On the Table
“Good game out there, Royce,” Billy’s assistant Angela said, looking up from her monitor as he walked through the door.
He nodded his thanks, taking the moment to check out the way the dress she wore hugged her body—as he’d done every time he walked into the office. She knew. She watched him do it. A small smile playing at her lips. Yet, she kept the relationship professional. A look but don’t touch type of situation.
“He’s waiting for you,” she said, gesturing to Billy’s office.
Billy didn’t stand when he came in. He just looked up from the papers on his desk and grinned.
“You finally gonna listen to me today?”
Royce smirked. “Depends on what you’re saying.”
Billy leaned back in his chair and tapped the folder in front of him.
“This? Says one million reasons to stay right where you are.”
Royce dropped into the chair across from him. “What, like dollars?”
Billy slid the folder across the desk, flipping it open like a magician revealing the card you already picked.
“American dollars. Booster-backed, corporate-wrapped, above board. You stay at LSU for your senior year, you make a clean million.”
Royce stared at the number.
No decimals. No asterisk. Just a bold one and six zeroes.
He blinked. “That’s quarterback money.”
Billy shrugged. “Welcome to 2027.”
Royce sat back, the number still burning into his brain. “Why?”
“Because they want a natty,” Billy said simply. “They think you can deliver it. The defense is yours, the spotlight’s yours, the narrative is already written. You’re the redemption arc, the hometown anchor, the guy who stayed.”
Royce looked down at his hands. The scars on his knuckles didn’t fade much over time.
“I’ve been thinking about declaring.”
Billy didn’t flinch. “I know. But if you want me to be real—and I know you do…”
Royce nodded slowly.
“You’re not a first-rounder yet.”
Royce frowned. “You just said I’m worth quarterback money.”
“Quarterback money in college,” Billy clarified. “You hit the pre-draft circuit perfectly—maybe you go mid-to-late second. But that’s if you check every box. And you got some boxes they don’t know what to do with.”
Royce narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”
Billy leaned forward, elbows on the desk.
“Size. Fit. Your tape says hybrid but your body says linebacker. They want more sacks. They want a clean role. And then…”
He paused. Royce didn’t blink.
“Some scouts still ask about the shooting.”
Royce’s jaw flexed. “I was a kid.”
“They don’t care. They care if it’s going to pop up in interviews. If you’ve got people around you they can’t Google. If there’s baggage.”
“I ain’t got no fucking baggage,” Royce said.
Billy didn’t argue. “I know that. You know that. But they don’t get paid to believe in people. They get paid to bet on safe.”
Royce looked away, out the window. Downtown Baton Rouge looked tired in the late afternoon haze—washed-out brick buildings, a few cars crawling through the grid. Somewhere down there, someone was struggling to pay rent. Somewhere else, someone was thinking of his name like it came with a price tag.
“Rome wouldn’t have believed this,” Royce said quietly.
Billy let the silence sit a moment before answering. “He would’ve been proud. And he would’ve told you not to let anyone play you small.”
Royce nodded.
Billy sat back in his chair again. “Listen. You go pro this year, I’ll back you all the way. But you take this deal? That’s freedom money. That’s come-back-next-year-and-dare-them-to-overlook-you-again money. And that linebacker class? It’s crowded now. It won’t be in ‘28.”
Royce didn’t answer. He was still staring at the folder. The number didn’t feel real, but the weight of it did.
“You’re my job, Royce,” Billy said. “And I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t tell you: take the money. Bet on yourself. One more year, your way.”
Royce ran a hand over his face. The air in the office suddenly felt thick.
He looked back down at the number.
Thought of Romeo.
Thought of the little house in Houma.
Thought of the scars on his body.
The silence in his bed.
The noise when they cheered his name.
And still, nothing felt simple.
Not even this.
Billy didn’t push. Just sat there, waiting.
Royce closed the folder—but didn’t push it back.
He stood.
“I’ll think on it.”
Billy nodded. “Do that. But don’t wait too long. Clock’s ticking.”
Royce walked out into the hallway, not saying goodbye. He didn’t need to.
He was still trying to decide which version of himself had earned that number.
~~~~~~~~~~
The knock came soft, two taps, then a pause. Arianna didn’t check the peephole. She already knew.
She opened the door to see Toni standing there, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands, a brown paper bag clutched under one arm. Her hair was done, but not freshly. Her lip gloss shimmered under the porch light, but her eyes were tired.
“Hey,” Toni said.
“Hey,” Arianna replied, stepping aside.
Toni moved past her like someone slipping into a familiar dream, and Arianna shut the door behind her. The apartment smelled like cinnamon and laundry—she’d lit a candle earlier and folded towels she hadn’t needed to. The TV was already on, paused at the Netflix home screen.
Toni didn’t sit right away. She hovered near the couch, rubbing the back of her neck like she’d forgotten how the room worked.
“I brought one of those raspberry cheese things you like,” she said, holding up the bag.
Arianna nodded, taking it. “Thanks.”
They didn’t talk about why Toni texted. Or why she hadn’t in weeks. Or what made tonight different.
They just sat.
Side by side on the couch, not too close, not too far. Arianna queued up a comedy special—something light, something that didn’t ask for emotional investment. They watched without really laughing, though there were moments when their breath hitched like it might turn into something.
Toni peeled the pastry apart slowly, breaking off little corners, letting Arianna take what she wanted without asking.
Her sleeves stayed down. Even when she reached for her water. Even when it got warm.
Arianna didn’t mention it.
Toni kept checking her makeup in the reflection on her phone screen. Not reapplying—just... checking. Wiping near her left eye with a knuckle. Pressing a thumb to the corner of her mouth.
“Things are okay right now,” she said softly, her eyes still on the screen.
Arianna didn’t turn. Just said, gentle and clear, “I didn’t ask.”
Toni blinked. The silence held for a breath.
Then she nodded once, like she appreciated it. Or resented it. Maybe both.
They sat a while longer, finishing the pastry, watching without really watching. Arianna felt her shoulder tilt a little toward Toni, just enough to notice the space between them. Just enough to remember how it used to feel when they didn't have to fill silences with anything.
Eventually, Toni stood.
“I should head out,” she said. “It’s late.”
Arianna got up with her. Followed her to the door. Opened it, let the cool night air in.
Toni turned to say goodbye, her smile almost real.
Arianna hugged her—not quick, not stiff. Just long enough to mean it.
“Next time,” she said into Toni’s shoulder, “stay longer.”
Toni pulled back and nodded.
But her eyes didn’t quite meet Arianna’s when she stepped out into the night.
~~~~~~~~~~
The visitation room always smelled like sanitizer and something bitter underneath it—cheap cafeteria food, maybe. The lights buzzed faintly overhead, flickering just enough to make Rana blink every few minutes. She sat at the far end of the room, the plastic chair stiff beneath her, hands folded neatly on the table. A guard opened the steel door at the back, and a moment later, Kevon was walking through in his beige jumpsuit, expression unreadable.
He looked thinner. Still solid, but not like he used to be. The kind of man who had spent his entire life being watched—first admired, then feared, then monitored.
Rana stood. They hugged briefly—her arms stiff, his firmer. He smelled like soap and concrete.
“Hey, Daddy,” she said.
“Rana,” he nodded, taking the seat across from her. “You good?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Tired. Holiday stuff. Work. Roni.”
He grunted. “That girl still talk too much?”
“She’s fourteen,” Rana said. “They’re supposed to.”
Kevon let a small smile pull at the corner of his mouth, then leaned back slightly, scanning her face like he was looking for something she hadn’t said yet.
“You didn’t come all the way out here just for small talk.”
Rana exhaled through her nose. “No.”
She hesitated, fingers tightening just slightly.
“I wanted to talk to you about Royce.”
Kevon’s face hardened before she even finished the name. Not mean, not angry—just closed.
“I know he hasn’t been by,” Rana added. “And I know you—”
Kevon cut her off with a small shake of his head.
“I ain’t askin’ about him.”
Rana blinked. “You don’t want to know how he’s doing?”
“I already know,” Kevon said, voice calm. “He’s balling. He’s making money. He’s carrying himself like he should.”
“Then why—”
“Because I did everything I could to lead him down a different road when it came to Reg and your mama,” Kevon said, eyes fixed on hers. “I talked. I wrote. I told him what mistakes not to make. If he chooses the same ones anyway, that ain’t on me.”
Rana sat back, surprised by how fast the wall had gone up.
“He’s not choosing a path.”
Kevon arched an eyebrow. “No?”
“He’s just... carrying a lot.”
Kevon scoffed quietly. “There shouldn’t ever be so much on your plate you can’t look out for family.”
Rana felt her jaw tighten.
“You ever wonder why there’s so much on his plate in the first place?” she asked, voice quiet but steady.
Kevon didn’t answer.
“Because nobody else ever held anything for him,” she said. “Because when Reg started with that shit, and you got locked up, and Mama stopped showing up, he was the one that got stuck holding all the pieces.”
Kevon’s eyes narrowed just a little. Still quiet.
“He was thirteen, Daddy,” Rana said, softer now. “And we all let him believe it was his job to hold the whole damn family together. And maybe—just maybe—it’s time someone else carried something for him.”
Kevon leaned back, his expression unreadable again. Not angry. Not defensive. Just still.
“I didn’t come here to argue,” Rana added.
“I know.”
She looked at him—her father, aging in slow motion behind barbed wire and bulletproof glass—and thought of Royce sitting in that NIL meeting alone, trying to decide if he was worth his own future.
“I just came to say... he’s not ignoring you out of spite.”
Kevon nodded once, barely.
“He’s trying to survive,” Rana finished.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Finally, Kevon reached for the water cup in front of him, took a slow sip.
“Tell him I said I’m proud of him,” he murmured. “Even if he don’t need to hear it. And he ain’t gonna listen to me right now.”
Rana nodded.
She didn’t say thank you. Just let the moment be what it was.
Then the guard was back, calling time, and Kevon stood.
They hugged again—this one a little longer, a little tighter.
Rana left the prison feeling heavier than when she walked in.
But not for herself.
For her brother. For everything he still hadn’t put down.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Ringing In
The plane hummed with quiet tension.
Not the nervous kind—more like the kind you felt in locker rooms before a title fight. Everyone around Royce moved with a lazy calm, but beneath it, he could feel the coil tightening. The stakes had changed. No more press conferences about rankings. No more speculation. They were flying west for the Rose Bowl, the College Football Playoff semifinal, with Miami waiting like a wolf at the edge of the woods.
The charter was a little colder than usual, or maybe Royce just hadn’t thawed from everything else yet. He sat by the window, hoodie pulled up, headphones hanging around his neck with no music playing. The tray table in front of him still held an untouched protein bar and an empty Powerade bottle from earlier. His legs were stretched out, body angled slightly toward the aisle, but his eyes stayed fixed on the clouds outside. Dull shapes against darker sky.
A few rows up, some of the younger players played Uno. Somewhere behind him, someone was low-key snoring through a pair of noise-canceling headphones. A coach barked at a staffer about luggage tags. The usual road noise.
But this wasn’t a usual trip.
Gio was two seats over, phone tilted sideways, scrolling through videos and muttering comments every few seconds. Earl had been pacing the aisle during boarding, grinning like a kid on Christmas, and now sat across from them texting with someone back in Baton Rouge. Dorian sat behind, leaning forward into the conversation when he finally heard his name.
“Yo,” Gio said, nudging Royce’s arm. “You declaring?”
Royce didn’t turn.
Earl leaned into the aisle. “Be for real. You know you outta here after this, right?”
Royce blinked, then shifted in his seat. “Y’all think this over?”
Earl grinned. “Man, we winning. Ain’t no way.”
“Miami got dudes,” Royce said, voice flat.
Gio smirked. “Not like us. You already know what this is.”
Royce didn’t argue. He just scratched the side of his jaw and exhaled slowly.
“Boosters trying to get me to stay,” he said finally. “Put a number on a check and said sign here.”
Earl turned fully toward him now. “What kind of number?”
Royce hesitated for a half second. “Seven figures.”
Gio’s eyes widened. “Shit. You serious?”
Royce nodded.
“You lucky as fuck,” Earl said. “Man, I’d take that and still hit the draft. Stack both.”
“You could,” Royce said. “Maybe.”
Dorian leaned forward now, arms crossed over the back of Royce’s seat. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at Royce with that same quiet thoughtfulness he always brought to the film room.
“I don’t know what I’d do,” he said finally.
It wasn’t a statement. It was an admission. One that made the other two fall quiet for a moment.
Royce didn’t speak either. He just leaned back in his seat again, letting his head hit the headrest, letting the conversation drift to someone else.
The guys started talking about cars next. Earl wanted a Trackhawk. Gio said he’d rather get a wrapped Escalade, matte black, bulletproof if possible. Dorian chimed in with something about not wanting to be flashy unless he’d really made it.
Royce let it all wash over him. His phone was in his hand now, screen lighting up with a lock screen notification—just ESPN pushing out playoff stats. He cleared it and opened his messages.
He hadn’t texted her in a minute. Not since the last time they sat in silence at the Tiger enclosure and said everything without saying anything.
He pulled up Effie’s name.
Typed slowly:
You spending New Year’s alone?
He stared at the message for five seconds. Maybe longer.
Then hit send.
The dots popped up a few seconds later.
She didn’t take long.
That was it.
No words. Just a winking emoji.
Playful. Vague. Dangerous, in its own way.
Royce stared at the screen longer than he usually did. Not because he didn’t get it.
Because he did.
Because that little smile tilted sideways meant more than anything he’d heard from anyone else that day.
It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t an invitation.
But it wasn’t nothing.
He locked the phone, slipped it into his hoodie pocket, and looked back out the window.
Beneath them, the world was still spinning—flat black highways, dim yellow streetlights, whole neighborhoods unaware that LSU’s playoff run was coasting thirty thousand feet above them.
Up here, it was just sky and silence.
Royce leaned his head against the window again, eyes half-closed.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted the million, or the league, or just some version of himself that didn’t feel like he was always trying to prove he wasn’t still stuck in Houma.
Outside, the night didn’t answer.
The plane kept moving west, cutting through the dark.
And somewhere ahead, a game that would decide everything waited without blinking.
~~~~~~~~~~
The air downtown shimmered with cold and color.
Music pulsed from the main stage, echoing down Third Street where crowds pressed shoulder to shoulder, glittering in sequins and denim jackets, sneakers and heels, everyone half-drunk and hopeful. Baton Rouge wasn’t New York or L.A., but it didn’t matter tonight. There were strings of lights hung between lampposts, food trucks cranking out steam and the smell of fried everything, and a giant lit-up countdown screen over the courthouse that ticked down the seconds like something sacred.
Alix stood near the barricades with a plastic cup in her gloved hand, sipping something pink and carbonated that Co had handed her without explanation. It tasted like strawberries and vodka and melted ice. Her other hand stayed buried in the oversized coat pocket she’d borrowed from Simone, half-zipped over a black top and jeans she’d picked at the last second. Her hair curled from the humidity, her lipstick already faded.
“Not bad for Baton Rouge a few days before LSU plays in a big game,” Co said beside her, eyes tracking the stage.
He had on a dark hoodie under a bomber jacket and a gold chain that caught the light every time he turned his head. His beard was neater than usual. His breath fogged in the cold.
Alix smiled, small and real. “You were the one complaining about parking fifteen minutes ago.”
“That was before I got a drink in me,” he said, tipping his cup toward her in mock salute.
Madi and Simone were somewhere behind them, dancing with Co’s friends near the curb. Alix had lost track of who was dating who. The music had shifted to something more rhythmic now, something that pulled people closer without needing words.
The crowd swelled as the countdown hit ten minutes.
Co leaned closer, speaking just loud enough to hear. “You cold?”
“A little.”
“You want my jacket?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m good.”
He looked at her then—not just at her face, but the curve of her mouth, the way she glanced down after answering like she was thinking of something else. He didn’t press.
Instead, he nudged her shoulder. “You got a resolution yet?”
She laughed, dry and light. “To stop pretending I know what I want.”
“That’s honest.”
“What about you?”
“Same,” he said. “But I won’t pretend about you.”
Alix turned to look at him, but he didn’t elaborate.
The countdown flashed on the screen: 00:01:02.
Simone yelled something behind them. Madi whooped. The crowd pressed closer, as if getting physically nearer to the new year made it come faster.
“Ten!” people started yelling.
Alix’s heart picked up in rhythm with the chant.
“Nine!”
She felt Co’s hand brush hers, just barely.
“Eight! Seven!”
She didn’t pull away.
“Six! Five!”
The music dropped out, replaced by the thudding of the countdown bass.
“Four!”
Her eyes found his.
“Three!”
He leaned in slightly, testing the distance.
“Two!”
Alix didn’t blink.
“One!”
And then it was midnight.
The crowd erupted. Champagne sprayed somewhere nearby, someone shrieked with laughter, and fireworks cracked in the distance over the river.
And Co kissed her.
It wasn’t long or messy. Just firm. Certain.
Her hand rose instinctively to his jacket, resting against the chest where his necklace warmed the fabric. She didn’t close her eyes at first.
But then she did.
For just a second.
When they pulled apart, he didn’t ask anything. Just looked at her.
Alix stepped back half an inch. Her lips tingled. The air smelled like cheap liquor and cold metal and something new.
“Happy New Year,” she said.
He smiled.
And she smiled back, not because she knew what it meant, but because for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she had to.
~~~~~~~~~~
The box wasn’t labeled, but Poochie already knew what it was.
Meech hadn’t said much when he pulled up—just nodded at the passenger seat and popped the glove compartment open to reveal a spare key. The car was a silver sedan, clean and quiet, with temporary tags and a faint air freshener smell like somebody’s mama had used it to go to church last Sunday.
Poochie climbed in.
Meech didn’t look at him as he drove. The music was low—something with a heavy bass line and no lyrics, just a steady hum to fill the silence.
They didn’t go far. Just down Plank Road, then a couple of quick turns into a dead-end alley near a row of shuttered buildings and fenced-in lots. Nobody walked here. The only light came from a flickering streetlamp that buzzed like it had something to say but kept stuttering out.
Meech put the car in park.
Poochie sat up straighter. “You sure about this?”
Meech cut the engine. Turned toward him for the first time.
“I’m not asking you to do nothing special,” he said. “Just hold it.”
He popped the trunk.
Inside were three bricks. Vacuum-sealed, wrapped tight in thick layers of plastic, then again in black duct tape. Not even labeled. No smell.
But it didn’t take a genius to figure out what it was.
Poochie swallowed. His throat felt dry.
“That’s a lot, bro.”
Meech stared at him. Not angry. Not tense. Just focused.
“You said you wanted in,” he said. “This is in.”
Poochie nodded slowly.
Meech pointed at the bricks. “Don’t open ’em. Don’t touch ’em. If they ain’t with you, they better be somewhere the police can’t find.”
Poochie looked back down at the bricks. His fingers twitched at his sides.
“You trust me?” he asked.
Meech shrugged. “I trust the pressure.”
He closed the trunk with a solid thunk, then stepped back.
“You ain’t gotta move nothing. You ain’t gotta flip nothing. Just keep it cold until I say otherwise.”
Poochie nodded again, slower this time. “I got you.”
Meech handed him the key. The metal felt heavier than it should’ve.
Then he turned and walked off down the alley like nothing about this night was different than the ones before.
Poochie stood there for a minute.
Just him. The car. The key. And the weight of what was now his to carry.
He opened the driver’s door, slid in, and sat there with his hands on the wheel, staring at the rearview mirror.
Behind him: three bricks, a trust he didn’t ask for, and a warning that wasn’t a suggestion.
Don’t open it.
Don’t touch it.
Keep it where the cops won’t find it.
He exhaled through his teeth.
Then started the engine.
And disappeared into the night.
The plane hummed with quiet tension.
Not the nervous kind—more like the kind you felt in locker rooms before a title fight. Everyone around Royce moved with a lazy calm, but beneath it, he could feel the coil tightening. The stakes had changed. No more press conferences about rankings. No more speculation. They were flying west for the Rose Bowl, the College Football Playoff semifinal, with Miami waiting like a wolf at the edge of the woods.
The charter was a little colder than usual, or maybe Royce just hadn’t thawed from everything else yet. He sat by the window, hoodie pulled up, headphones hanging around his neck with no music playing. The tray table in front of him still held an untouched protein bar and an empty Powerade bottle from earlier. His legs were stretched out, body angled slightly toward the aisle, but his eyes stayed fixed on the clouds outside. Dull shapes against darker sky.
A few rows up, some of the younger players played Uno. Somewhere behind him, someone was low-key snoring through a pair of noise-canceling headphones. A coach barked at a staffer about luggage tags. The usual road noise.
But this wasn’t a usual trip.
Gio was two seats over, phone tilted sideways, scrolling through videos and muttering comments every few seconds. Earl had been pacing the aisle during boarding, grinning like a kid on Christmas, and now sat across from them texting with someone back in Baton Rouge. Dorian sat behind, leaning forward into the conversation when he finally heard his name.
“Yo,” Gio said, nudging Royce’s arm. “You declaring?”
Royce didn’t turn.
Earl leaned into the aisle. “Be for real. You know you outta here after this, right?”
Royce blinked, then shifted in his seat. “Y’all think this over?”
Earl grinned. “Man, we winning. Ain’t no way.”
“Miami got dudes,” Royce said, voice flat.
Gio smirked. “Not like us. You already know what this is.”
Royce didn’t argue. He just scratched the side of his jaw and exhaled slowly.
“Boosters trying to get me to stay,” he said finally. “Put a number on a check and said sign here.”
Earl turned fully toward him now. “What kind of number?”
Royce hesitated for a half second. “Seven figures.”
Gio’s eyes widened. “Shit. You serious?”
Royce nodded.
“You lucky as fuck,” Earl said. “Man, I’d take that and still hit the draft. Stack both.”
“You could,” Royce said. “Maybe.”
Dorian leaned forward now, arms crossed over the back of Royce’s seat. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at Royce with that same quiet thoughtfulness he always brought to the film room.
“I don’t know what I’d do,” he said finally.
It wasn’t a statement. It was an admission. One that made the other two fall quiet for a moment.
Royce didn’t speak either. He just leaned back in his seat again, letting his head hit the headrest, letting the conversation drift to someone else.
The guys started talking about cars next. Earl wanted a Trackhawk. Gio said he’d rather get a wrapped Escalade, matte black, bulletproof if possible. Dorian chimed in with something about not wanting to be flashy unless he’d really made it.
Royce let it all wash over him. His phone was in his hand now, screen lighting up with a lock screen notification—just ESPN pushing out playoff stats. He cleared it and opened his messages.
He hadn’t texted her in a minute. Not since the last time they sat in silence at the Tiger enclosure and said everything without saying anything.
He pulled up Effie’s name.
Typed slowly:
You spending New Year’s alone?
He stared at the message for five seconds. Maybe longer.
Then hit send.
The dots popped up a few seconds later.
She didn’t take long.
That was it.
No words. Just a winking emoji.
Playful. Vague. Dangerous, in its own way.
Royce stared at the screen longer than he usually did. Not because he didn’t get it.
Because he did.
Because that little smile tilted sideways meant more than anything he’d heard from anyone else that day.
It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t an invitation.
But it wasn’t nothing.
He locked the phone, slipped it into his hoodie pocket, and looked back out the window.
Beneath them, the world was still spinning—flat black highways, dim yellow streetlights, whole neighborhoods unaware that LSU’s playoff run was coasting thirty thousand feet above them.
Up here, it was just sky and silence.
Royce leaned his head against the window again, eyes half-closed.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted the million, or the league, or just some version of himself that didn’t feel like he was always trying to prove he wasn’t still stuck in Houma.
Outside, the night didn’t answer.
The plane kept moving west, cutting through the dark.
And somewhere ahead, a game that would decide everything waited without blinking.
~~~~~~~~~~
The air downtown shimmered with cold and color.
Music pulsed from the main stage, echoing down Third Street where crowds pressed shoulder to shoulder, glittering in sequins and denim jackets, sneakers and heels, everyone half-drunk and hopeful. Baton Rouge wasn’t New York or L.A., but it didn’t matter tonight. There were strings of lights hung between lampposts, food trucks cranking out steam and the smell of fried everything, and a giant lit-up countdown screen over the courthouse that ticked down the seconds like something sacred.
Alix stood near the barricades with a plastic cup in her gloved hand, sipping something pink and carbonated that Co had handed her without explanation. It tasted like strawberries and vodka and melted ice. Her other hand stayed buried in the oversized coat pocket she’d borrowed from Simone, half-zipped over a black top and jeans she’d picked at the last second. Her hair curled from the humidity, her lipstick already faded.
“Not bad for Baton Rouge a few days before LSU plays in a big game,” Co said beside her, eyes tracking the stage.
He had on a dark hoodie under a bomber jacket and a gold chain that caught the light every time he turned his head. His beard was neater than usual. His breath fogged in the cold.
Alix smiled, small and real. “You were the one complaining about parking fifteen minutes ago.”
“That was before I got a drink in me,” he said, tipping his cup toward her in mock salute.
Madi and Simone were somewhere behind them, dancing with Co’s friends near the curb. Alix had lost track of who was dating who. The music had shifted to something more rhythmic now, something that pulled people closer without needing words.
The crowd swelled as the countdown hit ten minutes.
Co leaned closer, speaking just loud enough to hear. “You cold?”
“A little.”
“You want my jacket?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m good.”
He looked at her then—not just at her face, but the curve of her mouth, the way she glanced down after answering like she was thinking of something else. He didn’t press.
Instead, he nudged her shoulder. “You got a resolution yet?”
She laughed, dry and light. “To stop pretending I know what I want.”
“That’s honest.”
“What about you?”
“Same,” he said. “But I won’t pretend about you.”
Alix turned to look at him, but he didn’t elaborate.
The countdown flashed on the screen: 00:01:02.
Simone yelled something behind them. Madi whooped. The crowd pressed closer, as if getting physically nearer to the new year made it come faster.
“Ten!” people started yelling.
Alix’s heart picked up in rhythm with the chant.
“Nine!”
She felt Co’s hand brush hers, just barely.
“Eight! Seven!”
She didn’t pull away.
“Six! Five!”
The music dropped out, replaced by the thudding of the countdown bass.
“Four!”
Her eyes found his.
“Three!”
He leaned in slightly, testing the distance.
“Two!”
Alix didn’t blink.
“One!”
And then it was midnight.
The crowd erupted. Champagne sprayed somewhere nearby, someone shrieked with laughter, and fireworks cracked in the distance over the river.
And Co kissed her.
It wasn’t long or messy. Just firm. Certain.
Her hand rose instinctively to his jacket, resting against the chest where his necklace warmed the fabric. She didn’t close her eyes at first.
But then she did.
For just a second.
When they pulled apart, he didn’t ask anything. Just looked at her.
Alix stepped back half an inch. Her lips tingled. The air smelled like cheap liquor and cold metal and something new.
“Happy New Year,” she said.
He smiled.
And she smiled back, not because she knew what it meant, but because for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she had to.
~~~~~~~~~~
The box wasn’t labeled, but Poochie already knew what it was.
Meech hadn’t said much when he pulled up—just nodded at the passenger seat and popped the glove compartment open to reveal a spare key. The car was a silver sedan, clean and quiet, with temporary tags and a faint air freshener smell like somebody’s mama had used it to go to church last Sunday.
Poochie climbed in.
Meech didn’t look at him as he drove. The music was low—something with a heavy bass line and no lyrics, just a steady hum to fill the silence.
They didn’t go far. Just down Plank Road, then a couple of quick turns into a dead-end alley near a row of shuttered buildings and fenced-in lots. Nobody walked here. The only light came from a flickering streetlamp that buzzed like it had something to say but kept stuttering out.
Meech put the car in park.
Poochie sat up straighter. “You sure about this?”
Meech cut the engine. Turned toward him for the first time.
“I’m not asking you to do nothing special,” he said. “Just hold it.”
He popped the trunk.
Inside were three bricks. Vacuum-sealed, wrapped tight in thick layers of plastic, then again in black duct tape. Not even labeled. No smell.
But it didn’t take a genius to figure out what it was.
Poochie swallowed. His throat felt dry.
“That’s a lot, bro.”
Meech stared at him. Not angry. Not tense. Just focused.
“You said you wanted in,” he said. “This is in.”
Poochie nodded slowly.
Meech pointed at the bricks. “Don’t open ’em. Don’t touch ’em. If they ain’t with you, they better be somewhere the police can’t find.”
Poochie looked back down at the bricks. His fingers twitched at his sides.
“You trust me?” he asked.
Meech shrugged. “I trust the pressure.”
He closed the trunk with a solid thunk, then stepped back.
“You ain’t gotta move nothing. You ain’t gotta flip nothing. Just keep it cold until I say otherwise.”
Poochie nodded again, slower this time. “I got you.”
Meech handed him the key. The metal felt heavier than it should’ve.
Then he turned and walked off down the alley like nothing about this night was different than the ones before.
Poochie stood there for a minute.
Just him. The car. The key. And the weight of what was now his to carry.
He opened the driver’s door, slid in, and sat there with his hands on the wheel, staring at the rearview mirror.
Behind him: three bricks, a trust he didn’t ask for, and a warning that wasn’t a suggestion.
Don’t open it.
Don’t touch it.
Keep it where the cops won’t find it.
He exhaled through his teeth.
Then started the engine.
And disappeared into the night.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Hurricane Warning
The grass looked different here.
Thicker, almost waxy under the cleats. Not turf, not like home. This was real—real soil, real roots, real weight to the way it gave beneath your step. The end zones were painted so sharp it looked like they’d been carved in, and the air had that California chill that crept up your arms and settled under your pads before you could shake it off.
Royce stood near the thirty-yard line, helmet in one hand, towel slung over his shoulder, mouthguard half-bit between his teeth. He wasn’t talking. Just watching.
The Rose Bowl was already humming. Seventy thousand fans layered into the open bowl of the stadium like living noise. Waves of orange and green for Miami on one side, purple and gold for LSU on the other, split almost clean down the middle. Cameras panned. Flags waved. Somewhere behind him, the band was warming up again—Tiger Rag humming beneath the crowd like a nerve that wouldn’t settle.
Royce bounced on his toes once. Twice. Rolled his neck, felt the familiar crackle of tension that hadn’t left his spine since breakfast.
This was big. Bigger than anything he’d played in. Bigger than the Peach Bowl. Bigger than that wild game against Texas A&M. This was the Rose Bowl, semifinal of the College Football Playoff. The game every kid growing up on Saturday afternoons imagined when the sun hit the living room just right.
He turned slowly in place, eyes scanning the perimeter. ESPN cameras were everywhere. Sideline mics pointed like weapons. Trainers zipped up duffel bags. Coaches paced like they weren’t nervous—just detailed.
He could see the Miami team across the field. Their uniforms looked loud on purpose. Visors mirrored, cleats sparkling like they’d been custom dipped. Their warmups had been casual. Too casual.
They hadn’t hit anybody yet.
Royce spit his mouthguard out into his hand and exhaled through tight lips. His stomach turned once, not hard—just enough to remind him he wasn’t bulletproof.
He’d never admit it out loud, but yeah—he was nervous.
Not scared. Just... alive.
He thought of Romeo for a second. How it could’ve been him playing in a game like this. Facing the best in the country with a trip to the national championship on the line. He’d be watching now—somewhere.
Maybe in the way the light hit the mountains behind the scoreboard.
Maybe in the quiet just before the snap.
Royce blinked hard and put his mouthguard back in.
Rickie walked past, tapping his fist against Royce’s shoulder pad. “Let’s eat, bro.”
Royce nodded. “Already.”
He slid his helmet on.
No more nerves.
Just football.
Just the field.
The roar started to build as LSU jogged toward the sideline for final introductions. The announcer’s voice echoed over the speakers, something about tradition and glory and postseason magic.
Royce didn’t hear all of it.
He was already closing his eyes.
Already breathing in.
Already counting the distance between himself and whoever was about to try him first.
…
"LSU looking to strike first here in the Rose Bowl, but it’s a long one—57 yards for Aeron Burrell. The junior has the leg, no question about that, but this would be a career-long and then some."
"And you can see the wind just barely pulling across the uprights from right to left. Not ideal conditions for a deep ball like this, but LSU wants points early."
"Snap is good, hold is down... Burrell’s kick is up—and it’s got the distance—but wide right! Just missed it. A booming effort, but it fades at the end."
"That was close, Doug. Just started leaking right outside the right upright. Can’t fault the confidence though—LSU wanted to set the tone."
"With 8:27 left in the first quarter, the score remains tied at zero. Miami takes over with solid field position after the missed 57-yard attempt by Burrell."
…
Miami came out in trips right, shotgun set, looking loud in orange and green like they wanted to announce themselves before they earned it. First play of the game. Royce stood six yards off the ball, crouched low, watching the slot receiver rock back on his heels like he was spring-loaded.
They were gonna try something quick. Something safe. Timing route, maybe a glance off the linebacker. Royce had seen it on film.
Judd Anderson took the snap and dropped, sharp and smooth, eyes already locked to his left. The slot broke inside on a shallow dig, hips low, arms up early.
Royce didn’t flinch.
He tracked the route, drifted with it—not jumping it, just sitting in the shadow of it.
Anderson let it go.
Clean release, fastball across the middle.
Royce closed the space in a blink.
Boom.
He arrived as the ball did, shoulder square into the receiver’s chest just as the hands wrapped around the spiral. The hit cracked loud and flat, sent the ball spinning loose and tumbling across the turf like it knew it didn’t belong.
Incomplete.
The crowd murmured, already restless.
The receiver hit the ground hard, rolled, and popped up slower than he wanted to.
Royce straightened, helmet tilted down slightly, eyes burning through the bars. He didn’t say anything. Just let the silence sit.
Anderson reset behind the line, tapping his thigh, trying to act like it hadn’t rattled him.
Royce turned back to the huddle.
First snap. First hit. Message sent.
They weren’t going to walk in here and take anything. Not with him on the field. Not tonight.
…
"LSU will settle for a field goal attempt here on fourth and long—Aeron Burrell trotting on for a 52-yarder. Missed one from 57 earlier, but this is well within his range."
"Burrell’s got a big leg, Doug. Just needs to stay smooth through contact. This one would give LSU the first points of the night here at the Rose Bowl."
"Snap is clean, hold is down... kick is on the way—plenty of leg—and it’s good! Right down the middle from 52 yards out! Aeron Burrell puts LSU on the board first!"
"That’s a confident swing, Doug. You love to see that from a freshman on this stage—miss one early, come back and drill the next. That’ll settle the nerves on the sideline."
"With 4:19 left in the first quarter, it’s LSU 3, Miami 0 in this College Football Playoff semifinal from Pasadena!"
…
"Second and six for Miami at the LSU twenty-five—Anderson in the gun, trips to the left, Tigers showing pressure... snap to Judd Anderson—LSU brings five—Anderson steps up—uncorks it deep down the left side—Trader in stride at the five—touchdown Miami! Joshisa Trader hauls it in for six!"
"That’s a big-time throw from the freshman, Doug. Anderson stood tall against the blitz and dropped a dime into double coverage. And Trader? That’s why he’s one of the most dangerous receivers in the country—beat the bracket clean."
"Miami strikes back fast, and with the extra point good, the Hurricanes take the lead here in Pasadena. With 1:21 to go in the first quarter, it’s Miami 7, LSU 3 in the College Football Playoff semifinal!"
…
"Second and goal from the two—LSU looking to retake the lead here early in the second quarter. Collins in the shotgun, tight set... motion from Markway... Collins keeps it! Quarterback draw—fighting through contact—touchdown, LSU! Rickie Collins muscles his way in from two yards out, and the Tigers are back on top!"
"That’s just toughness from Collins. Miami had it read, brought pressure up the middle, and he still slipped through and finished. He’s not just a finesse guy—he’s got grit."
"Burrell adds the extra point, and with 9:32 to go in the second quarter, LSU leads Miami 10–7 here in the Rose Bowl!"
…
"Third and six for Miami at their own 27—Anderson in the shotgun, Fletcher lined up to his left... LSU showing pressure again... snap to Anderson—hands it off to Fletcher—tries the inside zone—met quickly and wrapped up after a short gain!"
"That’s a curious call on third and long, Doug. Miami clearly trying to avoid a mistake deep in their own territory, but LSU wasn’t fooled. Royce Lafitte and company plugged that gap fast."
"Mark Fletcher, Jr. picks up just two, and the Hurricanes will punt it away. Dylan Joyce standing at his own 15... clean snap—gets it away—a booming kick! That one flips the field! Sixty-one yards on the punt, all the way to the LSU 10!"
"That’s an NFL-level leg right there. Massive swing in field position when Miami really needed it."
"7:57 to go in the second quarter, and it’s still LSU 10, Miami 7 in this Rose Bowl semifinal battle!"
…
"Third and five for LSU from their own 25—Collins in the shotgun, two receivers to the right... Miami showing a disguised look here... snap to Collins—pressure coming off the edge—Collins rolls right, looking downfield—nothing there—he’ll throw it away!"
"Smart play by Rickie Collins. That was a well-disguised blitz from Miami, and they locked up every route. He lived to fight another down instead of forcing it."
"And that brings up fourth down. Tigers will punt it away here with 6:39 to go in the second quarter. Still LSU 10, Miami 7 in this defensive slugfest at the Rose Bowl!"
…
"First and goal for Miami from the seven-yard line—Anderson in the gun, Fletcher behind him. LSU trying to hold the line here late in the second quarter... snap to Anderson—hands to Fletcher—running left—finds a crease at the five—lowers the shoulder—touchdown Miami! Mark Fletcher, Jr. powers his way in from seven yards out, and the Hurricanes retake the lead!"
"That’s just tough running, Doug. Fletcher squared his pads and finished through contact. Miami’s offensive line gave him just enough daylight, and he made the rest happen."
"The extra point is good, and with 5:22 remaining before halftime, it’s Miami 14, LSU 10 here at the Rose Bowl!"
…
"Third and ten for LSU from their own 25—Collins in the shotgun, Kaleb Jackson in the backfield... Tigers down 14–10 here late in the second quarter... snap to Collins—hands it to Jackson on the draw—he’s met after a short gain, maybe three yards—and that’ll bring up fourth down."
"Conservative call there, Doug. Looked like LSU was playing the field position game, but Miami’s defense is starting to dictate tempo now."
"LSU forced to punt with 3:59 remaining in the second quarter. Miami leads 14–10, and they’ll get another crack at it before halftime here in Pasadena."
…
"Second and seven for Miami at their own 41—Anderson in the gun, LSU showing a light box... snap to Judd Anderson—drops back—looking over the middle—fires a quick one—intercepted! Picked off by Xavier Atkins at midfield!"
"That’s a huge takeaway! Atkins read the quarterback’s eyes the whole way, jumped the route like he was the intended receiver, and LSU snatches momentum right back!"
"Xavier Atkins with a massive interception at 3:13 left in the second quarter, and LSU will take over near midfield, trailing 14–10 with a golden opportunity to punch back before the half!"
…
"Following the interception by Xavier Atkins, LSU drives into field goal range but stalls at the 22-yard line. Now Aeron Burrell comes on to try a 39-yarder to cut into the Miami lead."
"He’s already hit from 52 earlier, Doug. This one’s well within his range—important points here before the half."
"Snap is clean, hold is down, Burrell’s kick is up—and it’s good! Burrell nails the 39-yard field goal, and LSU pulls within one."
"Great response by the Tigers after the takeaway. They didn’t get six, but they come away with points. That’s how you stay in a game like this."
"2:11 left in the second quarter, and it’s now Miami 14, LSU 13 here in the Rose Bowl semifinal!"
…
"Miami set to punt it away after the LSU field goal cut the lead to one—Joyce standing back at his own 15... here’s the snap, punt is off—low line drive, bouncing near the LSU 30—muffed by the return man! Ball is loose at the 32!"
"Big scramble for it, Doug—Miami players diving in from every angle!"
"And the officials signal—Miami football! The Hurricanes recover the muffed punt and flip the field again with under two minutes to go in the half!"
"That’s a huge momentum swing, Doug. LSU had just pulled within one, and now Miami’s right back in business deep in Tiger territory."
"1:46 to play in the second quarter—Miami holding a 14–13 lead and suddenly knocking on the door again after the special teams miscue by LSU."
…
Royce felt the air shift before the snap.
He didn’t know how to explain it—just that something in the way the offensive line tightened, the way Anderson’s feet set behind the center, made the hairs on Royce’s arms prickle beneath his pads.
It was second and long. Ball at the LSU sixteen. Miami huddled fast, broke faster. The orange and green looked too confident, too smooth.
He barked the call, adjusted the outside backer, shifted two steps left.
Snap.
Anderson dropped, clean and easy. No panic. Just rhythm. Just timing.
Royce opened his hips, read the routes flooding his zone, trailing the tight end’s release into the flat. He knew the concept—decoy, backside dig, and the real threat flashing late underneath.
But it didn’t come underneath.
It came over the top.
Joshisa Trader broke on a post, cutting in hard behind the safety’s right shoulder. Royce saw it half a beat too late—Anderson planted and fired before anyone had time to scream. A bullet. Tight spiral. Right into the window they’d created with motion and misdirection.
The ball sank into Trader’s chest as he crossed the goal line.
Six.
Royce didn’t even chase. Didn’t need to. It was clean.
He stood near the hash, hands on his hips, jaw clenched as Miami’s sideline exploded and Trader popped up spinning the ball and shouting something Royce couldn’t hear over the noise.
Behind him, the scoreboard lit up with fresh numbers: Miami 20. LSU 13.
The extra point was just a formality.
Royce turned and walked toward the sideline. Slow. Controlled. But inside, the fire was climbing. Not panic—purpose.
They’d missed an assignment.
Got caught in the wash.
Didn’t matter.
Now they had to answer.
…
"LSU’s drive stalls just inside Miami territory, and now Aeron Burrell will come on to attempt a 44-yard field goal to cut into this Hurricane lead."
"Burrell’s been dependable tonight, Doug—hit from 52 and 39 already. This one’s right between those."
"Snap is good, hold is down... Burrell’s kick is on the way—and it’s right through! Aeron Burrell connects from 44 yards out, and LSU trims the deficit."
"That’s a clutch swing from the junior. LSU needed points to start the half, and Burrell delivers again."
"With 7:56 remaining in the third quarter, it’s now Miami 21, LSU 16 here at the Rose Bowl—Tigers hanging tough in this College Football Playoff semifinal!"
…
"Second and eight for Miami at the LSU twenty-five—Hurricanes already up 21–16 here in the third. Anderson in the gun, trips right, Trader wide left... snap to Anderson—LSU brings four—Anderson steps up—fires deep left side—Trader’s there—makes the grab at the pylon—touchdown, Miami! Joshisa Trader again, his second of the night!"
"That’s big-time execution, Doug. LSU’s pressure got close, but Anderson stood tall and delivered a strike. And Trader? That’s just a clean route and a strong finish at the boundary."
"The extra point is good, and Miami answers back in a flash. With 5:10 remaining in the third quarter, it’s now Hurricanes 28, Tigers 16 in this Rose Bowl semifinal!"
…
"Third and long for LSU, trying to keep this drive alive—Collins in the gun, Durham to his right... snap to Collins, quick drop... checks it down to Durham in the flat—caught at the 35—but he’s wrapped up immediately!"
"That’s great pursuit by Miami’s defense, Doug. They played off coverage, kept everything in front, and swarmed the moment Durham touched it."
"Only a two-yard gain on the play, and that brings up fourth down. LSU’s punt team coming on with 3:36 to go in the third quarter. Still Miami 28, LSU 16 here in Pasadena."
…
"Third and seven for Miami near midfield—Anderson in the shotgun, LSU showing pressure off the right side... snap to Anderson—here comes the rush—Womack breaks through! Anderson scrambling... rolling right... nowhere to go—throws it away!"
"Da’Shawn Womack just blew that play up, Doug. Got off the edge clean, forced Anderson to bail early, and there was nothing developing downfield."
"Smart decision by the junior quarterback, but the Tigers get the stop they needed. With 59 seconds left in the third quarter, Miami will punt it away—still leading LSU 28 to 16 here in the Rose Bowl."
…
"LSU’s drive stalls at the Miami 26, and once again it’ll be Aeron Burrell called upon—this time for a 43-yard field goal to make it a one-possession game."
"Burrell’s been solid all night, Doug. This would be his fourth make, and LSU desperately needs points to stay alive."
"Snap, hold, kick is up—and it’s good! Aeron Burrell continues his perfect night, knocking it through from 43 yards, and LSU trims the deficit."
"Still plenty of time left, and LSU’s defense has to get a stop. Burrell’s doing his job—now it’s up to the other side of the ball."
"10:06 left in regulation, and the score: Miami 28, LSU 19 in this Rose Bowl College Football Playoff semifinal."
…
"Second and eight for LSU at their own 30—Collins in the shotgun, Sampson lined up wide right... Tigers trailing by nine, looking for a spark—snap to Collins—five-step drop—he’s going deep down the right sideline—Sampson’s open! Caught at the 35! 25—15—he’s gone! Touchdown, LSU! Seventy yards to the house—Shelton Sampson Jr., just like that!"
"What a throw, Doug! And what a release by Sampson—he toasted the corner off the line and never looked back. Collins dropped it in a bucket, and LSU’s right back in it!"
"The extra point team coming on, and with 7:27 remaining in the fourth quarter, it’s now Miami 28, LSU 26! The Tigers come roaring back in Pasadena!"
…
Royce could feel it slipping.
Not the game—not yet. But the grip. The steadiness. Like something in the foundation had started to shift, and no one else noticed the floor tilting under their cleats.
Miami had the ball at the LSU thirty-three. First down. Royce crouched near the hash, shoulders square, eyes locked on the backfield. His lungs were tight, but not from the pace. From knowing.
Trader was split wide left. Isolated. And LSU didn’t adjust. They didn’t roll safety help over. Didn’t press.
They gambled.
Royce saw it a second before it happened. He started yelling, motioning with one hand, but the ball was already snapped.
Anderson didn’t even drop back. One step, eyes up, let it fly.
Royce spun and ran.
Trader was already gone.
Burned Asthon clean, head down, arms pumping. Royce saw Michael take a bad angle—too flat, too slow—and that was it.
The ball dropped over the top like a guided missile. Trader didn’t break stride. Caught it at the five, glided into the end zone, and slowed to a jog before spiking it against the base of the goalpost.
Royce stopped at the fifteen. Hands on his hips. Helmet tilted toward the sky.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t cuss. Didn’t point.
He just stared.
Behind him, the Miami sideline exploded—coaches jumping, players flexing at the cameras. Trader strutted past the end zone, hands raised, eating it all up.
Miami 35. LSU 26.
Royce turned and walked back toward the sideline, jaw clenched.
They’d made one mistake.
Trader didn’t forgive mistakes.
…
"LSU faces fourth and long deep in their own territory—down 35–26 with just over three minutes to play, and they’ll send out the punt unit."
"That last drive stalled out quick, Doug. Miami’s defense dialed up pressure and forced a couple of tough throws. Time is becoming LSU’s biggest enemy now."
"Here’s the snap to Burke—gets the punt away cleanly, high spiral—fair catch signaled at the Miami 32-yard line. And now the Hurricanes take over with 3:02 left in the game, holding a nine-point lead."
"LSU’s defense needs a stop right now. No more margin for error."
"Clock ticking here in Pasadena—Miami 35, LSU 26 in the Rose Bowl semifinal."
…
Royce stood over the ball, cleats sunk into the Rose Bowl turf, breath tight in his chest.
Miami had just gotten the stop. LSU’s punt flipped the field, but the scoreboard still burned the truth: 35–26. 2:57 left. One more Miami first down and it might be over.
First and ten. Miami lined up tight—power look, Fletcher in the backfield, ready to chew clock. Royce shifted a step to his left, nudged Dorian with his elbow, eyes tracking the guard’s stance.
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t have to.
Snap.
Anderson turned, handed it off to Fletcher—inside zone, right into traffic. Royce beat the block. Met the pulling guard with his shoulder and slid under it, chest low, arms wide.
Fletcher dropped his pad level, spun to stay up.
That’s when Royce saw it.
The ball.
Just barely loose. Not out—not yet—but not right either. Xavier got a hand on Fletcher’s thigh. Whit hit him a half-beat later, helmet to hip, arms swinging down.
Pop.
The ball squirted free like a cough in the middle of chaos—low, skipping across the turf at the thirty-five.
Royce turned, twisted—couldn’t get it.
But Kylin could.
He dove, arms outstretched, body stretched flat. He landed on it with both hands and didn't let go.
Whistles. Shouting. Officials sprinting in.
Royce pushed up from the ground and pointed. Didn’t even wait.
“That’s ours! That’s ours!” he yelled.
And when the ref turned, arms stretched toward LSU’s sideline, Royce didn’t explode.
He just breathed.
Hard. Controlled. Hands on his hips. Eyes on the clock.
2:57.
Ball back.
Life back.
He didn’t need to celebrate.
He was already thinking about what came next.
…
"Fourth and eight for LSU—ball on the Miami 33—this is it. Tigers down 35–26, just 90 seconds remaining. Rickie Collins in the shotgun, trips right... snap to Collins—pressure coming—and he’s sacked! Miami gets to him! Collins goes down back at the Forty-one, and that might be the dagger!"
"Doug, Miami brought the house. LSU couldn’t pick up the blitz, and Collins never had a chance to set his feet. That’s a gutsy call by the Hurricane defense, and it pays off big."
"Miami takes over with 1:30 left in regulation and a nine-point lead. LSU’s playoff hopes now hanging by a thread here at the Rose Bowl!"
…
Royce hovered just off the line, crouched low, teeth clenched behind his mouthguard. The Rose Bowl lights felt hotter now, harsher, like they were exposing something more than just the field.
0:58 left. No timeouts. Down nine.
He knew what was coming.
Miami lined up heavy—two tight ends, Fletcher in the backfield, shoulders squared like a man about to carry more than just the ball. Royce tracked the motion, shifted with the flow, heart pounding in rhythm with the cadence.
Snap.
The guard pulled. Royce darted into the gap.
Fletcher came downhill hard, feet chopping, arms tight around the ball. Royce met him two yards in, wrapped low, felt the thud as pads collided.
But Fletcher churned forward.
LSU’s safeties collapsed in late, but it didn’t matter.
Four yards. First down.
Royce stayed on his knees for a second longer than usual, hands dug into the grass, the weight of it all pressing down.
The whistle blew. The chains moved.
He looked up at the scoreboard.
35–26.
No timeouts.
Fresh set of downs.
It was over.
Royce stood slowly, chest heaving, vision blurred at the edges—not from tears, not yet. Just exhaustion. Just the kind of weight that didn’t lift when the clock hit zero.
Miami’s sideline roared. Victory formation already queuing up. Orange and green spilling with life.
Royce turned back toward the LSU huddle.
No words. No one met his eyes.
There was nothing left to say.
The grass looked different here.
Thicker, almost waxy under the cleats. Not turf, not like home. This was real—real soil, real roots, real weight to the way it gave beneath your step. The end zones were painted so sharp it looked like they’d been carved in, and the air had that California chill that crept up your arms and settled under your pads before you could shake it off.
Royce stood near the thirty-yard line, helmet in one hand, towel slung over his shoulder, mouthguard half-bit between his teeth. He wasn’t talking. Just watching.
The Rose Bowl was already humming. Seventy thousand fans layered into the open bowl of the stadium like living noise. Waves of orange and green for Miami on one side, purple and gold for LSU on the other, split almost clean down the middle. Cameras panned. Flags waved. Somewhere behind him, the band was warming up again—Tiger Rag humming beneath the crowd like a nerve that wouldn’t settle.
Royce bounced on his toes once. Twice. Rolled his neck, felt the familiar crackle of tension that hadn’t left his spine since breakfast.
This was big. Bigger than anything he’d played in. Bigger than the Peach Bowl. Bigger than that wild game against Texas A&M. This was the Rose Bowl, semifinal of the College Football Playoff. The game every kid growing up on Saturday afternoons imagined when the sun hit the living room just right.
He turned slowly in place, eyes scanning the perimeter. ESPN cameras were everywhere. Sideline mics pointed like weapons. Trainers zipped up duffel bags. Coaches paced like they weren’t nervous—just detailed.
He could see the Miami team across the field. Their uniforms looked loud on purpose. Visors mirrored, cleats sparkling like they’d been custom dipped. Their warmups had been casual. Too casual.
They hadn’t hit anybody yet.
Royce spit his mouthguard out into his hand and exhaled through tight lips. His stomach turned once, not hard—just enough to remind him he wasn’t bulletproof.
He’d never admit it out loud, but yeah—he was nervous.
Not scared. Just... alive.
He thought of Romeo for a second. How it could’ve been him playing in a game like this. Facing the best in the country with a trip to the national championship on the line. He’d be watching now—somewhere.
Maybe in the way the light hit the mountains behind the scoreboard.
Maybe in the quiet just before the snap.
Royce blinked hard and put his mouthguard back in.
Rickie walked past, tapping his fist against Royce’s shoulder pad. “Let’s eat, bro.”
Royce nodded. “Already.”
He slid his helmet on.
No more nerves.
Just football.
Just the field.
The roar started to build as LSU jogged toward the sideline for final introductions. The announcer’s voice echoed over the speakers, something about tradition and glory and postseason magic.
Royce didn’t hear all of it.
He was already closing his eyes.
Already breathing in.
Already counting the distance between himself and whoever was about to try him first.
…
"LSU looking to strike first here in the Rose Bowl, but it’s a long one—57 yards for Aeron Burrell. The junior has the leg, no question about that, but this would be a career-long and then some."
"And you can see the wind just barely pulling across the uprights from right to left. Not ideal conditions for a deep ball like this, but LSU wants points early."
"Snap is good, hold is down... Burrell’s kick is up—and it’s got the distance—but wide right! Just missed it. A booming effort, but it fades at the end."
"That was close, Doug. Just started leaking right outside the right upright. Can’t fault the confidence though—LSU wanted to set the tone."
"With 8:27 left in the first quarter, the score remains tied at zero. Miami takes over with solid field position after the missed 57-yard attempt by Burrell."
…
Miami came out in trips right, shotgun set, looking loud in orange and green like they wanted to announce themselves before they earned it. First play of the game. Royce stood six yards off the ball, crouched low, watching the slot receiver rock back on his heels like he was spring-loaded.
They were gonna try something quick. Something safe. Timing route, maybe a glance off the linebacker. Royce had seen it on film.
Judd Anderson took the snap and dropped, sharp and smooth, eyes already locked to his left. The slot broke inside on a shallow dig, hips low, arms up early.
Royce didn’t flinch.
He tracked the route, drifted with it—not jumping it, just sitting in the shadow of it.
Anderson let it go.
Clean release, fastball across the middle.
Royce closed the space in a blink.
Boom.
He arrived as the ball did, shoulder square into the receiver’s chest just as the hands wrapped around the spiral. The hit cracked loud and flat, sent the ball spinning loose and tumbling across the turf like it knew it didn’t belong.
Incomplete.
The crowd murmured, already restless.
The receiver hit the ground hard, rolled, and popped up slower than he wanted to.
Royce straightened, helmet tilted down slightly, eyes burning through the bars. He didn’t say anything. Just let the silence sit.
Anderson reset behind the line, tapping his thigh, trying to act like it hadn’t rattled him.
Royce turned back to the huddle.
First snap. First hit. Message sent.
They weren’t going to walk in here and take anything. Not with him on the field. Not tonight.
…
"LSU will settle for a field goal attempt here on fourth and long—Aeron Burrell trotting on for a 52-yarder. Missed one from 57 earlier, but this is well within his range."
"Burrell’s got a big leg, Doug. Just needs to stay smooth through contact. This one would give LSU the first points of the night here at the Rose Bowl."
"Snap is clean, hold is down... kick is on the way—plenty of leg—and it’s good! Right down the middle from 52 yards out! Aeron Burrell puts LSU on the board first!"
"That’s a confident swing, Doug. You love to see that from a freshman on this stage—miss one early, come back and drill the next. That’ll settle the nerves on the sideline."
"With 4:19 left in the first quarter, it’s LSU 3, Miami 0 in this College Football Playoff semifinal from Pasadena!"
…
"Second and six for Miami at the LSU twenty-five—Anderson in the gun, trips to the left, Tigers showing pressure... snap to Judd Anderson—LSU brings five—Anderson steps up—uncorks it deep down the left side—Trader in stride at the five—touchdown Miami! Joshisa Trader hauls it in for six!"
"That’s a big-time throw from the freshman, Doug. Anderson stood tall against the blitz and dropped a dime into double coverage. And Trader? That’s why he’s one of the most dangerous receivers in the country—beat the bracket clean."
"Miami strikes back fast, and with the extra point good, the Hurricanes take the lead here in Pasadena. With 1:21 to go in the first quarter, it’s Miami 7, LSU 3 in the College Football Playoff semifinal!"
…
"Second and goal from the two—LSU looking to retake the lead here early in the second quarter. Collins in the shotgun, tight set... motion from Markway... Collins keeps it! Quarterback draw—fighting through contact—touchdown, LSU! Rickie Collins muscles his way in from two yards out, and the Tigers are back on top!"
"That’s just toughness from Collins. Miami had it read, brought pressure up the middle, and he still slipped through and finished. He’s not just a finesse guy—he’s got grit."
"Burrell adds the extra point, and with 9:32 to go in the second quarter, LSU leads Miami 10–7 here in the Rose Bowl!"
…
"Third and six for Miami at their own 27—Anderson in the shotgun, Fletcher lined up to his left... LSU showing pressure again... snap to Anderson—hands it off to Fletcher—tries the inside zone—met quickly and wrapped up after a short gain!"
"That’s a curious call on third and long, Doug. Miami clearly trying to avoid a mistake deep in their own territory, but LSU wasn’t fooled. Royce Lafitte and company plugged that gap fast."
"Mark Fletcher, Jr. picks up just two, and the Hurricanes will punt it away. Dylan Joyce standing at his own 15... clean snap—gets it away—a booming kick! That one flips the field! Sixty-one yards on the punt, all the way to the LSU 10!"
"That’s an NFL-level leg right there. Massive swing in field position when Miami really needed it."
"7:57 to go in the second quarter, and it’s still LSU 10, Miami 7 in this Rose Bowl semifinal battle!"
…
"Third and five for LSU from their own 25—Collins in the shotgun, two receivers to the right... Miami showing a disguised look here... snap to Collins—pressure coming off the edge—Collins rolls right, looking downfield—nothing there—he’ll throw it away!"
"Smart play by Rickie Collins. That was a well-disguised blitz from Miami, and they locked up every route. He lived to fight another down instead of forcing it."
"And that brings up fourth down. Tigers will punt it away here with 6:39 to go in the second quarter. Still LSU 10, Miami 7 in this defensive slugfest at the Rose Bowl!"
…
"First and goal for Miami from the seven-yard line—Anderson in the gun, Fletcher behind him. LSU trying to hold the line here late in the second quarter... snap to Anderson—hands to Fletcher—running left—finds a crease at the five—lowers the shoulder—touchdown Miami! Mark Fletcher, Jr. powers his way in from seven yards out, and the Hurricanes retake the lead!"
"That’s just tough running, Doug. Fletcher squared his pads and finished through contact. Miami’s offensive line gave him just enough daylight, and he made the rest happen."
"The extra point is good, and with 5:22 remaining before halftime, it’s Miami 14, LSU 10 here at the Rose Bowl!"
…
"Third and ten for LSU from their own 25—Collins in the shotgun, Kaleb Jackson in the backfield... Tigers down 14–10 here late in the second quarter... snap to Collins—hands it to Jackson on the draw—he’s met after a short gain, maybe three yards—and that’ll bring up fourth down."
"Conservative call there, Doug. Looked like LSU was playing the field position game, but Miami’s defense is starting to dictate tempo now."
"LSU forced to punt with 3:59 remaining in the second quarter. Miami leads 14–10, and they’ll get another crack at it before halftime here in Pasadena."
…
"Second and seven for Miami at their own 41—Anderson in the gun, LSU showing a light box... snap to Judd Anderson—drops back—looking over the middle—fires a quick one—intercepted! Picked off by Xavier Atkins at midfield!"
"That’s a huge takeaway! Atkins read the quarterback’s eyes the whole way, jumped the route like he was the intended receiver, and LSU snatches momentum right back!"
"Xavier Atkins with a massive interception at 3:13 left in the second quarter, and LSU will take over near midfield, trailing 14–10 with a golden opportunity to punch back before the half!"
…
"Following the interception by Xavier Atkins, LSU drives into field goal range but stalls at the 22-yard line. Now Aeron Burrell comes on to try a 39-yarder to cut into the Miami lead."
"He’s already hit from 52 earlier, Doug. This one’s well within his range—important points here before the half."
"Snap is clean, hold is down, Burrell’s kick is up—and it’s good! Burrell nails the 39-yard field goal, and LSU pulls within one."
"Great response by the Tigers after the takeaway. They didn’t get six, but they come away with points. That’s how you stay in a game like this."
"2:11 left in the second quarter, and it’s now Miami 14, LSU 13 here in the Rose Bowl semifinal!"
…
"Miami set to punt it away after the LSU field goal cut the lead to one—Joyce standing back at his own 15... here’s the snap, punt is off—low line drive, bouncing near the LSU 30—muffed by the return man! Ball is loose at the 32!"
"Big scramble for it, Doug—Miami players diving in from every angle!"
"And the officials signal—Miami football! The Hurricanes recover the muffed punt and flip the field again with under two minutes to go in the half!"
"That’s a huge momentum swing, Doug. LSU had just pulled within one, and now Miami’s right back in business deep in Tiger territory."
"1:46 to play in the second quarter—Miami holding a 14–13 lead and suddenly knocking on the door again after the special teams miscue by LSU."
…
Royce felt the air shift before the snap.
He didn’t know how to explain it—just that something in the way the offensive line tightened, the way Anderson’s feet set behind the center, made the hairs on Royce’s arms prickle beneath his pads.
It was second and long. Ball at the LSU sixteen. Miami huddled fast, broke faster. The orange and green looked too confident, too smooth.
He barked the call, adjusted the outside backer, shifted two steps left.
Snap.
Anderson dropped, clean and easy. No panic. Just rhythm. Just timing.
Royce opened his hips, read the routes flooding his zone, trailing the tight end’s release into the flat. He knew the concept—decoy, backside dig, and the real threat flashing late underneath.
But it didn’t come underneath.
It came over the top.
Joshisa Trader broke on a post, cutting in hard behind the safety’s right shoulder. Royce saw it half a beat too late—Anderson planted and fired before anyone had time to scream. A bullet. Tight spiral. Right into the window they’d created with motion and misdirection.
The ball sank into Trader’s chest as he crossed the goal line.
Six.
Royce didn’t even chase. Didn’t need to. It was clean.
He stood near the hash, hands on his hips, jaw clenched as Miami’s sideline exploded and Trader popped up spinning the ball and shouting something Royce couldn’t hear over the noise.
Behind him, the scoreboard lit up with fresh numbers: Miami 20. LSU 13.
The extra point was just a formality.
Royce turned and walked toward the sideline. Slow. Controlled. But inside, the fire was climbing. Not panic—purpose.
They’d missed an assignment.
Got caught in the wash.
Didn’t matter.
Now they had to answer.
…
"LSU’s drive stalls just inside Miami territory, and now Aeron Burrell will come on to attempt a 44-yard field goal to cut into this Hurricane lead."
"Burrell’s been dependable tonight, Doug—hit from 52 and 39 already. This one’s right between those."
"Snap is good, hold is down... Burrell’s kick is on the way—and it’s right through! Aeron Burrell connects from 44 yards out, and LSU trims the deficit."
"That’s a clutch swing from the junior. LSU needed points to start the half, and Burrell delivers again."
"With 7:56 remaining in the third quarter, it’s now Miami 21, LSU 16 here at the Rose Bowl—Tigers hanging tough in this College Football Playoff semifinal!"
…
"Second and eight for Miami at the LSU twenty-five—Hurricanes already up 21–16 here in the third. Anderson in the gun, trips right, Trader wide left... snap to Anderson—LSU brings four—Anderson steps up—fires deep left side—Trader’s there—makes the grab at the pylon—touchdown, Miami! Joshisa Trader again, his second of the night!"
"That’s big-time execution, Doug. LSU’s pressure got close, but Anderson stood tall and delivered a strike. And Trader? That’s just a clean route and a strong finish at the boundary."
"The extra point is good, and Miami answers back in a flash. With 5:10 remaining in the third quarter, it’s now Hurricanes 28, Tigers 16 in this Rose Bowl semifinal!"
…
"Third and long for LSU, trying to keep this drive alive—Collins in the gun, Durham to his right... snap to Collins, quick drop... checks it down to Durham in the flat—caught at the 35—but he’s wrapped up immediately!"
"That’s great pursuit by Miami’s defense, Doug. They played off coverage, kept everything in front, and swarmed the moment Durham touched it."
"Only a two-yard gain on the play, and that brings up fourth down. LSU’s punt team coming on with 3:36 to go in the third quarter. Still Miami 28, LSU 16 here in Pasadena."
…
"Third and seven for Miami near midfield—Anderson in the shotgun, LSU showing pressure off the right side... snap to Anderson—here comes the rush—Womack breaks through! Anderson scrambling... rolling right... nowhere to go—throws it away!"
"Da’Shawn Womack just blew that play up, Doug. Got off the edge clean, forced Anderson to bail early, and there was nothing developing downfield."
"Smart decision by the junior quarterback, but the Tigers get the stop they needed. With 59 seconds left in the third quarter, Miami will punt it away—still leading LSU 28 to 16 here in the Rose Bowl."
…
"LSU’s drive stalls at the Miami 26, and once again it’ll be Aeron Burrell called upon—this time for a 43-yard field goal to make it a one-possession game."
"Burrell’s been solid all night, Doug. This would be his fourth make, and LSU desperately needs points to stay alive."
"Snap, hold, kick is up—and it’s good! Aeron Burrell continues his perfect night, knocking it through from 43 yards, and LSU trims the deficit."
"Still plenty of time left, and LSU’s defense has to get a stop. Burrell’s doing his job—now it’s up to the other side of the ball."
"10:06 left in regulation, and the score: Miami 28, LSU 19 in this Rose Bowl College Football Playoff semifinal."
…
"Second and eight for LSU at their own 30—Collins in the shotgun, Sampson lined up wide right... Tigers trailing by nine, looking for a spark—snap to Collins—five-step drop—he’s going deep down the right sideline—Sampson’s open! Caught at the 35! 25—15—he’s gone! Touchdown, LSU! Seventy yards to the house—Shelton Sampson Jr., just like that!"
"What a throw, Doug! And what a release by Sampson—he toasted the corner off the line and never looked back. Collins dropped it in a bucket, and LSU’s right back in it!"
"The extra point team coming on, and with 7:27 remaining in the fourth quarter, it’s now Miami 28, LSU 26! The Tigers come roaring back in Pasadena!"
…
Royce could feel it slipping.
Not the game—not yet. But the grip. The steadiness. Like something in the foundation had started to shift, and no one else noticed the floor tilting under their cleats.
Miami had the ball at the LSU thirty-three. First down. Royce crouched near the hash, shoulders square, eyes locked on the backfield. His lungs were tight, but not from the pace. From knowing.
Trader was split wide left. Isolated. And LSU didn’t adjust. They didn’t roll safety help over. Didn’t press.
They gambled.
Royce saw it a second before it happened. He started yelling, motioning with one hand, but the ball was already snapped.
Anderson didn’t even drop back. One step, eyes up, let it fly.
Royce spun and ran.
Trader was already gone.
Burned Asthon clean, head down, arms pumping. Royce saw Michael take a bad angle—too flat, too slow—and that was it.
The ball dropped over the top like a guided missile. Trader didn’t break stride. Caught it at the five, glided into the end zone, and slowed to a jog before spiking it against the base of the goalpost.
Royce stopped at the fifteen. Hands on his hips. Helmet tilted toward the sky.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t cuss. Didn’t point.
He just stared.
Behind him, the Miami sideline exploded—coaches jumping, players flexing at the cameras. Trader strutted past the end zone, hands raised, eating it all up.
Miami 35. LSU 26.
Royce turned and walked back toward the sideline, jaw clenched.
They’d made one mistake.
Trader didn’t forgive mistakes.
…
"LSU faces fourth and long deep in their own territory—down 35–26 with just over three minutes to play, and they’ll send out the punt unit."
"That last drive stalled out quick, Doug. Miami’s defense dialed up pressure and forced a couple of tough throws. Time is becoming LSU’s biggest enemy now."
"Here’s the snap to Burke—gets the punt away cleanly, high spiral—fair catch signaled at the Miami 32-yard line. And now the Hurricanes take over with 3:02 left in the game, holding a nine-point lead."
"LSU’s defense needs a stop right now. No more margin for error."
"Clock ticking here in Pasadena—Miami 35, LSU 26 in the Rose Bowl semifinal."
…
Royce stood over the ball, cleats sunk into the Rose Bowl turf, breath tight in his chest.
Miami had just gotten the stop. LSU’s punt flipped the field, but the scoreboard still burned the truth: 35–26. 2:57 left. One more Miami first down and it might be over.
First and ten. Miami lined up tight—power look, Fletcher in the backfield, ready to chew clock. Royce shifted a step to his left, nudged Dorian with his elbow, eyes tracking the guard’s stance.
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t have to.
Snap.
Anderson turned, handed it off to Fletcher—inside zone, right into traffic. Royce beat the block. Met the pulling guard with his shoulder and slid under it, chest low, arms wide.
Fletcher dropped his pad level, spun to stay up.
That’s when Royce saw it.
The ball.
Just barely loose. Not out—not yet—but not right either. Xavier got a hand on Fletcher’s thigh. Whit hit him a half-beat later, helmet to hip, arms swinging down.
Pop.
The ball squirted free like a cough in the middle of chaos—low, skipping across the turf at the thirty-five.
Royce turned, twisted—couldn’t get it.
But Kylin could.
He dove, arms outstretched, body stretched flat. He landed on it with both hands and didn't let go.
Whistles. Shouting. Officials sprinting in.
Royce pushed up from the ground and pointed. Didn’t even wait.
“That’s ours! That’s ours!” he yelled.
And when the ref turned, arms stretched toward LSU’s sideline, Royce didn’t explode.
He just breathed.
Hard. Controlled. Hands on his hips. Eyes on the clock.
2:57.
Ball back.
Life back.
He didn’t need to celebrate.
He was already thinking about what came next.
…
"Fourth and eight for LSU—ball on the Miami 33—this is it. Tigers down 35–26, just 90 seconds remaining. Rickie Collins in the shotgun, trips right... snap to Collins—pressure coming—and he’s sacked! Miami gets to him! Collins goes down back at the Forty-one, and that might be the dagger!"
"Doug, Miami brought the house. LSU couldn’t pick up the blitz, and Collins never had a chance to set his feet. That’s a gutsy call by the Hurricane defense, and it pays off big."
"Miami takes over with 1:30 left in regulation and a nine-point lead. LSU’s playoff hopes now hanging by a thread here at the Rose Bowl!"
…
Royce hovered just off the line, crouched low, teeth clenched behind his mouthguard. The Rose Bowl lights felt hotter now, harsher, like they were exposing something more than just the field.
0:58 left. No timeouts. Down nine.
He knew what was coming.
Miami lined up heavy—two tight ends, Fletcher in the backfield, shoulders squared like a man about to carry more than just the ball. Royce tracked the motion, shifted with the flow, heart pounding in rhythm with the cadence.
Snap.
The guard pulled. Royce darted into the gap.
Fletcher came downhill hard, feet chopping, arms tight around the ball. Royce met him two yards in, wrapped low, felt the thud as pads collided.
But Fletcher churned forward.
LSU’s safeties collapsed in late, but it didn’t matter.
Four yards. First down.
Royce stayed on his knees for a second longer than usual, hands dug into the grass, the weight of it all pressing down.
The whistle blew. The chains moved.
He looked up at the scoreboard.
35–26.
No timeouts.
Fresh set of downs.
It was over.
Royce stood slowly, chest heaving, vision blurred at the edges—not from tears, not yet. Just exhaustion. Just the kind of weight that didn’t lift when the clock hit zero.
Miami’s sideline roared. Victory formation already queuing up. Orange and green spilling with life.
Royce turned back toward the LSU huddle.
No words. No one met his eyes.
There was nothing left to say.
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djp73
- Posts: 13183
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
so close
hate that it was Miami
interested to see what's next
hate that it was Miami
interested to see what's next
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Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
BOOM HIS ASS, MARK!
letting judd anderson sorry ass dice yall up lmao
this is my 2nd fav post of this entire chise
letting judd anderson sorry ass dice yall up lmao
this is my 2nd fav post of this entire chise
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7856
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Goddamn 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
#induetime
Glad I didn’t stream this shit because Fletcher ran me over on one of those tackles.
We move
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
crib talk, fuck nigga. 305 over that sorry ass boot. its been decided, no more debates
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47