AMA
The sound of a door slamming echoed through the house. Royce walked over to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to take out a bottle of water. His fingers gripped the bottle, threatening to send the water spilling onto the floor. His jaw was tight, and his chest burned with frustration.
Rana stormed into the room after him, standing on the opposite side of the counter with her arms crossed, tapping her foot, glaring at him. Her usually calm demeanor replaced by one of anger he hadn’t seen since they were kids.
“I don’t understand why you’re making a big deal about going to this one thing. We all used to go to y’all’s football games, but I ask you for one, maybe two, hours out of your day and you throw a whole ass tantrum.” Rana’s voice was sharp.
“Miss me with that bullshit, Rana. Roni was just fine without us at these dumb ass little science fairs for two years. She’s not even the one asking me to be there. You are. She don’t even give a fuck,” Royce shot back.
Rana’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line. “The whole point of us coming up here was to not keep living like we were in Houma. I’m going to be there, Tyrell’s going to be there. You’re going to be there. She needs to know that you’re in her corner, too.”
“Man, I don’t know nothing about that nerdy ass shit,” Royce said, sucking his teeth before taking a sip from the water bottle. “The fake ass Huxtable shit you’re trying to do works better if I ain’t there anyway.”’
“That’s not the fucking point, Royce!” Rana shouted. “You don’t get to let your shit mess up what Roni’s got going on. She didn’t ask for any of that.”
“She didn’t ask for any of it? You think I did? You think I asked to be up here shot the fuck up? Limping? I didn’t fucking ask for them niggas to kill my brother. Your fucking brother.”
The words hung in the air like a slap, then tension in the room turning suffocating. Rana froze, her expression shifting from anger to something else – shock, pain and something deeper, something raw.
“That’s not fucking fair,” she said, her voice trembling. “You don’t get to use Romeo as an excuse for being a shitty fucking brother, Royce.”
He slammed the bottle down on the counter, some of the water spilling out onto his hand. “I’m not using him as an excuse. I’m telling you shit is in the real world. Y’all can go to that fucking corny ass shit without me. I ain’t trying to live like those people at no Catholic school. That ain’t my life.”
Rana’s frustration boiled over. “I’m tired of you thinking you’re the only one hurting. Like you’re the only one who lost something. You weren’t the one who had to explain to our little sister that some wild ass young niggas shot both of her brothers. One dead, one might not make it. That was me. So, if I ask you to do one God damn thing then show some fucking gratitude and do it. It’s the least you can do for me making sure your ass wasn’t living on the fucking street.”
Royce glared at her, somewhat taken aback by her cursing. “I ain’t fucking ask to live here, Rana. You were the one who came get me from Terrebonne General. If you got such a problem with me, I could pack my shit and go.”
“Maybe you should,” she snapped. “I’m tired of walking on eggshells around my own damn house. I’ve been patient, I’ve been understanding, but this shit is exhausting. Everyone around here is trying to make it easy for you, but you don’t see you’re the fucking problem.”
“Bet,” he said, his voice low. “You got that. Don’t forget you’re the one who wanted this.”
“Good,” Rana spat. “Fuck out my house.”
Without another word, Royce tossed the bottle toward the sink and made his way to the front door, slowed by his leg.
“And don’t slam my fucking door either!” Rana shouted.
As if getting the last word in, the front door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the house like the final punctuation on an argument that had been brewing for too long.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce limped down the street, his hands shoved into his pockets, his mind racing. He had no destination in mind, but his feet carried him to the park a few blocks away. It had become a sort of refuge for him since he moved to Baton Rouge, the only place he could be alone that he could manage to walk.
He found his usual spot on a bench near the edge of the park, where trees provided some shade from the Louisiana sun. Sitting down, he stretched his leg out, rubbing at his shin to try to soothe some of the throbbing pain from overexertion.
His thoughts spun, a chaotic mess of anger, guilt and frustration. Rana’s words still rang in his ears. She was probably right, at least partially. He was too proud, too stubborn, or both, to admit it though.
None of that changed the fact that nothing felt right anymore. Everything that had once made sense was gone. He was just … lost.
He clenched his fists, feeling the tensions in his body coil tighter. He needed to do something, anything, else.
Without thinking, he stood up and started jogging.
The first few steps were awkward, his body protesting the sudden movement. His muscles were stiff, his joints sore from the months of inactivity. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run. Long before the doctors had told him to take it easy, to go slow in his rehab, to avoid anything that might aggravate his injures.
But at that moment, he didn’t care.
He pushed through the discomfort, his pace quickening as his heart pounded in his chest. The air whipped past him as he ran, his feet pounding the pavement in an awkward rhythm, a limping run. He ignored the pain, focusing only on trying to get his legs into a more normal stride, one he had before his leg being shattered by bullets.
The pain intensified with each step, a sharp, burning ache that radiated from his leg up to his hip. His breathing grew ragged, his lungs burning as they struggled to keep up, lacking the stamina he once had.
He ran until his legs felt like lead, until the pain became unbearable. Finally, he slowed to a stop, stumbling and gasping for breath. He doubled over before rolling to the ground, sweat dripping down his face. His vision blurred for a moment and the pain caused the world to spin as he tried to catch his breath.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, wincing as he pressed a hand to his side, just noticing the pain radiating from there as well as his leg.
He knew he’d probably pushed himself too far. But for a brief moment, he felt normal. He felt like Royce Lafitte.
He sat up slowly, wincing again as pain coursed through his body. Rolling to his hands and knees, he hopped up to his feet, walking to the nearest bench to sit down again. He stretched his leg out in front of him and rubbed at his shin, trying to temper the pain. He knew he’d need to take more than his usual dosage of pain meds.
Sighing to himself at the thought of needing to go back to Rana’s to get his medication, he dropped his head back against the backrest of the bench and stared up into the trees.
~~~~~~~~~~
The house was mostly quiet when Royce returned save for the sound of Don’t Be a Menace in South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood playing on the TV. He closed the door softly behind him, despite his urge to slam it again.
Rana sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket watching the movie. A bowl of chips and a can of Coke sat on the coffee table. She didn’t move as Royce made his way into the room, his limp more pronounced after his early sprint.
Royce sat down in the recliner, groaning as he lifted the foot rest up to prop his leg up. He sighed as some of the tightness in his muscles dissipated. Leaning back, he watched the movie for the umpteenth time.
The silence was broken by the sound of Rana leaning forward and pushing the bowl of chips and Coke closer to Royce. Without a word, she sat back on the sofa and continued to watch the movie.
Royce reached out and grabbed a handful of the chips and the drink, popping it open.
“Don’t curse at me in my fucking house no more,” Rana said, her voice quiet.
“Got it,” Royce answered, bringing a chip up to his mouth.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16843
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
yeah that's right, eat yo chips nigga
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djp73
- Posts: 13183
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
all these details and you ain't tell us what kind of chips they was
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7852
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Alright, we up now. Let's get Royce's shit together now
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16843
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
A.K.A. Rudy
Royce sat on the edge of the bench, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared out onto the field. He wiped a bead of sweat from his neck, cursing the person who decided that U-High’s managers would wear black polos at all times. He was also ignoring the empty stacks of cups lying on the bench next to him, still wrapped in plastic.
The players were in full swing, running drills under the sweltering sun, their cleats kicking up bits of turf as they sprinted across the field. The sounds of whistles, coaches barking orders and the dull thud of bodies hitting pads filled the air around him.
He leaned back, his leg bouncing impatiently as he watched the practice unfold in front of him. He’d busied himself momentarily by filling a few dozen cups with water, but there was only so long the menial task could hold his attention. Not when he was so close to being on the field that he could taste it, so close to being back with the guys in front of him running through those same drills.
“Hey, at the next break, you gonna actually hand these out?” a voice snapped from behind him, cutting through his thoughts.
Royce didn’t bother turning around. “These motherfuckers got hands and arms, bruh. They can pick that shit up themselves.”
One of the other team managers, a short, Cherubic guy named Zack, shot him a glare. Zack had been working as a manager since his freshman year three years prior and had been assigned to teach Royce the ropes.
He and Royce’s personalities had clashed from the get-go.
“It’s part of the job, man. If you’re going to be here, the least you can do is help out. They only get a few minutes before they have to get back out there,” Zack said.
“I know how fucking practices wrong, man. They can run over here and pick that shit up themselves,” Royce said, nodding to the filled cups. “These motherfuckers not in the league. Ain’t nobody about to be waiting on them, holding the bottle up to their mouths and shit.”
Zack rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath before returning to his usual set of tasks that he completed over and over. Royce went back to ignoring him, though every muscle in his body itched to be anywhere else.
It was only his second day as a manager, having gone to Coach Cunningham to agree to do so the day before, but this wasn’t what he had in mind. He wasn’t cut out for fetching water and carrying equipment. He was used to being on the field, not on the sidelines, and it felt like every second he spent filling cups was a reminder of what he couldn’t do anymore.
Whistles were blown and the players jogged over to the sideline to grab cups of water. Royce barely glanced at them, his mind stuck on a bitter loop.
“Boy, you look professional as a motherfucker over here,” Malik said as he walked over to where Royce was sitting. He wiped his hand on his shorts and held it out to dap Royce up. “I ain’t think they were going to have you being a waterboy, bruh.”
“Fucking clearly, nigga,” Royce said, glancing over at Zack to see him sending a scowl in Royce’s direction. “This shit dumb.”
Malik laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Look on the bright side. In a couple weeks, they gonna have the dance team and cheerleaders out here practicing and then you’ll at least have some hoes to look at.”
“Man, I’m not trying to fuck with no skinny ass white girls.”
“I’m just trying to help my boy out. You only fuck with me, Alix and Jonah. That’s going to leave you at home alone with your hand. I’m trying to help you branch out, spread your wings. Really get involved in the Raggedy,” Malik said, gesturing around as he spoke.
Royce raised an eyebrow. “Last I checked, Alix ain’t no dude so seem like I got an option.”
Malik sucked his teeth. “Don’t play with me. I’ll fight crippled niggas.”
“I’m just messing, bruh,” Royce said, laughing. “You ain’t the only one got jokes, you know.”
“Yeah, you real funny,” Malik said. He turned to a group of players next to him and waved them over. They made their way to where Malik and Royce were, laughing and shoving each other.
Malik tapped Royce on the chest as he introduced him to the group. “This my nigga Royce. He got a bum wheel right now, but in a couple months, he coming take y’all jobs.”
“Take who job? You the one looking a little slow out there,” one of them, a bigger guy that looked like he lived in the gym, said. He held his fist out to Royce. “Name’s Justin. You play before or they pull you off a basketball court somewhere?”
“Nah, I ain’t play no basketball. I played down in Houma before – before my leg got fucked up,” Royce said.
“He was playing with them cornfed white boys,” Malik said, laughing with Justin.
Justin pointed to one of the other players. “That’s where they got Dru from. Found that boy in fucking Brusly. I didn’t even know they had any of us over there. You already know they used to burn crosses in that man yard.”
“Y’all right next to Denham, bruh,” Dru said, shaking his head. He turned to Royce. “They got you handing out water until you can play?”
“If I can play,” Royce said.
“That boy gonna play. He always say that shit,” Malik said.
The coaches blew their whistles signaling the end of the break. As the players dispersed and headed back to the field, Royce leaned forward again to rest his arms on his knees, his leg still bouncing with nervous energy.
“Hey, you need to fill more cups,” Zack called.
“Bruh, shut the fuck up,” Royce said, shaking his head before shoving the cups next to him in Zack’s direction. “You got that.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The rest of practice dragged on, and Royce continued his routine of filling cups and sitting quietly while the team went through their drills. Every so often, he would find himself standing up and pacing, trying to keep his muscles and joints loose.
As the day wore on the other managers gave him a wider and wider berth, clearly annoyed by his refusal to help with the more hands-on tasks. But he didn’t care. He didn’t take on the job to be liked by unathletic, fat boys.
By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the field, practice was finally winding down. The players gathered in a huddle, the coach giving them a final pep talk before sending them off for the day. Royce stood up from the bench, watching from a distance as the team broke apart heading for the locker room.
“Royce, make sure y’all get all that trash up on the field,” Coach Cunningham said as he walked toward the locker room, pointing to wear players had ripped off tape and dropped it in the grass.
“Yes, sir,” Royce said, his tone lacking enthusiasm.
He grabbed a mesh bag from under the bench and walked out on the field to start collecting the balls that had been used during practice. As he stepped out onto the field, a wave of emotions and memories hit him. The familiar scent of grass and sweat filled his senses. He could almost hear the roar of the crowd again.
He could even hear his playlist that he listened to before every game.
But then his phone dinged, and he was snapped back to reality. He was just a guy sitting on the sidelines, filling cups of water, picking up footballs and cleaning up trash.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he saw three unread texts. One from Malik in the group chat of a meme, one from Bree asking when they were going to get together again, and one from Alix – a picture of him at the zoo looking at a tiger.
With a sigh, Royce put the phone back in his pocket and went back to cleaning up the field so he could go home.
Royce sat on the edge of the bench, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared out onto the field. He wiped a bead of sweat from his neck, cursing the person who decided that U-High’s managers would wear black polos at all times. He was also ignoring the empty stacks of cups lying on the bench next to him, still wrapped in plastic.
The players were in full swing, running drills under the sweltering sun, their cleats kicking up bits of turf as they sprinted across the field. The sounds of whistles, coaches barking orders and the dull thud of bodies hitting pads filled the air around him.
He leaned back, his leg bouncing impatiently as he watched the practice unfold in front of him. He’d busied himself momentarily by filling a few dozen cups with water, but there was only so long the menial task could hold his attention. Not when he was so close to being on the field that he could taste it, so close to being back with the guys in front of him running through those same drills.
“Hey, at the next break, you gonna actually hand these out?” a voice snapped from behind him, cutting through his thoughts.
Royce didn’t bother turning around. “These motherfuckers got hands and arms, bruh. They can pick that shit up themselves.”
One of the other team managers, a short, Cherubic guy named Zack, shot him a glare. Zack had been working as a manager since his freshman year three years prior and had been assigned to teach Royce the ropes.
He and Royce’s personalities had clashed from the get-go.
“It’s part of the job, man. If you’re going to be here, the least you can do is help out. They only get a few minutes before they have to get back out there,” Zack said.
“I know how fucking practices wrong, man. They can run over here and pick that shit up themselves,” Royce said, nodding to the filled cups. “These motherfuckers not in the league. Ain’t nobody about to be waiting on them, holding the bottle up to their mouths and shit.”
Zack rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath before returning to his usual set of tasks that he completed over and over. Royce went back to ignoring him, though every muscle in his body itched to be anywhere else.
It was only his second day as a manager, having gone to Coach Cunningham to agree to do so the day before, but this wasn’t what he had in mind. He wasn’t cut out for fetching water and carrying equipment. He was used to being on the field, not on the sidelines, and it felt like every second he spent filling cups was a reminder of what he couldn’t do anymore.
Whistles were blown and the players jogged over to the sideline to grab cups of water. Royce barely glanced at them, his mind stuck on a bitter loop.
“Boy, you look professional as a motherfucker over here,” Malik said as he walked over to where Royce was sitting. He wiped his hand on his shorts and held it out to dap Royce up. “I ain’t think they were going to have you being a waterboy, bruh.”
“Fucking clearly, nigga,” Royce said, glancing over at Zack to see him sending a scowl in Royce’s direction. “This shit dumb.”
Malik laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Look on the bright side. In a couple weeks, they gonna have the dance team and cheerleaders out here practicing and then you’ll at least have some hoes to look at.”
“Man, I’m not trying to fuck with no skinny ass white girls.”
“I’m just trying to help my boy out. You only fuck with me, Alix and Jonah. That’s going to leave you at home alone with your hand. I’m trying to help you branch out, spread your wings. Really get involved in the Raggedy,” Malik said, gesturing around as he spoke.
Royce raised an eyebrow. “Last I checked, Alix ain’t no dude so seem like I got an option.”
Malik sucked his teeth. “Don’t play with me. I’ll fight crippled niggas.”
“I’m just messing, bruh,” Royce said, laughing. “You ain’t the only one got jokes, you know.”
“Yeah, you real funny,” Malik said. He turned to a group of players next to him and waved them over. They made their way to where Malik and Royce were, laughing and shoving each other.
Malik tapped Royce on the chest as he introduced him to the group. “This my nigga Royce. He got a bum wheel right now, but in a couple months, he coming take y’all jobs.”
“Take who job? You the one looking a little slow out there,” one of them, a bigger guy that looked like he lived in the gym, said. He held his fist out to Royce. “Name’s Justin. You play before or they pull you off a basketball court somewhere?”
“Nah, I ain’t play no basketball. I played down in Houma before – before my leg got fucked up,” Royce said.
“He was playing with them cornfed white boys,” Malik said, laughing with Justin.
Justin pointed to one of the other players. “That’s where they got Dru from. Found that boy in fucking Brusly. I didn’t even know they had any of us over there. You already know they used to burn crosses in that man yard.”
“Y’all right next to Denham, bruh,” Dru said, shaking his head. He turned to Royce. “They got you handing out water until you can play?”
“If I can play,” Royce said.
“That boy gonna play. He always say that shit,” Malik said.
The coaches blew their whistles signaling the end of the break. As the players dispersed and headed back to the field, Royce leaned forward again to rest his arms on his knees, his leg still bouncing with nervous energy.
“Hey, you need to fill more cups,” Zack called.
“Bruh, shut the fuck up,” Royce said, shaking his head before shoving the cups next to him in Zack’s direction. “You got that.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The rest of practice dragged on, and Royce continued his routine of filling cups and sitting quietly while the team went through their drills. Every so often, he would find himself standing up and pacing, trying to keep his muscles and joints loose.
As the day wore on the other managers gave him a wider and wider berth, clearly annoyed by his refusal to help with the more hands-on tasks. But he didn’t care. He didn’t take on the job to be liked by unathletic, fat boys.
By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the field, practice was finally winding down. The players gathered in a huddle, the coach giving them a final pep talk before sending them off for the day. Royce stood up from the bench, watching from a distance as the team broke apart heading for the locker room.
“Royce, make sure y’all get all that trash up on the field,” Coach Cunningham said as he walked toward the locker room, pointing to wear players had ripped off tape and dropped it in the grass.
“Yes, sir,” Royce said, his tone lacking enthusiasm.
He grabbed a mesh bag from under the bench and walked out on the field to start collecting the balls that had been used during practice. As he stepped out onto the field, a wave of emotions and memories hit him. The familiar scent of grass and sweat filled his senses. He could almost hear the roar of the crowd again.
He could even hear his playlist that he listened to before every game.
But then his phone dinged, and he was snapped back to reality. He was just a guy sitting on the sidelines, filling cups of water, picking up footballs and cleaning up trash.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he saw three unread texts. One from Malik in the group chat of a meme, one from Bree asking when they were going to get together again, and one from Alix – a picture of him at the zoo looking at a tiger.
With a sigh, Royce put the phone back in his pocket and went back to cleaning up the field so he could go home.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7852
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
We almost there 
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djp73
- Posts: 13183
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
ON THE FIELD!
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16843
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Caught Slipping
The playbook sat open on Royce’s lap, its pages worn from the hours he’d spent flipping through them. He was parked on the couch in Rana’s living room, hunched forward, his eyes scanning the detailed diagrams of plays and formations. The house was quiet save for the periodic hum of the air conditioner coming one.
He tapped his fingers on the edge of the pages, his mind working through the assignments and schemes laid out before him. He’d finally gotten a copy of the team’s playbook a few days ago and since then, Royce had been studying it religiously. With the semester winding down and few finals to distract him, there wasn’t much else to do. He wasn’t cleared to play yet, but the playbook was something to focus on, something that felt like progress.
The more he studied, the more he felt the mental rhythms of the game coming back. It wasn’t exactly like being back on the field, but it was close enough to stir something inside him.
Tyrell walked into the house, tossing his keys and an errant chemical monitoring tab on the table. He looked over Royce’s shoulder at the playbook.
“Back in my day, we ain’t do all that fancy shit. Man across the board and go get after the quarterback,” he said. “That’s what really separated the men from the boys.”
“Was that before or after integration?” Royce asked, flipping to the next page.
“Oh, you got jokes now? I don’t know why you youngsters act like the late 90s, early 2000s was that long ago. Cash Money Records was just taking over.”
“That shit was in a different century. It was a long time ago. Y’all might as well have been wearing leather helmets out there.”
Tyrell shook his head as he walked to the kitchen. “You know if you’re serious about getting back out there then you might want to talk to the doctors about starting to lift and really start training. You got a long way to catch up to them boys at U-High.”
“Them boys ain’t nobody. I’ve seen them out there. They got about 20 dogs on the team. The rest of them? Sorry. But it doesn’t matter anyway because I can’t get the doctors or PT to agree to let me do anything but some old man shit.”
“So go find another doctor,” Tyrell said, taking a sip from a glass of water. “People go get second opinions all the time. You’re young. I doubt you’re really all the way out of commission like they’re saying, but I’d believe it if more than one doctor said it.”
“I ain’t doing all that. If I’m not going to listen to them, then I might as well just say fuck it and do what I want to do.”
“Then what are we talking about? I got some weights in the shed back there. You’re welcome to start getting some lifting in. I wouldn’t overdo it either way, so you don’t mess up anything that they bolted together.”
Royce looked up from the playbook. “I’ve never seen you lifting any weights. Sounds like you’re trying to set me up.”
Tyrell laughed. “It’s better than a couple bags of water or jugs filled with concrete. Better than having to call up your homeboys everytime you want to go lift.”
“You right.”
“I typically am. Don’t tell Rana I said that shit, though,” Tyrell said as he sat on the couch next to Royce and turned on the TV. He leaned over to untie his boots. “You’re already in enough trouble with her for the both of us anyway.”
“You fucking up at running interference more like.”
Tyrell only laughed as he flipped through the channels.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Fuck, man,” Royce muttered to himself as he slammed his phone down on the bed next to him. He ran his hand across his forehead.
He picked up the phone again, flicking to his contact list. His thumb hovered over another name, the eighth or ninth he’d reached out to so far. He still had the numbers of the coaches who had reached out to him before the shooting. He hadn’t spoken to any of them since then, not that he had a reason to, but something about being around the game again had him reaching out.
He thought that there may be a chance. A chance to still play at the next level if they were willing to wait for him. A chance to get back on the radar. A chance to prove he wasn’t done yet.
With a deep breath, he hit “call” on the last number he had. The phone only rang once before it went to voicemail.
“Hey, Coach. It’s Royce Lafitte. I just wanted to check in and see if you had some time to talk. Feel free to give me a call back whenever you’re free.” He hung and shook his head.
Royce wasn’t surprised that the call went unanswered. It had been the same story each time. At least some of the phones rang. A few of them returned disconnected signals and more of his texts remained undelivered.
The one coach that had picked up, one from a junior college in Mississippi, told him that they’d “be in touch.” An empty promise meant to let him down easy without having to outright say it.
Dropping his head into his hand, he cursed under his breath. The sting of rejection gnawed at him, even if he’d somewhat expected it when he’d embarked on the fool’s errand. He wasn’t just a red flag for the programs. He was a red flag that wasn’t sure he could play football again.
It didn’t help that he wasn’t a top prospect beforehand. Recruits at his level were a dime a dozen.
He laid back on the bed, holding his phone up in front of him as he pulled up Instagram to aimlessly scroll through the news feed. He stopped on a new post from one person in particular. He paused as a thought popped in his head. Liking the post, he swiped over to his messages.
’What you doing tonight?’
The response came quickly.
’Not much. Got something in mind?’
’Come over. I’ll send you the addy’
’See ya in a bit.’
The last text was punctuated with a kissy face emoji. Royce sat up and looked at the clock on the wall. 11:30 at night should be late enough that everyone would be asleep in the house, he thought to himself.
…
Royce outside of the back door, peering out into the yard. The house was dark and quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of the trees in the breeze. His phone buzzed again – Bree, letting him know that she was pulling up.
He instructed her to walk around to the back. A few moments later, she came around the side of the house wearing a hoodie, a pair of shorts and some slippers.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she teased, her eyes glinting the moonlight.
“Sped over here for it, huh?” Royce said, raising an eyebrow.
She laughed softly. “What can I say? When it’s good, it’s good.”
Royce opened the door and gestured for her to step inside first. He led them quietly down the hall to the guest room, careful to avoid making any noise. The door clicked shut behind them, the tension between them immediately rising.
As soon as Royce turned around, Bree was already coming out of the hoodie and her shorts had been kicked into a corner.
…
Hours later, as the adrenaline from their encounter began to fade, Royce sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his shirt on as Bree slipped back into her shorts. The house was still quiet. Royce got up and slowly opened the door, peeking down the hall.
He gestured for Bree to follow him, creeping down the hall. As he walked back toward the back door, sneaking through a house he was living at for the first time, he felt as if every sound was ten times louder than usual.
Just as he was about to reach for the door knob, he heard someone clear their throat.
He turned back to Bree, but she pointed off to their right.
Rana stood in the kitchen, a Magnalite pot in her hands. The look of disappointment on her face was clear despite the dimmed lights.
Rana’s eyes flicked between the two of them, and though she didn’t raise her voice, the disappointment was clear. “Get her out of here. Now.”
Royce nodded, reaching for the doorknob again.
“At least go out of the front door, Royce,” Rana said, her voice strained.
“You right.”
Royce led Bree across the house to the front door, a bit of pep in her step as she walked into him a couple of times as they made their way down the sidewalk. The confidence she had when she’d arrived evaporating.
Once they were outside, Bree gave him a quick kiss and slipped into her car.
“Hope I didn’t get you into any shit,” she said.
“Nah, that’s just my sister,” Royce said.
“Next time, I’ll pick you up,” she said before driving off into the night.
When Royce stepped back inside, Rana was in the kitchen pouring a bag of sugar into the pot. Royce stopped just inside the door, waiting for her to say something. But for a moment, she just continued doing what she was doing, ignoring him.
Finally, she spoke. “Do not do that again.”
“C’mon, Rana. You acting like we were in the living room,” Royce said, attempting to plead his case.
“What if Roni had gotten up and seen y’all?” Rana asked, her voice steady. “You want our little sister thinking that’s the kind of stuff girls do? I’d rather she not. Don’t forget that she looks up to you, Royce.”
Royce raised his hands up. “Alright, alright. I won’t do it again. Next time, I’ll just go to her house or some shit.”
Rana stared at him for a moment longer before shrugging. “That’d be between you and her daddy. You know how some of them get.” She turned to one of the cabinets and retrieved a few cans of condensed milk.
“What you making?” Royce asked, stepping toward the counter.
“Get out my kitchen. I don’t know where your hands been,” Rana said as she cracked open each of the cans.
The playbook sat open on Royce’s lap, its pages worn from the hours he’d spent flipping through them. He was parked on the couch in Rana’s living room, hunched forward, his eyes scanning the detailed diagrams of plays and formations. The house was quiet save for the periodic hum of the air conditioner coming one.
He tapped his fingers on the edge of the pages, his mind working through the assignments and schemes laid out before him. He’d finally gotten a copy of the team’s playbook a few days ago and since then, Royce had been studying it religiously. With the semester winding down and few finals to distract him, there wasn’t much else to do. He wasn’t cleared to play yet, but the playbook was something to focus on, something that felt like progress.
The more he studied, the more he felt the mental rhythms of the game coming back. It wasn’t exactly like being back on the field, but it was close enough to stir something inside him.
Tyrell walked into the house, tossing his keys and an errant chemical monitoring tab on the table. He looked over Royce’s shoulder at the playbook.
“Back in my day, we ain’t do all that fancy shit. Man across the board and go get after the quarterback,” he said. “That’s what really separated the men from the boys.”
“Was that before or after integration?” Royce asked, flipping to the next page.
“Oh, you got jokes now? I don’t know why you youngsters act like the late 90s, early 2000s was that long ago. Cash Money Records was just taking over.”
“That shit was in a different century. It was a long time ago. Y’all might as well have been wearing leather helmets out there.”
Tyrell shook his head as he walked to the kitchen. “You know if you’re serious about getting back out there then you might want to talk to the doctors about starting to lift and really start training. You got a long way to catch up to them boys at U-High.”
“Them boys ain’t nobody. I’ve seen them out there. They got about 20 dogs on the team. The rest of them? Sorry. But it doesn’t matter anyway because I can’t get the doctors or PT to agree to let me do anything but some old man shit.”
“So go find another doctor,” Tyrell said, taking a sip from a glass of water. “People go get second opinions all the time. You’re young. I doubt you’re really all the way out of commission like they’re saying, but I’d believe it if more than one doctor said it.”
“I ain’t doing all that. If I’m not going to listen to them, then I might as well just say fuck it and do what I want to do.”
“Then what are we talking about? I got some weights in the shed back there. You’re welcome to start getting some lifting in. I wouldn’t overdo it either way, so you don’t mess up anything that they bolted together.”
Royce looked up from the playbook. “I’ve never seen you lifting any weights. Sounds like you’re trying to set me up.”
Tyrell laughed. “It’s better than a couple bags of water or jugs filled with concrete. Better than having to call up your homeboys everytime you want to go lift.”
“You right.”
“I typically am. Don’t tell Rana I said that shit, though,” Tyrell said as he sat on the couch next to Royce and turned on the TV. He leaned over to untie his boots. “You’re already in enough trouble with her for the both of us anyway.”
“You fucking up at running interference more like.”
Tyrell only laughed as he flipped through the channels.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Fuck, man,” Royce muttered to himself as he slammed his phone down on the bed next to him. He ran his hand across his forehead.
He picked up the phone again, flicking to his contact list. His thumb hovered over another name, the eighth or ninth he’d reached out to so far. He still had the numbers of the coaches who had reached out to him before the shooting. He hadn’t spoken to any of them since then, not that he had a reason to, but something about being around the game again had him reaching out.
He thought that there may be a chance. A chance to still play at the next level if they were willing to wait for him. A chance to get back on the radar. A chance to prove he wasn’t done yet.
With a deep breath, he hit “call” on the last number he had. The phone only rang once before it went to voicemail.
“Hey, Coach. It’s Royce Lafitte. I just wanted to check in and see if you had some time to talk. Feel free to give me a call back whenever you’re free.” He hung and shook his head.
Royce wasn’t surprised that the call went unanswered. It had been the same story each time. At least some of the phones rang. A few of them returned disconnected signals and more of his texts remained undelivered.
The one coach that had picked up, one from a junior college in Mississippi, told him that they’d “be in touch.” An empty promise meant to let him down easy without having to outright say it.
Dropping his head into his hand, he cursed under his breath. The sting of rejection gnawed at him, even if he’d somewhat expected it when he’d embarked on the fool’s errand. He wasn’t just a red flag for the programs. He was a red flag that wasn’t sure he could play football again.
It didn’t help that he wasn’t a top prospect beforehand. Recruits at his level were a dime a dozen.
He laid back on the bed, holding his phone up in front of him as he pulled up Instagram to aimlessly scroll through the news feed. He stopped on a new post from one person in particular. He paused as a thought popped in his head. Liking the post, he swiped over to his messages.
’What you doing tonight?’
The response came quickly.
’Not much. Got something in mind?’
’Come over. I’ll send you the addy’
’See ya in a bit.’
The last text was punctuated with a kissy face emoji. Royce sat up and looked at the clock on the wall. 11:30 at night should be late enough that everyone would be asleep in the house, he thought to himself.
…
Royce outside of the back door, peering out into the yard. The house was dark and quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of the trees in the breeze. His phone buzzed again – Bree, letting him know that she was pulling up.
He instructed her to walk around to the back. A few moments later, she came around the side of the house wearing a hoodie, a pair of shorts and some slippers.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she teased, her eyes glinting the moonlight.
“Sped over here for it, huh?” Royce said, raising an eyebrow.
She laughed softly. “What can I say? When it’s good, it’s good.”
Royce opened the door and gestured for her to step inside first. He led them quietly down the hall to the guest room, careful to avoid making any noise. The door clicked shut behind them, the tension between them immediately rising.
As soon as Royce turned around, Bree was already coming out of the hoodie and her shorts had been kicked into a corner.
…
Hours later, as the adrenaline from their encounter began to fade, Royce sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his shirt on as Bree slipped back into her shorts. The house was still quiet. Royce got up and slowly opened the door, peeking down the hall.
He gestured for Bree to follow him, creeping down the hall. As he walked back toward the back door, sneaking through a house he was living at for the first time, he felt as if every sound was ten times louder than usual.
Just as he was about to reach for the door knob, he heard someone clear their throat.
He turned back to Bree, but she pointed off to their right.
Rana stood in the kitchen, a Magnalite pot in her hands. The look of disappointment on her face was clear despite the dimmed lights.
Rana’s eyes flicked between the two of them, and though she didn’t raise her voice, the disappointment was clear. “Get her out of here. Now.”
Royce nodded, reaching for the doorknob again.
“At least go out of the front door, Royce,” Rana said, her voice strained.
“You right.”
Royce led Bree across the house to the front door, a bit of pep in her step as she walked into him a couple of times as they made their way down the sidewalk. The confidence she had when she’d arrived evaporating.
Once they were outside, Bree gave him a quick kiss and slipped into her car.
“Hope I didn’t get you into any shit,” she said.
“Nah, that’s just my sister,” Royce said.
“Next time, I’ll pick you up,” she said before driving off into the night.
When Royce stepped back inside, Rana was in the kitchen pouring a bag of sugar into the pot. Royce stopped just inside the door, waiting for her to say something. But for a moment, she just continued doing what she was doing, ignoring him.
Finally, she spoke. “Do not do that again.”
“C’mon, Rana. You acting like we were in the living room,” Royce said, attempting to plead his case.
“What if Roni had gotten up and seen y’all?” Rana asked, her voice steady. “You want our little sister thinking that’s the kind of stuff girls do? I’d rather she not. Don’t forget that she looks up to you, Royce.”
Royce raised his hands up. “Alright, alright. I won’t do it again. Next time, I’ll just go to her house or some shit.”
Rana stared at him for a moment longer before shrugging. “That’d be between you and her daddy. You know how some of them get.” She turned to one of the cabinets and retrieved a few cans of condensed milk.
“What you making?” Royce asked, stepping toward the counter.
“Get out my kitchen. I don’t know where your hands been,” Rana said as she cracked open each of the cans.
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djp73
- Posts: 13183
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Student of the game
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Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
aint this bih playing house with a nigga that she aint married to? talmn bout“You want our little sister thinking that’s the kind of stuff girls do? I’d rather she not