteen, ten—no one’s gonna catch him—touchdown Tigers! Caden Durham explodes through the hole and takes it all the way for six!"
"That’s just elite burst right there from Durham! He hit that second level and it was curtains—A&M had bodies there, but nobody fast enough to close the angle. LSU’s pouring it on now—17 unanswered points!"
…
The snap cracked under the stadium lights, and Royce was already gone.
Second and eight. The third quarter bleeding out. The pocket was about to collapse, and he was the one closing it.
He timed the blitz like he could see the play before it even happened. Ducked the left tackle’s lazy hands with a tight bend around the edge—shoulder low, cleats carving divots into the soaked turf of Kyle Field. The crowd noise surged behind him, a wall of sound he tuned out like static.
Connor Weigman had just set his feet when Royce launched.
The sack hit with a crack. Pads on pads. Royce’s full weight drove the quarterback down hard onto the slick grass, the ball nearly popping loose as Weigman gasped for air.
Royce stayed planted over him for half a beat, then stood and barked down through his facemask.
“Sit your ass down!” he yelled, voice sharp over the groans of the home crowd. “This my house, motherfucker.”
He looked to the sideline, fist pounding his chest like punctuation. “Ain’t fucking sweet out here bitch ass niggas!” he shouted, loud enough for everyone in maroon and white to hear.
His teammates swarmed in—Kolaj bumped his chest, Da’Shawn shoved his helmet, the bench roaring behind them. But Royce didn’t smile.
He was walking back to the huddle with his chin high and jaw set, eyes burning through the rain. One hit didn’t win a game. But it sent a message.
He was back. And he was coming.
…
"Texas A&M lining up with first and goal from the LSU 3. The Tigers have their goal-line package in… Weigman under center… hands it off to Rueben Owens—he powers through the left side—pushing—AND HE'S IN! TOUCHDOWN AGGIES!"
"That's a statement run from Rueben Owens right there. Great push from the left side of that offensive line, and he just kept those legs churning. LSU had stacked the box, but they couldn’t stop him from three yards out."
"That cuts the LSU lead to 38–28 here in the fourth quarter, and Kyle Field is waking back up with plenty of time left on the clock."
…
"Second down and five from the LSU 30… Collins in the shotgun, Caden Durham to his right… takes the snap—looks left—now fires deep down the seam… has a man! WATKINS BEHIND THE DEFENSE! JELANI WATKINS AT THE THIRTY—TWENTY—TEN—TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!"
"Oh my goodness! That’s just flat-out speed. Jelani Watkins hit another gear once he cleared the linebackers, and Rickie Collins put it on a rope. The Aggie secondary got caught peeking, and LSU made them pay in a hurry."
"A 70-yard strike from Rickie Collins to Jelani Watkins, and LSU pushes the lead to 45–28 here in the fourth quarter in College Station!"
…
"Second and goal from the LSU two-yard line—Aggies trying to keep this one alive. Weigman under center, Owens in the backfield… handoff to Owens, straight ahead—he dives—TOUCHDOWN TEXAS A&M!"
"Rueben Owens just kept his legs churning. Great push from the interior of that Aggie offensive line, and now it’s a two-possession game again. They’re not going away easy."
"Rueben Owens punches it in from two yards out, and with the extra point, Texas A&M cuts it to 45–35 here in the fourth quarter. Still time left on the clock at Kyle Field!"
…
"Fourth and four from the twelve-yard line, and LSU is going to bring out Aeron Burrell to try and extend this lead to two touchdowns with just under a minute and a half remaining. Snap is clean, hold is down… Burrell’s kick is up—and it is right down the middle. Good from twenty yards out!"
"That’s a huge kick, Chris. Might not be flashy, but that’s the kind of field goal that seals games. Now Texas A&M needs two scores in under ninety seconds. Tall task here at Kyle Field."
"Aeron Burrell delivers under pressure, and LSU stretches their lead to 48–35 with 1:25 left on the clock. The Tigers can almost taste the College Football Playoff quarterfinals."
…
The roar of Kyle Field pressed in from all sides, but Royce tuned it out—the crowd, the sideline, even the ache in his legs. It was third and seventeen, and all that stood between them and sealing this game was one more stop.
He crouched at the line, fingers grazing the turf, eyes locked on the quarterback. Texas A&M’s offensive line looked jittery, their splits tighter, their weight shifted just a little too far back. They knew what was coming. Didn’t mean they could stop it.
At the snap, Royce exploded off the edge, knifing past the right tackle like he’d studied it in his sleep. The back stepped up to chip him—late. Royce swatted him aside and kept coming, closing on Weigman like a storm cloud collapsing.
Weigman panicked. Royce saw it in his eyes. The quarterback backpedaled and flinched just before letting go of a hurried, awkward pass over the middle.
The moment the ball left his hand, Royce knew it wasn’t going where it was supposed to.
And then—boom—Michael Richard snatched it out of the air like he’d been running the route himself. The crowd gasped, then deflated.
Royce didn’t celebrate. He just let out a slow breath and turned away, arms out at his sides, eyes up at the stadium lights.
Michael was mobbed by teammates. On the sideline, the LSU coaches erupted. But Royce walked calmly off the field as the Tigers' offense began to take the field to kneel it out.
It was over.
Finally.
It was raining.
Royce stood on the sideline at Kyle Field, watching the rain sheet down under the stadium lights like it had been waiting all week to make its entrance. It wasn’t a drizzle—it was the kind of downpour that blurred the lines on the field and made every breath feel damp in your chest. The kind of rain that turned cleats into anchors and mud into traps.
A few weeks ago, they’d stood here in this same place and walked away embarrassed. Beaten. Outplayed. Outcoached. Drenched in loss and silence. That one had hurt more than most—not just because of what it did to their playoff hopes, but because they’d never showed up. Not really.
Now they were back. Same stadium. Same field. Same noise—loud and taunting and electric in a way only College Station could conjure. But this time, it wasn’t a regular season game. This time, it was the College Football Playoff.
Royce held his helmet in his left hand, the other hanging at his side as if it were too tired to bother clenching. The rain had soaked through everything already—his jersey, his socks, even the elastic in his gloves. He stared straight ahead, past the sideline traffic and the haze of water and light, toward the fifty-yard line.
Around him, the team buzzed. Some guys bounced in place. Others clapped and shouted to each other, hyping themselves up. It was all noise to him.
“You ready, big dawg?” Kolaj said from beside him, tugging on his gloves.
Royce didn’t look over. Just nodded once.
He wasn’t sure what he felt. Tired, maybe. Empty. Like his body had one more game in it, and after that… who knew? He wasn’t thinking about the draft. Or Alix. Or Reg. Or Romeo. Not right now. Right now it was just noise and rain and one last shot to fix what had gone wrong.
At midfield, the captains went through the coin toss under a sea of umbrellas and rain gear. The coin flipped, and the Aggie crowd let out a roar as the referee turned toward the press box, pointing toward LSU’s end zone.
A&M would take the ball.
Of course they would.
Royce finally raised his helmet and slid it on, the facemask narrowing his world into familiar lines. He snapped the chinstrap and blinked water out of his lashes. The lights above flared and fractured through the rain. Somewhere behind him, Lanning barked orders, and Lupoi gave a sharp call for the defense to stay locked.
This was it.
Redemption or repeat.
He didn’t feel brave. He didn’t feel scared.
He just felt here.
The ball was placed on the tee. The whistle blew.
Kickoff.
And the rain kept falling.
…
The rain made everything slower. Slower to see, slower to close, slower to trust what your eyes were telling you.
Royce stood behind the line, crouched just off-center, his cleats sunk into the wet turf like stakes. Third and two. The ball on the Aggies’ 34. This was the kind of down that didn't show up in the box score, not really—but it decided drives. It set tones.
He bounced once, then stilled.
Texas A&M broke the huddle with purpose. Royce clocked the alignment—tight end motion, heavy set, probably run, but Conner Weigman was twitchy in the pocket already today. Could be a boot. Could be a flare. Could be a damn lie.
Rain pelted his facemask. His gloves were already slick.
The ball snapped.
Royce exploded laterally, eyes tracking the tight end—Platt, tall and wide-bodied and moving just a little too clean for a decoy. Weigman rolled, shallow right, shoulders squared, ball out in a blink.
Quick throw.
Royce surged.
Platt had barely turned upfield when Royce met him—low, violent, hands wrapped tight around the waist and knees driving through. The hit echoed louder than it should have under the roar of the crowd and the splatter of rain. They went down in a tangled slide, mud flying, the ball clutched just across the line.
The whistle blew.
Fourth and inches.
Royce didn’t celebrate. He just pushed off the turf and looked toward the sideline, water running down his helmet. His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breath.
…
"Third down and six for LSU at their own 29… Rickie Collins in the gun, Caden Durham in the backfield… trips left, single receiver right… here’s the snap—Collins drops back—pressure off the edge—he fires quickly and it’s incomplete! Tried to get it to Billiot on a quick slant, but it was behind him!"
"That’s a three and out, Chris. And not the kind LSU wanted to open with. No rhythm, no push up front, and already you can feel the nerves tightening a bit."
"Badger Hargett jogs on for the punt and this Kyle Field crowd is feeding off it. A&M beat LSU here just a few weeks ago, and they’re looking to prove it wasn’t a fluke. Tigers go three and out to open this College Football Playoff matchup."
…
Royce stood just past the white chalk of the sideline, helmet in hand, watching as the rain slicked across the field in sheets. His gloves were soaked, his forearms chilled, but none of that mattered. He wasn’t in the game, and that sat heavier than the weather ever could.
It was third and fifteen. Too long for base personnel. Too risky for him to be out there, or at least that’s what the coaches had decided.
He could see Texas A&M lining up from where he stood—Weigman in the shotgun, three wide, tight end flexed off the line. LSU’s dime package shifted late, showing man.
Snap.
Weigman’s drop was quick. Royce’s eyes tracked the route developing across the middle—knew what was coming a half-second before it did. The tight end cleared the middle with a fade, drawing the safety. That left Jonah Wilson on a deep curl, turning just as the ball hit his numbers near the front pylon.
Touchdown.
Royce didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked. A&M’s student section erupted in the distance, blurred banners of maroon flapping behind the end zone.
On the sideline, Coach Lupoi cursed under his breath and slammed his headset onto the bench. Royce exhaled, short and sharp.
He didn’t say a word. Just reached for his helmet.
…
“First and goal for the Tigers from the four-yard line—Durham in the backfield, Collins under center for the first time tonight… tight formation here.”
“They’ve gone heavy, Chris. Looks like they’re trying to muscle this one in.”
“Snap to Collins… hands to Caden Durham, off left guard—he’s got a crease! Durham pushing—spins at the goal line—touchdown! Caden Durham bulldozes his way in from four yards out and LSU is on the board!”
“That’s how you answer, baby! Big-boy football in the red zone, and Caden Durham just dropped the hammer. Tie ballgame in College Station.”
“7-7 now with :44 left in the first quarter. A&M struck first, but LSU’s not backing down.”
…
The rain came down in sheets, turning Kyle Field into a blur of noise and motion. On 3rd and 7 from the Aggies’ 28, Royce stood just behind the line, his cleats sunk into the damp turf, rain streaking off the brim of his helmet. The call had come in from the sideline—a nickel look, soft zone behind. His job was to spy the back, then sink into the hook zone if nothing released.
Texas A&M motioned their slot receiver, but Royce didn’t flinch. He locked eyes with Connor Weigman, watching his cadence, watching his feet. Ball snapped.
Royce dropped back two steps, his eyes darting between the quarterback and the flat. Weigman pump-faked, then pivoted toward the sideline—trying to catch Micah Tease on a quick out.
But Stamps was already breaking.
The ball was barely out of Weigman’s hand when Ashton closed the cushion, driving through the route like he’d been waiting on it. He planted and extended, swatting the ball away clean before it ever touched Tease’s hands.
The crowd groaned. On LSU’s sideline, helmets clanged and fists flew into the air. Royce jogged over to Stamps and smacked him hard on the back of the helmet. No words. Just pride.
Three and out.
Royce turned toward the sideline and pointed up, signaling for the offense. “Let’s eat,” he barked, voice hoarse in the rain.
…
"Early second quarter here at Kyle Field, all tied up at seven apiece. LSU with a fresh set of downs at midfield—second down and seven. Rickie Collins lines up in the shotgun, Caden Durham to his left. Snap to Collins—hands it to Durham—he bounces it right—finds a crease! There goes Durham across the forty—cuts inside the thirty-five—and dragged down at the thirty-yard line! A bruising twenty-yard run by the junior, and LSU is cooking!"
"That’s Caden Durham doing what he does best—finding daylight and accelerating through it. Great patience at the line, then that burst—it’s what separates him. He’s got the juice tonight."
…
"Second down and ten now from the Texas A&M thirty-one. Collins in the gun—three wide. Takes the snap—pressure coming—delivers over the middle—caught! Zavion Thomas! He snatches it in at the sixteen-yard line and tumbles forward to the fifteen. Move the chains again!"
"Zavion’s got such great hands, and that was a dart from Collins. You can feel the rhythm starting to build for this offense. A&M’s defense is on its heels."
…
"First and ten from the fifteen, LSU threatening to take the lead for the first time tonight. Collins calls for it—fakes the handoff—no, gives it to Durham on the swing—he’s got room! To the ten—the five—untouched! Touchdown Tigers! Caden Durham again! A fifteen-yard reception puts LSU in front, 13–7 with the extra point coming!"
"Perfect play call in the red zone—got the linebackers flowing one way and slipped Durham out to the other side. That was smooth. And man, you can feel the confidence rising in this young back. LSU’s got something going now."
…
"Third down and nine for LSU from their own forty-five—Collins in the shotgun, trips right, Watkins split out wide left. Snap to Collins—Aggies bringing pressure—Collins steps up, launches deep down the sideline—Watkins is there—makes the grab at the fifteen—he’s gone! Touchdown LSU! Jelani Watkins takes it sixty-five yards to the house on third and long, and the Tigers are pouring it on in the second quarter! It’s 20–7 with the PAT coming."
"Oh, that’s a dagger. Rickie Collins just dropped it in the bucket, and Jelani Watkins did the rest—pure speed. You blink and he’s behind the secondary. LSU’s offense is humming, and Texas A&M looks stunned."
…
"Second and seven for the Aggies, ball at midfield—Weigman under center, Rueben Owens the lone back. It’s a zone run off right guard—Owens trying to slip through a crease, but Royce Lafitte sniffs it out! He flies in from the second level and drags Owens down after a short gain—maybe three yards, and that’s being generous."
"That’s instinct and film work right there. Lafitte read that like it was printed on the page—shot the gap and made sure it didn’t turn into anything more. You need that kind of discipline in this matchup."
…
"Third down and seven from the LSU thirty-nine—Weigman in the gun, four wide. Snap comes—pocket holds—fires over the middle—caught! Jonah Wilson brings it in at the fifteen and he’s wrestled down near the fourteen! That’s a big-time conversion for the Aggies on third and long."
"Jonah Wilson’s been quiet tonight, but that’s a grown-man catch in traffic. Brown was a step late in coverage rotating back across the middle, and A&M takes advantage."
…
"Second and eight from the eleven—Weigman hands to Owens—big hole up the middle—Owens cuts left, dives! Touchdown Aggies! Rueben Owens punches it in from eleven yards out, and just like that, we’ve got a ballgame in College Station!"
"Credit that Aggie offensive line—they cleared the lane, and Owens made one decisive cut. LSU’s defense just got caught leaning, and the lead is down to seven."
…
The rain hadn’t let up, turning the turf into a slick sheet under Royce’s cleats. The stadium lights threw halos through the mist, and the roar of the Aggie crowd behind the end zone beat like war drums against the back of his helmet.
First and goal from the seven.
Royce crouched in the middle of the defense, cleats staggered, fingers twitching on his thighs. He glanced at the backfield—no motion, just a wide set. Trips to the right. He knew the route combo before they even broke—Wilson in the slot, that little hesitation off the line that meant slant or whip. Royce barked out a shift, his voice barely audible over the crowd.
Weigman took the snap.
The protection held. Royce felt the hesitation in the air—this wasn’t a handoff.
Eyes scanned, knees bent, he started to drift toward the middle zone. Wilson stuttered, then cut inside—Royce’s eyes flashed to the quarterback. Weigman let it go early, a tight spiral ripping through the wet air.
The pass was perfect. Wilson darted between Ashton and Michael, body angled just right to shield the ball as it hit his chest at the front of the goal line. Royce stepped forward instinctively, but it was a half-second too late. The receiver cradled the ball and tucked as he crossed into the end zone untouched.
The whistle blew. The crowd detonated.
Royce stopped a few yards from the play, hands on his hips. He could hear the Aggies barking down from the stands. Could hear nothing from his own sideline. No one said it out loud, but the momentum had shifted, and LSU had just watched a 14-point cushion vanish in the blink of an eye.
…
The air in the locker room at Kyle Field was thick with sweat, steam, and tension. Rain still slicked the players’ uniforms as they stripped off their soaked pads, the smell of wet turf and adrenaline clinging to the walls. Cleats clattered on the concrete floors, voices overlapped, and somewhere near the back, a speaker crackled with garbled stats no one was really listening to.
Coach Lanning’s voice cut through it all.
“Get settled. Now.”
The room didn’t go quiet, not completely—someone was still coughing, a trainer was taping an ankle, and Kolaj was yelling at Whit across the room for blowing an assignment on a draw play. But the volume dipped just enough for the whiteboard markers to start squeaking.
Lanning stood at the front, eyes sharp under the glare of fluorescent lights. The collar of his polo was damp from the storm outside, and his tone held that edge that said this wasn’t just another game. This was one they had no business losing—again.
“They got two chunk plays on you. Two. That’s it. The rest of it? We’re beating ourselves.”
Coach Lupoi was already drawing up zone coverages on the board behind him, barking adjustments without waiting for silence.
“D-line, you gotta control the inside shoulder. Stop getting washed out on zone. Royce, we need better communication between you and Michael in the red zone.”
Royce didn’t look up from where he sat on the bench, hunched forward, fingers laced together, breathing steady but heavy. His socks were soaked. His eyes were hollow. He hadn’t said much since the Wilson touchdown.
“Collins,” one of the offensive assistants called out, “the timing’s fine when you set your feet. You’re overstriding on the checkdowns. Take what’s there. We’re not gonna outrun that safety—use the seams.”
Rickie, helmet in lap, just nodded. He looked young again, like a kid in a room full of men. Caden was toweling off next to him, jaw clenched like he was biting down words.
Near the back, Gio was pacing.
“Man, I’m not losing to these bitch ass niggas twice.”
“Then fucking tackle somebody,” Dorian muttered, but didn’t look at him.
It was loud again—spiky with frustration. Coaches shouting, players jawing, trainers pushing past with bottles and towels. The whole place pulsed with barely restrained energy. A team caught between resolve and collapse.
Lanning raised his voice.
“This game is ours if we take it. But you keep playing scared, playing tired, and they’ll rip your heart out again. You want that feeling again? You want to walk out of here with that taste in your mouth for the next nine months?”
No one answered.
“You better decide now,” he said. “Because kickoff’s in eight minutes.”
Silence, then movement—pads buckled, jerseys tugged down, voices rose with the clatter of helmets against lockers.
Royce finally stood, eyes fixed forward.
No fire, no speeches—just motion. Just noise. Just war about to resume.
…
"LSU trying to retake the lead here early in the third quarter. This’ll be a 49-yard attempt for Aeron Burrell. Ball spotted at the right hash… snap down, kick is up—"
"Has the leg—"
"And it’s good! Right down the pipe from forty-nine! Aeron Burrell delivers, and the Tigers jump back on top, 24–21, to open the second half!"
"That’s a big-time kick in enemy territory. Rain’s still coming down, crowd’s buzzing, and he just buried it. That’s confidence."
…
"First and ten, Texas A&M from their own 25. Weigman in the shotgun, takes the snap, drops back—looks left—fires over the middle—"
"That’s tight coverage—"
"Picked off! Intercepted! LSU’s got it! Zackary Evans steps right in front of the route and takes it away! Tigers with the first turnover of the night, and they'll take over deep in Aggie territory!"
"What a read by Evans! That was textbook—watched Weigman’s eyes the whole way, jumped it, and now LSU’s got a golden chance to make this crowd sit down early in the second half."
…
"First and goal from the Aggie 3… LSU knocking on the door again. Collins under center, Durham in the backfield. Motion from Billiot… here’s the snap—Durham up the gut—lowers the shoulder… and he’s in! Touchdown Tigers! Caden Durham punches it in from three yards out!"
"That’s the kind of run that wears a defense down, Chris. Durham ran that with bad intentions—lowered the pads, found the crease, and powered right through. LSU extends the lead, 31-21, and you can feel the momentum shift back purple and gold."
…
"Third down and three from the Aggie 27… Collins in the pistol, Durham behind him… snap to Rickie, hands to Caden Durham—off the right side, finds a crease—Durham breaks free! Twenty, fifteen, ten—no one’s gonna catch him—touchdown Tigers! Caden Durham explodes through the hole and takes it all the way for six!"
"That’s just elite burst right there from Durham! He hit that second level and it was curtains—A&M had bodies there, but nobody fast enough to close the angle. LSU’s pouring it on now—17 unanswered points!"
…
The snap cracked under the stadium lights, and Royce was already gone.
Second and eight. The third quarter bleeding out. The pocket was about to collapse, and he was the one closing it.
He timed the blitz like he could see the play before it even happened. Ducked the left tackle’s lazy hands with a tight bend around the edge—shoulder low, cleats carving divots into the soaked turf of Kyle Field. The crowd noise surged behind him, a wall of sound he tuned out like static.
Connor Weigman had just set his feet when Royce launched.
The sack hit with a crack. Pads on pads. Royce’s full weight drove the quarterback down hard onto the slick grass, the ball nearly popping loose as Weigman gasped for air.
Royce stayed planted over him for half a beat, then stood and barked down through his facemask.
“Sit your ass down!” he yelled, voice sharp over the groans of the home crowd. “This my house, motherfucker.”
He looked to the sideline, fist pounding his chest like punctuation. “Ain’t fucking sweet out here bitch ass niggas!” he shouted, loud enough for everyone in maroon and white to hear.
His teammates swarmed in—Kolaj bumped his chest, Da’Shawn shoved his helmet, the bench roaring behind them. But Royce didn’t smile.
He was walking back to the huddle with his chin high and jaw set, eyes burning through the rain. One hit didn’t win a game. But it sent a message.
He was back. And he was coming.
…
"Texas A&M lining up with first and goal from the LSU 3. The Tigers have their goal-line package in… Weigman under center… hands it off to Rueben Owens—he powers through the left side—pushing—AND HE'S IN! TOUCHDOWN AGGIES!"
"That's a statement run from Rueben Owens right there. Great push from the left side of that offensive line, and he just kept those legs churning. LSU had stacked the box, but they couldn’t stop him from three yards out."
"That cuts the LSU lead to 38–28 here in the fourth quarter, and Kyle Field is waking back up with plenty of time left on the clock."
…
"Second down and five from the LSU 30… Collins in the shotgun, Caden Durham to his right… takes the snap—looks left—now fires deep down the seam… has a man! WATKINS BEHIND THE DEFENSE! JELANI WATKINS AT THE THIRTY—TWENTY—TEN—TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!"
"Oh my goodness! That’s just flat-out speed. Jelani Watkins hit another gear once he cleared the linebackers, and Rickie Collins put it on a rope. The Aggie secondary got caught peeking, and LSU made them pay in a hurry."
"A 70-yard strike from Rickie Collins to Jelani Watkins, and LSU pushes the lead to 45–28 here in the fourth quarter in College Station!"
…
"Second and goal from the LSU two-yard line—Aggies trying to keep this one alive. Weigman under center, Owens in the backfield… handoff to Owens, straight ahead—he dives—TOUCHDOWN TEXAS A&M!"
"Rueben Owens just kept his legs churning. Great push from the interior of that Aggie offensive line, and now it’s a two-possession game again. They’re not going away easy."
"Rueben Owens punches it in from two yards out, and with the extra point, Texas A&M cuts it to 45–35 here in the fourth quarter. Still time left on the clock at Kyle Field!"
…
"Fourth and four from the twelve-yard line, and LSU is going to bring out Aeron Burrell to try and extend this lead to two touchdowns with just under a minute and a half remaining. Snap is clean, hold is down… Burrell’s kick is up—and it is right down the middle. Good from twenty yards out!"
"That’s a huge kick, Chris. Might not be flashy, but that’s the kind of field goal that seals games. Now Texas A&M needs two scores in under ninety seconds. Tall task here at Kyle Field."
"Aeron Burrell delivers under pressure, and LSU stretches their lead to 48–35 with 1:25 left on the clock. The Tigers can almost taste the College Football Playoff quarterfinals."
…
The roar of Kyle Field pressed in from all sides, but Royce tuned it out—the crowd, the sideline, even the ache in his legs. It was third and seventeen, and all that stood between them and sealing this game was one more stop.
He crouched at the line, fingers grazing the turf, eyes locked on the quarterback. Texas A&M’s offensive line looked jittery, their splits tighter, their weight shifted just a little too far back. They knew what was coming. Didn’t mean they could stop it.
At the snap, Royce exploded off the edge, knifing past the right tackle like he’d studied it in his sleep. The back stepped up to chip him—late. Royce swatted him aside and kept coming, closing on Weigman like a storm cloud collapsing.
Weigman panicked. Royce saw it in his eyes. The quarterback backpedaled and flinched just before letting go of a hurried, awkward pass over the middle.
The moment the ball left his hand, Royce knew it wasn’t going where it was supposed to.
And then—boom—Michael Richard snatched it out of the air like he’d been running the route himself. The crowd gasped, then deflated.
Royce didn’t celebrate. He just let out a slow breath and turned away, arms out at his sides, eyes up at the stadium lights.
Michael was mobbed by teammates. On the sideline, the LSU coaches erupted. But Royce walked calmly off the field as the Tigers' offense began to take the field to kneel it out.
It was over.
Finally.
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djp73
- Posts: 13183
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
WE DID IT 
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7856
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Only matters how y'all finish
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Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
We need a stream for the playoffs. Need to witness this hate watch in real time.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
I ain't slowing down for y'all to watch. Y'all ass need to be on here more for that
