Green Eyed
Royce sat at his locker, shaking a bag of Skittles in his hand, trying to get a few moments reprieve from the heat before changing into his practice uniform. The school uniform he wore felt like it was made of stiff wool, doing nothing to stave off the heat beating down on the Earth.
The first few days of the school year had come and gone, the students settling back into their day-to-day routine seamlessly. That included Royce, now back in his element of heading to practice following a day packed with classes. It soothed his soul doing something as normal as was possible.
“Man, it’s fucking hot!” Dru shouted as he dropped down onto the chair in front of his locker, reaching into his duffel bag for his cleats. “This shit dumb as fuck. I need that climate change to come now so we can get some winters in this bitch.”
“That shit makes it hotter, bro,” Will said from his locker as he pulled on his jersey.
“Maybe he hoping for it to be hot so he catch a stroke and die. Ain’t gotta deal with it no more if you dead,” Pat added.
“Fuck sweating to death,” Royce said, pouring some Skittles out in his hand.
Dru sucked his teeth. “I thought that shit meant the climate just flipped everywhere. Where it’s hot, it get cold and where it’s cold, it get hot.”
“I just know a science book hate to see you coming,” Royce laughed. “You gotta open that bitch up and look at the words on the fucking pages every so often.”
Before Dru could respond, Malik stormed into the locker room, throwing his duffel bag down in his locker and all but ripping his shirt over his head.
“Aye, you cool, bruh?” Royce asked him.
Malik didn’t answer, only continued to change into his practice gear.
Royce exchanged a look with Dru, who only shrugged before leaning over to lace up his cleats. Sighing, Royce pushed himself to his feet to get his jersey on for practice.
…
Royce couldn’t help but to keep stealing glances toward the bleachers were a cadre of men sat, clad in purple polos. They’d been there since the school year had started, every practice. Sometimes the group was bigger, sometimes smaller, sometimes they were on the field, and at all times they made Royce jumpy.
The guys told him that some of them were probably associated with LSU’s athletics program, taking advantage of UHigh’s close proximity to LSU’s campus to take a look at the current crop of players. Others were boosters, running the rule over anyone who’d committed to the Old War Skule, and a rare few were just connected enough to matter.
It was a new experience for Royce. No one showed up at Terrebonne’s practices just to watch without a reason to do so.
The coaches blew their whistles for the team to rotate. Royce put his mouthpiece in and jogged out onto the field, listening as Coach Vaughn relayed the play to them. They broke the huddle, Royce being sent on a blitz for the play.
As the offense got lined up, Royce crept toward the line, tapping Ricky, one of the defensive tackles on the hip.
Clayton, the backup quarterback, called out his cadence, making no adjustments based on what the defense was doing in front of him. The ball was snapped, and Royce sliced through the gap between the guard and center with ease.
Clayton turned and tossed the ball out to Joe, but Royce was already there. Just as Joe caught the ball, Royce lowered his shoulder, crashing into him to the satisfying crack of pads hitting pads. Royce could hear the air forced out of Joe’s lungs as he was taken off his feet, the ball jarred from his grasp.
The coaches blew the play dead as Clayton jumped on the ball, not wanting to risk a scrum with one of their quarterbacks in practice.
“If the fucking Mike is standing in the line, he might just be fucking coming, Clayton! We make it easy enough!” Coach McDaniels shouted.
Coach Vaughn slapped Royce on his helmet as he returned to the huddle. “Way to lay that wood, Lafitte!”
“Ayo!” Justin shouted.
“Don’t start that shit, Williams. Alright, here we go.”
Royce dared to look up in the bleachers at the men in the purple polos. They were deep in conversation, gesturing toward the field. He wondered what they were talking about, who they were talking about, what sway they actually had on the campus.
Donovan slapped Royce in the chest, getting his attention, as Coach Vaughn stared at him.
“You got your head in the game, Lafitte?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m listening, coach.”
…
By the time practice ended, Royce’s jersey was soaked through with sweat, his legs heavy as they trudged toward the locker room. He sat down at his locker, wanting to catch his breath before he did anything else. Malik walked in after him, slamming his locker open.
“My nigga, you been pissed off all day. The fuck is wrong with you?” Royce asked, propping his leg up on his helmet and rubbing his shin.
Justin walked by, tugging at his pads. “That nigga look like his girl just told him she was pregnant with his biggest opp baby.”
“Nah, that’s that ‘she left me on read’ face. He ain’t even get far enough for all that,” Dru said.
“Fuck you, niggas,” Malik snapped.
That only caused Justin and Dru to laugh as Malik continued to slam things around. Royce watched him out of the corner of his eye for a moment before grabbing his phone out of his bag, returning some texts from Alix before slipping the phone back in the bag.
“For real, though, bruh,” Dru said. “What’s got you looking like you ready to go catch a body?”
Malik turned around as he pulled his jersey over his head. “Y’all know a nigga named Vic? Victor or some shit?”
Justin and Dru exchanged looks before shrugging.
“Nah, who that?” Justin asked. “If you got a problem with him, we can go see about him.”
Malik shook his head as he sat down to unlace his cleats. “Nah, it ain’t nothing like that. I just seen him around and I was wondering where he came from. Y’all know how motherfuckers be popping up at this bitch random as fuck.”
Dru pointed at Royce. “Case in point.”
They finished getting out of their practice gear, freshened up and out of the door in relative silence, the usual post-practice banter subdued by Malik’s mood. As they headed out to the parking lot, Royce hung back, falling into step beside his friend once the others were out of earshot.
“Yo, for real, you good?” Royce asked quietly.
Malik’s jaw tightened. “Saw that nigga hollering at Alix earlier. You know how I get about her. She always out here wilding like we ain’t at an ol’ lil’ ass school. I lowkey be feeling like she rubbing that shit in my face.”
Royce’s face remained passive, the weight of his and Alix’s secret relationship on his mind.
“His ass look like a lame ass nigga, too. Steve Urkel ass nigga,” Malik continued.
“Just go bat the piss out him,” Royce said, shrugging, completely aware that he was suggesting Malik fight someone for talking to Alix when he was doing much more than that.
“Man, I ain’t doing all that. She just be pissing me off on some shit.”
Royce held his hands up. “I’m just saying if you really feel that type of way about it, or you can just talk to her about it. That’s what normal people do right? Talk about they feelings and shit, cry a little?”
Malik shoved Royce. “Nigga, I ain’t going cry to no female.”
“You can stop boo-daying about it then if you ain’t gonna do anything about it. Hit up one of them other hoes you talk to. She ain’t the only chick in the fucking city, dog.”
“Man, it’s different. You wouldn’t understand,” Malik said as they reached their cars. He dapped up Royce and got into his car, driving off moments later.
Royce walked over to his, throwing his duffel bag into the back seat, grabbing his phone out of it before shutting the door. He looked at the few texts he had from Alix and silenced his notifications from her for the time being.
Just as he was about to get in the car to leave, he noticed a girl walking toward one of the remaining cars. She was strikingly beautiful, dark brown skin glowing in the late afternoon sun. Her curly hair hung loose. Royce, intrigued by her, walked around his car to cross paths with her.
“Say, love,” he called out. “Slow down for me so I can catch up.”
She turned raising an eyebrow at him, but she stopped and waited for him all the same. He walked over, taking in her high cheekbones, full lips and eyes that seemed to dance with amusement at his obvious approach. She was almost as tall as him, possibly a smidge taller.
“’Say, love?’ You from the City or something?” she asked, hiking a gym bag up on her shoulder.
“Or something,” he said. “I’m Royce. I saw you from over there and had to come see if you were as fine up close.”
“Sadie,” she said, shifting her weight to one hip. “What were you going to do if I wasn’t? Run away?”
He laughed. “I ain’t even think it through that far. We were going to have to play it by ear at that point. It’s a good thing my eyes ain’t deceive me or we both would’ve been in trouble.”
“You, you mean. You play football, huh?” she asked, pointing to the shirt he was wearing, emblazoned with “Cubs Football.”
“Yeah, they let me get on the field every so often,” he gestured to the shorts and high socks she wore. “And where you coming from like that? Let me guess. Soccer?”
“That’s a terrible guess,” she laughed. “Volleyball. You know, it’s funny. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before, and now you’re popping up out of nowhere in an empty parking lot. Should I be worried?”
“Only thing you gotta be worried about with me is catching feelings.”
“Oh, you think you smooth, huh?” she said, raising an eyebrow, but still laughing.
“Real smooth,” Royce said. He took his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it. “Look, I don’t want to hold you up because I know the last thing I want is to be on my feet after practice so why don’t you just go ahead and put your number in here for me and we’ll go grab a bite to eat or something.”
Sadie looked at him for a moment before reaching out to take the phone from him. “Or something, huh?”
“Yeah, or something.” He waited for her to finish before taking the phone back, ignoring the new texts from Alix as he sent Sadie one. “Now, you got mine. Fuck with me sometime.”
She started walking toward her car. “We’ll see, Mr. Or Something. I never pass up a free meal, though.”
“I got the main course as long as you got dessert,” he said.
She only laughed in response, throwing her bag into the trunk of the Altima before slipping into the driver’s seat. Royce waited a moment before turning and heading back to his own car, the tangle web he was weaving getting denser by the day.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Don’t mess wit Altima chicks
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Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
SHOOT HIM IN HIS GOOD LEG!
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
It Never Goes Away
Britni moved through the hallways of South Terrebonne like a ghost. The school year was well underway, but she felt like she’d barely been there, floating through each day in a daze, present only in the most physical sense. Almost a year had passed since Romeo’s death, and still, her world remained fractured, its broken pieces lying around here, untouched and irreparable.
She used to have friends, so many friends – people who cared about her, who she could lean on, and who she thought she’d always know. Now, they were shadows, no longer part of her life, either pushed away by her silence or distance themselves from her tragedy.
She understood. She was a different person now, and her silence, her desolation, was as much an unwelcome reminder for them as it was a prison for her.
Every step down the hall felt weighed down by whispers. The new students, unaware of her story, looked on with curious eyes as her former classmates murmured of her history, their words seeping through cupped hands and careful glances. She knew they talked about her and Romeo, the boy she’d loved since she was fourteen. They’d been inseparable. Now, she was alone, a rumor turned flesh, and she hated it.
She felt as though she’d taken him for granted, grounding her in ways she only understood now that he was gone.
When the final bell rang, she barely noticed, slipping out of the classroom, shuffling her feet all the way to her car. Her parents had never stopped worrying about her since Romeo’s death, watching as she withdrew from life. She walked in the door, a hollow greeting falling from her lips as she brushed by her moth, who looked at her with a mix of love and helplessness.
Britni headed straight to her room, the comforting isolation of those four walls both a relief and a prison. She lay on her bed, pulling her phone out of her backpack with practiced numbness.
Social media was her escape. It was the one place where she could scroll and feel distant from reality, like her life hadn’t been swallowed by grief. Her fingers moved over the screen automatically, the faces of classmates and strangers blurring together in her feed. She would have scrolled aimlessly for hours, lost in the mundane lives of others, had it not been for a post that jolted her back to what she’d tried to escape.
Someone had shared a clip about University Lab’s upcoming season, and there she saw his face. Not Romeo’s, the one she longed for, but Royce’s. He stood on a football field, where Romeo should’ve been, laughing with his friends, what Romeo should’ve been doing. The reporter emphasized him, speaking of Royce as some unknown entity that could be a star in the making.
A wave of fury washed over her, hot and violent. She read the caption on the post, a half-joke about Royce coming back from the dead and appearing in an entirely different city like a bad 1970s movie. A surge of bitterness rose in her chest, thick and suffocating. Nowhere did they mention what Royce has miraculously recovered from, what he’d taken.
It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Why does he get to live?!” she screamed, flinging her phone across the room, bits of glass shattering against the wall. The pain and rage, simmering since that night, broke free in torrents of tears.
“It’s not fair. It’s not fair,” she repeated, her voice cracking as she collapsed onto the bed, willing Romeo to hear her.
Her fists balled into her pillow, and she cried until her voice was nothing more than a whisper. In her heart, she couldn’t, wouldn’t stop blaming Royce. To her, he was the one should’ve been lost, not Romeo.
Eventually, exhausted, she closed her eyes, praying for the numbness to return, so she could pretend, if only for a while, that her heart wasn’t broken beyond repair.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce sat on the edge of the examination table, the sterile scent of the physical therapy room filling his senses, still flipping between having been used to it and it being jarring every time he walked into the building. The steady beep of equipment and murmurs of other patients working through their own rehab process filtered through the door.
Today marked the end of his journey to recovery – months of stretching, strengthening and pushing past pain barriers he hadn’t known existed. He’d never truly grown used to the monotonous grind, the endless reps that sometimes felt as fruitless as they did necessary.
And now, at last he hoped, it was almost over.
Dr. Richards walked into the room, holding his fist out to Royce as he’d done multiple times a week for the better part of eight months.
“Royce,” he said, settling down on a stool across from him. “I’ll be honest with you. We truly thought that you’d still have a ways to go at this point in your recovery. The injuries you sustained were extensive, but you’ve gained back nearly all of your mobility, which I won’t sugarcoat, is surprising.”
He nodded. He knew he was defying the odds. His body told him so every day, after every practice. He may have been able to move mostly like he used to, but he’d pay for it with bouts of pain that sometimes floored him. But he refused to wait, every day off the field felt like a lost opportunity, a stolen moment.
“I had to get back on my feet. I ain’t like feeling like I couldn’t do anything,” Royce said, shrugging.
The old doctor signed, laying the clipboard on his lap as he leaned forward, his gaze steady and serious. “Look, I understand that. You’ve been open about that since we started here, and I can get it. You’re a young guy. You don’t want to be in here with these old fogies lifting five pound weights.”
“But I also have to warn you, because you’re young and have that youthful exuberance,” Dr. Richards continued. “You’re never going to be completely healed. Your body hasn’t been left unscathed. You’re going to have recurring issues, I’m sure you already do. Pain in your leg and hand, in your side. It might go away years down the road, it might not. We never know with these kinds of things.”
Royce nodded, but his focus was already drifting, his mind already on getting out of that room, and on with his life. He’d manage his injuries as he’d managed risk to his body for years on the field. It had been a price he was willing to pay before and it was a price he was willing to pay now.
Dr. Richards, sensing Royce’s waning attention, cleared his throat. “I need you to hear this, though, Royce. I know you’re back on the field, and we okayed that, but you have to understand the risk that you’re taking. If you suffer any breaks to your leg or your hand, we could be talking about permanent damage. It might not click now, but it may in the future when you’re thinking about your health.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with implications Royce refused to consider, but he managed a nod, keeping his expression neutral. “I got it, Doc. Don’t go out there trying to hurdle nobody and get my leg broken,” he said, injecting some levity into his tone to try to sound reassuring.
After another minute of reminders and cautionary statements, Dr. Richards sighed and held out his hand, his expression softening slightly. “Alright, that’s everything from me, Royce. When’s the first game?”
“Next Friday,” Royce said as he shook the doctor’s hand. “Woodlawn.”
The man looked up at the ceiling, thinking about his own days as a high school athlete. “They got you starting yet?”
Royce shrugged. “I think it’s still up in the air if I’ll play at all.”
“David always was like that,” Dr. Richards said of Coach Cunningham, laughing. “We’ll be rooting for you either way. Just remember what we talked about.”
“Thanks, Doc. I will.”
He walked out of the clinic with a weight lifted, his steps light with the anticipation of freedom. Things would never be the same, but he was ready to put one more thing behind him and start fresh.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce walked through the front door, setting his duffel bag down on the floor despite Rana’s regular requests that he not do so, little brother habits dying hard. The faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen mingled with the distant hum of the TV, but his attention was caught by the low murmurs of Tyrell’s voice coming from the dining room.
Tyrell and Roni hunched over her homework, their heads bent close as Tyrell explained something. Roni looked bewildered, her eyes dating between Tyrell’s calm expression and the scribbles on her notebook.
“Okay, so if the force acts on the object here, then what happens to the acceleration?” Tyrell asked, tapping a spot on Roni’s paper with his pen.
Roni chewed her lip, visibly struggling. “Um… it increases?” she guessed hesitantly, looking up at Tyrell.
He grinned, nodding approvingly. “Exactly. Acceleration’s directly related to force. If something pushes something with wheels, it’s not going to stop until something stops it, right? Good job.”
“When they started talking about that shit in middle school?” Royce asked as he walked through the dining room to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.
“It’s for honors!” Roni said, a hint of annoyance in her voice at Royce not remembering that she was in advanced classes.
“My bad. I wasn’t in no honors back then. They had me in the regular folk classes without the eggheads,” Royce joked, leaning on the counter.
Tyrell glanced over his shoulder at Royce. “What’d the doctor say? You gotta keep going back or they say that you’re done?”
“They said I’m done, but my leg might fall apart if I walk up too many stairs. I don’t know why they keep bringing it up like I don’t know. The shit is attached to my hip, I know if I’m having problems with it or not.”
“They’re doctors. That’s what they’re going to do. They’re not doing their jobs if they don’t tell you about all the risks.”
“I get it. Don’t make it any less annoying,” Royce said. He looked back at the fridge. “Rana got food in here?”
“Probably. By the way,” he began, picking up his phone and holding it up briefly. “I was talking to my guy who knows some folks at Southern. I know they kinda dropped the ball on you, but they wanted to know if you’re ‘game ready.’ Sounds like they were checking up on you again, seeing where you’re at with everything.”
Royce brought the water bottle up to his mouth, taking a sip and swishing the water around before swallowing, debating how he felt about that news. “What’s that mean?”
“They’re probably still interested. Kicking the tires to see if they can get you off the board before you get out on the field and turn into a superstar.”
“I ain’t about to be no superstar,” Royce laughed.
“Like I said, they’re just trying to get back in the race before anyone else.”
Keeping his expression nonchalant, Royce shrugged. “If they’re willing to offer me a scholarship then I’ll listen to what they got to say. They didn’t even offer me last year. Just talked to hear they own voice.”
“Welcome to recruiting,” Tyrell laughed. “Let me know if you want me to put you in touch with their coach. I probably got a couple favors I can call in.”
“Appreciate it, bruh,” Royce said.
Tyrell looked back down at Roni’s homework, seeing that she’d moved on to the next question. He waited for her to finish before jumping in to guide her toward the right answer.
Taking his phone out of his pocket, Royce headed back to the guest room, feeling more grounded, more focused than he had in months, for this time next week, he’d be a couple days away from getting back on the field – the light at the end of a long road.
Britni moved through the hallways of South Terrebonne like a ghost. The school year was well underway, but she felt like she’d barely been there, floating through each day in a daze, present only in the most physical sense. Almost a year had passed since Romeo’s death, and still, her world remained fractured, its broken pieces lying around here, untouched and irreparable.
She used to have friends, so many friends – people who cared about her, who she could lean on, and who she thought she’d always know. Now, they were shadows, no longer part of her life, either pushed away by her silence or distance themselves from her tragedy.
She understood. She was a different person now, and her silence, her desolation, was as much an unwelcome reminder for them as it was a prison for her.
Every step down the hall felt weighed down by whispers. The new students, unaware of her story, looked on with curious eyes as her former classmates murmured of her history, their words seeping through cupped hands and careful glances. She knew they talked about her and Romeo, the boy she’d loved since she was fourteen. They’d been inseparable. Now, she was alone, a rumor turned flesh, and she hated it.
She felt as though she’d taken him for granted, grounding her in ways she only understood now that he was gone.
When the final bell rang, she barely noticed, slipping out of the classroom, shuffling her feet all the way to her car. Her parents had never stopped worrying about her since Romeo’s death, watching as she withdrew from life. She walked in the door, a hollow greeting falling from her lips as she brushed by her moth, who looked at her with a mix of love and helplessness.
Britni headed straight to her room, the comforting isolation of those four walls both a relief and a prison. She lay on her bed, pulling her phone out of her backpack with practiced numbness.
Social media was her escape. It was the one place where she could scroll and feel distant from reality, like her life hadn’t been swallowed by grief. Her fingers moved over the screen automatically, the faces of classmates and strangers blurring together in her feed. She would have scrolled aimlessly for hours, lost in the mundane lives of others, had it not been for a post that jolted her back to what she’d tried to escape.
Someone had shared a clip about University Lab’s upcoming season, and there she saw his face. Not Romeo’s, the one she longed for, but Royce’s. He stood on a football field, where Romeo should’ve been, laughing with his friends, what Romeo should’ve been doing. The reporter emphasized him, speaking of Royce as some unknown entity that could be a star in the making.
A wave of fury washed over her, hot and violent. She read the caption on the post, a half-joke about Royce coming back from the dead and appearing in an entirely different city like a bad 1970s movie. A surge of bitterness rose in her chest, thick and suffocating. Nowhere did they mention what Royce has miraculously recovered from, what he’d taken.
It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Why does he get to live?!” she screamed, flinging her phone across the room, bits of glass shattering against the wall. The pain and rage, simmering since that night, broke free in torrents of tears.
“It’s not fair. It’s not fair,” she repeated, her voice cracking as she collapsed onto the bed, willing Romeo to hear her.
Her fists balled into her pillow, and she cried until her voice was nothing more than a whisper. In her heart, she couldn’t, wouldn’t stop blaming Royce. To her, he was the one should’ve been lost, not Romeo.
Eventually, exhausted, she closed her eyes, praying for the numbness to return, so she could pretend, if only for a while, that her heart wasn’t broken beyond repair.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce sat on the edge of the examination table, the sterile scent of the physical therapy room filling his senses, still flipping between having been used to it and it being jarring every time he walked into the building. The steady beep of equipment and murmurs of other patients working through their own rehab process filtered through the door.
Today marked the end of his journey to recovery – months of stretching, strengthening and pushing past pain barriers he hadn’t known existed. He’d never truly grown used to the monotonous grind, the endless reps that sometimes felt as fruitless as they did necessary.
And now, at last he hoped, it was almost over.
Dr. Richards walked into the room, holding his fist out to Royce as he’d done multiple times a week for the better part of eight months.
“Royce,” he said, settling down on a stool across from him. “I’ll be honest with you. We truly thought that you’d still have a ways to go at this point in your recovery. The injuries you sustained were extensive, but you’ve gained back nearly all of your mobility, which I won’t sugarcoat, is surprising.”
He nodded. He knew he was defying the odds. His body told him so every day, after every practice. He may have been able to move mostly like he used to, but he’d pay for it with bouts of pain that sometimes floored him. But he refused to wait, every day off the field felt like a lost opportunity, a stolen moment.
“I had to get back on my feet. I ain’t like feeling like I couldn’t do anything,” Royce said, shrugging.
The old doctor signed, laying the clipboard on his lap as he leaned forward, his gaze steady and serious. “Look, I understand that. You’ve been open about that since we started here, and I can get it. You’re a young guy. You don’t want to be in here with these old fogies lifting five pound weights.”
“But I also have to warn you, because you’re young and have that youthful exuberance,” Dr. Richards continued. “You’re never going to be completely healed. Your body hasn’t been left unscathed. You’re going to have recurring issues, I’m sure you already do. Pain in your leg and hand, in your side. It might go away years down the road, it might not. We never know with these kinds of things.”
Royce nodded, but his focus was already drifting, his mind already on getting out of that room, and on with his life. He’d manage his injuries as he’d managed risk to his body for years on the field. It had been a price he was willing to pay before and it was a price he was willing to pay now.
Dr. Richards, sensing Royce’s waning attention, cleared his throat. “I need you to hear this, though, Royce. I know you’re back on the field, and we okayed that, but you have to understand the risk that you’re taking. If you suffer any breaks to your leg or your hand, we could be talking about permanent damage. It might not click now, but it may in the future when you’re thinking about your health.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with implications Royce refused to consider, but he managed a nod, keeping his expression neutral. “I got it, Doc. Don’t go out there trying to hurdle nobody and get my leg broken,” he said, injecting some levity into his tone to try to sound reassuring.
After another minute of reminders and cautionary statements, Dr. Richards sighed and held out his hand, his expression softening slightly. “Alright, that’s everything from me, Royce. When’s the first game?”
“Next Friday,” Royce said as he shook the doctor’s hand. “Woodlawn.”
The man looked up at the ceiling, thinking about his own days as a high school athlete. “They got you starting yet?”
Royce shrugged. “I think it’s still up in the air if I’ll play at all.”
“David always was like that,” Dr. Richards said of Coach Cunningham, laughing. “We’ll be rooting for you either way. Just remember what we talked about.”
“Thanks, Doc. I will.”
He walked out of the clinic with a weight lifted, his steps light with the anticipation of freedom. Things would never be the same, but he was ready to put one more thing behind him and start fresh.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce walked through the front door, setting his duffel bag down on the floor despite Rana’s regular requests that he not do so, little brother habits dying hard. The faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen mingled with the distant hum of the TV, but his attention was caught by the low murmurs of Tyrell’s voice coming from the dining room.
Tyrell and Roni hunched over her homework, their heads bent close as Tyrell explained something. Roni looked bewildered, her eyes dating between Tyrell’s calm expression and the scribbles on her notebook.
“Okay, so if the force acts on the object here, then what happens to the acceleration?” Tyrell asked, tapping a spot on Roni’s paper with his pen.
Roni chewed her lip, visibly struggling. “Um… it increases?” she guessed hesitantly, looking up at Tyrell.
He grinned, nodding approvingly. “Exactly. Acceleration’s directly related to force. If something pushes something with wheels, it’s not going to stop until something stops it, right? Good job.”
“When they started talking about that shit in middle school?” Royce asked as he walked through the dining room to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.
“It’s for honors!” Roni said, a hint of annoyance in her voice at Royce not remembering that she was in advanced classes.
“My bad. I wasn’t in no honors back then. They had me in the regular folk classes without the eggheads,” Royce joked, leaning on the counter.
Tyrell glanced over his shoulder at Royce. “What’d the doctor say? You gotta keep going back or they say that you’re done?”
“They said I’m done, but my leg might fall apart if I walk up too many stairs. I don’t know why they keep bringing it up like I don’t know. The shit is attached to my hip, I know if I’m having problems with it or not.”
“They’re doctors. That’s what they’re going to do. They’re not doing their jobs if they don’t tell you about all the risks.”
“I get it. Don’t make it any less annoying,” Royce said. He looked back at the fridge. “Rana got food in here?”
“Probably. By the way,” he began, picking up his phone and holding it up briefly. “I was talking to my guy who knows some folks at Southern. I know they kinda dropped the ball on you, but they wanted to know if you’re ‘game ready.’ Sounds like they were checking up on you again, seeing where you’re at with everything.”
Royce brought the water bottle up to his mouth, taking a sip and swishing the water around before swallowing, debating how he felt about that news. “What’s that mean?”
“They’re probably still interested. Kicking the tires to see if they can get you off the board before you get out on the field and turn into a superstar.”
“I ain’t about to be no superstar,” Royce laughed.
“Like I said, they’re just trying to get back in the race before anyone else.”
Keeping his expression nonchalant, Royce shrugged. “If they’re willing to offer me a scholarship then I’ll listen to what they got to say. They didn’t even offer me last year. Just talked to hear they own voice.”
“Welcome to recruiting,” Tyrell laughed. “Let me know if you want me to put you in touch with their coach. I probably got a couple favors I can call in.”
“Appreciate it, bruh,” Royce said.
Tyrell looked back down at Roni’s homework, seeing that she’d moved on to the next question. He waited for her to finish before jumping in to guide her toward the right answer.
Taking his phone out of his pocket, Royce headed back to the guest room, feeling more grounded, more focused than he had in months, for this time next week, he’d be a couple days away from getting back on the field – the light at the end of a long road.
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Britni finna gun him down
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Paper Placards
Royce sat at a table in the back of the library, where the chatter was sparse. Across from him, Sadie leaned on her elbows, twirling a pen between her fingers. Royce listened as she talked about some house party she’d gone to over the week, nodding along and chiming in whenever it seemed she was looking for a response.
“And then you got Taya dancing on a table with a bunch of young niggas standing around her like they’re at the Penthouse. I tried to keep her up there as long as possible since she was getting money,” she said with a laugh, her voice rising in pitch as she reenacted the scene. “We probably could’ve gotten out there with a few racks if they didn’t figure out they weren’t going to get any.”
“Oh, y’all wild wild. Here I was thinking that you were a quiet, church-going type of girl,” Royce joked, offering her a smile.
“Who said I didn’t go to church the next day? I’m in that pew every week, thank you. Pastor Johnson is my uncle.”
“I guess I gotta make sure that I’m on my Ps and Qs whenever you finally let me come over to the crib, huh?”
Sadie laughed. “Yep. My parents are going to ask you where you go to church and everything, make sure that you’re not Catholic or a Presbyterian or something like that. Only Baptists allowed over there.”
“Yes, Lord,” he said, taking on the tone of a Baptist preacher.
She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes like she was studying him. “You know, I just realized something about you.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re like… weirdly good at listening,” she said, her tone accusatory, but her smile soft. “Almost too good. I mean, we’ve been sitting here for an hour, and I don’t think you’ve said a single thing about yourself.”
Royce shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “That’s a bad thing, now? Y’all be on Twitter and shit complaining about niggas not listening and just trying to get in y’all draws.”
Sadie crossed her arms, eyeing him with suspicion. “Nah, it’s that it’s not normal. Either you perfectly the art of staying all mysterious or something.”
His smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but he quickly recovered. There was a lot he didn’t talk about—to much, in fact. He didn’t need to have any heart to hearts about his past with anyone.
“Maybe,” he said with a sly smile. “I’m just the perfect dude. Good looking, attentive, don’t rush things. You better snap me up before someone else does. You gonna be over there missing out on Mr. Right.”
She laughed, leaning back in her chair and rolling her eyes. “Fine, Mr. Right. I guess I’ll let you keep your secrets for now.”
She stood up, gathering her bag and shoving her notebook inside. “Text me later?” she asked, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You still owe me that bite to eat. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been avoiding that.”
“I got you Saturday,” Royce said.
She laughed, running her hand through her curls as she walked away. “You better not wait too long or you’re going to be the one thinking you missed out,” she called back.
As soon as Sadie disappeared from view, a new figure slide into the seat she’d vacated. Alix glanced over her shoulder, watching Sade leave, before turning back to Royce with a raised eyebrow.
“Damn, she’s fine. Got a body like Meg,” she said, tapping her fingers against the table.
Royce choked out a chuckle, raising an eyebrow. “Jealous? Mad you built like Taylor Swift?”
“First of all, you know good and well that I got way more ass than Taylor Swift. Don’t try to play me,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “But I’m hardly jealous. Just mapping out chessboard if you catch my drift.”
“Yeah, alright,” Royce said, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “What I’m hearing is a jealous woman, which is crazy considering you the one that told me that you don’t want a relationship.”
“You can believe whatever you want to make yourself feel better.”
“Don’t worry, I will Aye Swizzle,’ he said, poking fun at her again. He paused for a second before leaning in closer. “So, I heard you been sneaking around with a new dude. What’s his name? Vic? That short for Vicky?”
Alix rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smile played on her lips. “Look who’s talking about someone being jealous. But he’s name’s Victor, thank you very much,” she corrected. “And he’s… nice.”
“Nice, huh? Stick a fork in that nigga. He going in the friendzone.”
“Stop it,” she said, swatting at Royce’s arm. “He’s just kind of a slow mover. He’s got the whole ‘good guy’ thing going on. Kinda like you.”
Royce shook his head. “Don’t lump me in with that negro. I’ve fucked you. Ain’t nobody was slow rolling anything.”
“That makes it sound like I wasn’t the one who had to get you to do something. You were scared, remember?”
“Never been scared of pussy in my life, love,” Royce said. “You know Malik got a problem with your new guy, huh?”
“Malik got a problem with a lot of shit,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She shifted in her seat, checking her phone before slipping it back into her pocket. “Are you coming over tonight? It’s been a while.”
He sat back in the chair, crossing his arms. “I don’t know. We got the game in a couple days. Old heads always told me don’t have sex before you compete. Tires you out.”
“Oh, that’s what they told you?” Alix said, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You playing?”
“I don’t know. We’ll find out when we find out.”
She walked around the table and leaned closer to him. “Well, sounds like you don’t have a reason to not come see me if you don’t know if you’re playing or not.”
He thought about for a moment, scratching his chin. Before finally saying, “What time?”
“I’ll text you,” she said, standing up. “When my parents go to sleep.
Royce watched her go, a smirk tugging at his lips.
~~~~~~~~~~
Coach Cunningham sat at the head of the conference table, flanked by his assistant coaches. The preseason had drawn to a close, and they were down to the final task before the season opener: locking in the depth chart. Royce’s name had come up more than once during camp, a linebacker with impressive tenacity but limited experience. Now, Cunningham had to decide how much faith he could place in that potential for their first game.
He tapped the table lightly. “Alright, let’s talk about the defensive rotation,” he began, his gaze steady as he looked around at his staff. “We need a strong linebacker core, no mistakes. I want input on who should start and who’s coming in off the bench. We all know the opener can make or break the season momentum.”
Coach Vaughn, the defensive coordinator, leaned forward. “I’ll say it again—Royce has earned a serious look,” he said, nodding. “His reads are sharper, he’s closing the gaps with speed, and his tackling has been solid all through camp. He’s got that hunger you don’t always see. We put him in as a starter, and he’s gonna go hard every play. I don’t think the pressure will rattle him.”
Cunningham listened carefully. Royce was a player who’d quickly gained attention in camp, not just for his relentless energy, but for the sense of purpose he brought to each drill. But Cunningham knew how critical experience was for a linebacker, who needed to not only cover his assignments but also adjust to the offense’s formations in real-time. A bad read could be disastrous in a game this close.
“McDaniels?” Cunningham turned to the offensive coordinator, even though linebackers weren’t his area. McDaniels often had a unique perspective on the defense from practicing against them.
McDaniels looked at his notes. “From what I’ve seen going against him in practice, Royce is a force, but he’s still raw. Donovan and Justin bring stability, and they’re the ones with game-time experience. Tyler’s also got the instincts we need, especially in high-stress situations. Royce might be better suited coming off the bench—keeping him fresh for when we need someone who can disrupt their rhythm later in the game.”
Cunningham nodded. It was a common argument: experience and stability versus raw potential. Royce had shown he could pressure the backfield and close the gaps, but starting was a different animal. Facing a seasoned offense in the first few drives wasn’t like going full speed in practice.
Coach Vaughn spoke up again, leaning his elbows on the table. “I get that. But I’d argue Royce’s upside gives us an advantage in the opener. His motor alone is enough to throw their offense off-balance. And that kind of energy—it spreads. Put him out there early, and he’ll get the rest of the guys fired up.”
Coach Smith weighed in. “There’s no question Royce has the spark. But Donovan, Justin, and Tyler have been consistent under pressure, especially Tyler. That kid’s always in the right spot when we need him. I’d say we start with our vets and let Royce come in when we need fresh legs and a change of pace. That way, he’s not carrying the weight of the game from the start.”
Cunningham leaned back in his chair, listening to the coaches make their cases. He respected Vaughn’s faith in Royce—loyalty to a player’s progress was a mark of a good coach. But the risk of having an inexperienced player out there was real, especially at linebacker, where they’d need smart, quick decisions on every down.
“Alright,” he said finally. “We start with Donovan, Justin, and Tyler. Royce comes in as a sub early in the rotation, so he gets a chance to make an impact while keeping our base defense solid. That way, we still have the option to adjust in the second half if we need more of that intensity he’s been showing in practice.”
Coach Vaughn exhaled and nodded, conceding to the decision. “Understood, Coach.”
With the starters now decided, Cunningham looked toward the whiteboard, where each player’s name was listed under their position. Royce’s name wasn’t there in a permanent slot yet. Vaughn picked up a marker, writing Royce’s name on a sticky note and placing it just under the starters, symbolically marking him as the next man up.
“Royce still needs to know he’s on our radar,” Vaughn added, sticking the note carefully under the starters’ names. “The kid’s been hungry for this chance.”
The other coaches around the table nodded in agreement. They all knew how hard Royce had worked, and it was clear the decision weighed on each of them in different ways.
“Alright, everyone,” Cunningham said, wrapping up. “We stick with the lineup for the first half, but be ready to make adjustments. We’ll monitor Royce’s impact and see if he’s ready for a bigger role in the second half. No one’s locked in or out here—everyone earns their spot game by game.”
The coaches murmured their agreement, shuffling through their notes and collecting their binders as they prepared to head out. As they filed out of the room, Cunningham remained behind, his gaze resting on Royce’s name written on the sticky note.
In Royce, Cunningham saw a young player trying to prove himself, but he also saw a responsibility—to foster that talent without letting it fizzle under the pressure of the spotlight. Royce was still learning, still finding his rhythm, and the coaches had all seen enough athletes get overwhelmed when they were pushed too quickly.
“Let’s see what you’re made of, Royce,” Cunningham said quietly to himself, a hint of resolve in his tone. The season opener was just around the corner, and he knew the decision they’d made tonight could impact the entire season.
Royce sat at a table in the back of the library, where the chatter was sparse. Across from him, Sadie leaned on her elbows, twirling a pen between her fingers. Royce listened as she talked about some house party she’d gone to over the week, nodding along and chiming in whenever it seemed she was looking for a response.
“And then you got Taya dancing on a table with a bunch of young niggas standing around her like they’re at the Penthouse. I tried to keep her up there as long as possible since she was getting money,” she said with a laugh, her voice rising in pitch as she reenacted the scene. “We probably could’ve gotten out there with a few racks if they didn’t figure out they weren’t going to get any.”
“Oh, y’all wild wild. Here I was thinking that you were a quiet, church-going type of girl,” Royce joked, offering her a smile.
“Who said I didn’t go to church the next day? I’m in that pew every week, thank you. Pastor Johnson is my uncle.”
“I guess I gotta make sure that I’m on my Ps and Qs whenever you finally let me come over to the crib, huh?”
Sadie laughed. “Yep. My parents are going to ask you where you go to church and everything, make sure that you’re not Catholic or a Presbyterian or something like that. Only Baptists allowed over there.”
“Yes, Lord,” he said, taking on the tone of a Baptist preacher.
She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes like she was studying him. “You know, I just realized something about you.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re like… weirdly good at listening,” she said, her tone accusatory, but her smile soft. “Almost too good. I mean, we’ve been sitting here for an hour, and I don’t think you’ve said a single thing about yourself.”
Royce shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “That’s a bad thing, now? Y’all be on Twitter and shit complaining about niggas not listening and just trying to get in y’all draws.”
Sadie crossed her arms, eyeing him with suspicion. “Nah, it’s that it’s not normal. Either you perfectly the art of staying all mysterious or something.”
His smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but he quickly recovered. There was a lot he didn’t talk about—to much, in fact. He didn’t need to have any heart to hearts about his past with anyone.
“Maybe,” he said with a sly smile. “I’m just the perfect dude. Good looking, attentive, don’t rush things. You better snap me up before someone else does. You gonna be over there missing out on Mr. Right.”
She laughed, leaning back in her chair and rolling her eyes. “Fine, Mr. Right. I guess I’ll let you keep your secrets for now.”
She stood up, gathering her bag and shoving her notebook inside. “Text me later?” she asked, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You still owe me that bite to eat. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been avoiding that.”
“I got you Saturday,” Royce said.
She laughed, running her hand through her curls as she walked away. “You better not wait too long or you’re going to be the one thinking you missed out,” she called back.
As soon as Sadie disappeared from view, a new figure slide into the seat she’d vacated. Alix glanced over her shoulder, watching Sade leave, before turning back to Royce with a raised eyebrow.
“Damn, she’s fine. Got a body like Meg,” she said, tapping her fingers against the table.
Royce choked out a chuckle, raising an eyebrow. “Jealous? Mad you built like Taylor Swift?”
“First of all, you know good and well that I got way more ass than Taylor Swift. Don’t try to play me,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “But I’m hardly jealous. Just mapping out chessboard if you catch my drift.”
“Yeah, alright,” Royce said, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “What I’m hearing is a jealous woman, which is crazy considering you the one that told me that you don’t want a relationship.”
“You can believe whatever you want to make yourself feel better.”
“Don’t worry, I will Aye Swizzle,’ he said, poking fun at her again. He paused for a second before leaning in closer. “So, I heard you been sneaking around with a new dude. What’s his name? Vic? That short for Vicky?”
Alix rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smile played on her lips. “Look who’s talking about someone being jealous. But he’s name’s Victor, thank you very much,” she corrected. “And he’s… nice.”
“Nice, huh? Stick a fork in that nigga. He going in the friendzone.”
“Stop it,” she said, swatting at Royce’s arm. “He’s just kind of a slow mover. He’s got the whole ‘good guy’ thing going on. Kinda like you.”
Royce shook his head. “Don’t lump me in with that negro. I’ve fucked you. Ain’t nobody was slow rolling anything.”
“That makes it sound like I wasn’t the one who had to get you to do something. You were scared, remember?”
“Never been scared of pussy in my life, love,” Royce said. “You know Malik got a problem with your new guy, huh?”
“Malik got a problem with a lot of shit,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She shifted in her seat, checking her phone before slipping it back into her pocket. “Are you coming over tonight? It’s been a while.”
He sat back in the chair, crossing his arms. “I don’t know. We got the game in a couple days. Old heads always told me don’t have sex before you compete. Tires you out.”
“Oh, that’s what they told you?” Alix said, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You playing?”
“I don’t know. We’ll find out when we find out.”
She walked around the table and leaned closer to him. “Well, sounds like you don’t have a reason to not come see me if you don’t know if you’re playing or not.”
He thought about for a moment, scratching his chin. Before finally saying, “What time?”
“I’ll text you,” she said, standing up. “When my parents go to sleep.
Royce watched her go, a smirk tugging at his lips.
~~~~~~~~~~
Coach Cunningham sat at the head of the conference table, flanked by his assistant coaches. The preseason had drawn to a close, and they were down to the final task before the season opener: locking in the depth chart. Royce’s name had come up more than once during camp, a linebacker with impressive tenacity but limited experience. Now, Cunningham had to decide how much faith he could place in that potential for their first game.
He tapped the table lightly. “Alright, let’s talk about the defensive rotation,” he began, his gaze steady as he looked around at his staff. “We need a strong linebacker core, no mistakes. I want input on who should start and who’s coming in off the bench. We all know the opener can make or break the season momentum.”
Coach Vaughn, the defensive coordinator, leaned forward. “I’ll say it again—Royce has earned a serious look,” he said, nodding. “His reads are sharper, he’s closing the gaps with speed, and his tackling has been solid all through camp. He’s got that hunger you don’t always see. We put him in as a starter, and he’s gonna go hard every play. I don’t think the pressure will rattle him.”
Cunningham listened carefully. Royce was a player who’d quickly gained attention in camp, not just for his relentless energy, but for the sense of purpose he brought to each drill. But Cunningham knew how critical experience was for a linebacker, who needed to not only cover his assignments but also adjust to the offense’s formations in real-time. A bad read could be disastrous in a game this close.
“McDaniels?” Cunningham turned to the offensive coordinator, even though linebackers weren’t his area. McDaniels often had a unique perspective on the defense from practicing against them.
McDaniels looked at his notes. “From what I’ve seen going against him in practice, Royce is a force, but he’s still raw. Donovan and Justin bring stability, and they’re the ones with game-time experience. Tyler’s also got the instincts we need, especially in high-stress situations. Royce might be better suited coming off the bench—keeping him fresh for when we need someone who can disrupt their rhythm later in the game.”
Cunningham nodded. It was a common argument: experience and stability versus raw potential. Royce had shown he could pressure the backfield and close the gaps, but starting was a different animal. Facing a seasoned offense in the first few drives wasn’t like going full speed in practice.
Coach Vaughn spoke up again, leaning his elbows on the table. “I get that. But I’d argue Royce’s upside gives us an advantage in the opener. His motor alone is enough to throw their offense off-balance. And that kind of energy—it spreads. Put him out there early, and he’ll get the rest of the guys fired up.”
Coach Smith weighed in. “There’s no question Royce has the spark. But Donovan, Justin, and Tyler have been consistent under pressure, especially Tyler. That kid’s always in the right spot when we need him. I’d say we start with our vets and let Royce come in when we need fresh legs and a change of pace. That way, he’s not carrying the weight of the game from the start.”
Cunningham leaned back in his chair, listening to the coaches make their cases. He respected Vaughn’s faith in Royce—loyalty to a player’s progress was a mark of a good coach. But the risk of having an inexperienced player out there was real, especially at linebacker, where they’d need smart, quick decisions on every down.
“Alright,” he said finally. “We start with Donovan, Justin, and Tyler. Royce comes in as a sub early in the rotation, so he gets a chance to make an impact while keeping our base defense solid. That way, we still have the option to adjust in the second half if we need more of that intensity he’s been showing in practice.”
Coach Vaughn exhaled and nodded, conceding to the decision. “Understood, Coach.”
With the starters now decided, Cunningham looked toward the whiteboard, where each player’s name was listed under their position. Royce’s name wasn’t there in a permanent slot yet. Vaughn picked up a marker, writing Royce’s name on a sticky note and placing it just under the starters, symbolically marking him as the next man up.
“Royce still needs to know he’s on our radar,” Vaughn added, sticking the note carefully under the starters’ names. “The kid’s been hungry for this chance.”
The other coaches around the table nodded in agreement. They all knew how hard Royce had worked, and it was clear the decision weighed on each of them in different ways.
“Alright, everyone,” Cunningham said, wrapping up. “We stick with the lineup for the first half, but be ready to make adjustments. We’ll monitor Royce’s impact and see if he’s ready for a bigger role in the second half. No one’s locked in or out here—everyone earns their spot game by game.”
The coaches murmured their agreement, shuffling through their notes and collecting their binders as they prepared to head out. As they filed out of the room, Cunningham remained behind, his gaze resting on Royce’s name written on the sticky note.
In Royce, Cunningham saw a young player trying to prove himself, but he also saw a responsibility—to foster that talent without letting it fizzle under the pressure of the spotlight. Royce was still learning, still finding his rhythm, and the coaches had all seen enough athletes get overwhelmed when they were pushed too quickly.
“Let’s see what you’re made of, Royce,” Cunningham said quietly to himself, a hint of resolve in his tone. The season opener was just around the corner, and he knew the decision they’d made tonight could impact the entire season.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7864
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
About damn time 
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Get Royce out there on the opening kickoff. See if he for real.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
