Dying to Live
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7866
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
You setting my boy up, I know how you write
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16861
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
On the Record
Royce knocked on Coach Cunningham’s door, glancing through the window to make sure that he was at his desk as he said he would be.
“You wanted to see me, Coach?” he asked, stepping into the room.
The whiteboards were filled with the gameplan for their next game against Port Allen. Printouts covered the coach’s desk and there were so many laptops and tablets open around him that you’d think that he was running Geek Squad out of his office.
All this for a team that UHigh was almost guaranteed to beat and beat handidly.
“Yeah, sit down,” Cunningham said, pointing to the chairs on the opposite side of his desk.
Royce moved a stack of folders out of one of the chairs, putting them on top of an equally large stack on the other chair. The in-depth game planning despite the caliber of opponent a reminder of what was at stake for the Cubs players, college scholarships after state championship rings.
Coach Cunningham leaned back, arms crossed, watching Royce carefully. “You’ve been named the Sportsline Player of the Week. They’re going to come after practice and interview you for their story.”
“I don’t want to do no interview, Coach,” Royce said. “They can go talk to someone else about that.”
The old coach nodded. “I get that, but I’m going to give you two reasons why this is going to help you. It gives you some exposure for schools looking to offer you a scholarship and it shows those schools that you know how to handle yourself with a camera shoved in your face. You don’t want to be the kid saying something stupid after you get your asses whipped 47-10 in Tuscaloosa. The only way to do it is to do it.”
“I mean, I guess. I ain’t no quarterback, though. How often are people going to be wanting to talk to me?”
“You’d be surprised, son.” Coach Cunningham handed him a media release form. “Take a picture of that and send it to your guardian and tell them to sign it. I think we already got one for you, but I just want to make sure.”
Royce looked over the piece of paper. “All they gonna ask about is football?”
The coach paused before answering. “I’m not going to lie to you, son. They’re definitely going to ask about your brother. It’s a part of your story. They go ask the kid at EA about his life and he’s going to tell them ‘aw, shucks, mister. We country boys just like to fish.’ That’s not getting eyes on their newscast.”
Royce nodded, feeling more apprehension about the interview than he did only moments ago. “Alright, Coach. I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I ask. That and for you not to let this get in your head and throw you off during practice. We need you focused for Port Allen.”
…
Royce spent the rest of the day in his head, Coach Cunningham’s words turning over in his mind. During lunch, he found Malik sitting on a bench, languidly sending texts with one hand as he ate Hot Cheetos with the other.
Royce sat down next to him, snatching up the bag of chips and tossing it in his lap. “Nigga, why you eating like the dumb bitch in the back of a class that be like ‘Miss-uh. I need to go-uh’?”
“You spend so much time fucking with bitches like that that you done started associating everyone eating fucking Cheetos with it, huh? A man can’t eat chips in peace now without someone saying some shit,” Malik said, rolling the bag up and throwing them into his backpack.
“That’s you be fucking with them 504 hoes. Gotta take off they helmet before they give you some head and shit.”
Malik held his hands up. “Say, bruh. Head is head. If a Helen Keller ass bitch wanna suck my dick then who am I to turn her down?”
“You going straight to fucking hell.”
“But I’m gonna go there after getting my dick sucked,” Malik laughed.
“Man, you fucking stupid,” Royce shook his head. His tone turned serious. “Say, you ever did one of these Sportline interviews?”
Malik raised an eyebrow, rubbing his chin. “Nah, I ain’t never been the player of the week. They ain’t seeing my shine. Why? You got it last week or something?”
“Yeah, Coach called me into his office earlier and told me. He said they’re probably going to ask about more than just football though and I don’t know if I want to be talking about all that shit so some white folks can pity me.”
Malik sucked his teeth. “They gonna look at you and pity you anyway. You Black in Baton Rouge. They gonna pity you and then clutch they purse if they see you within 100 miles of Perkins or Highland.”
“So, you’d do it?”
“If I were you? Fuck yeah, you ain’t got but two schools trying to get you signed. You better go get on them people camera so they can put your highlights all over the place for fucking free.”
“What about the other shit?”
Malik shrugged. “Man, if some niggas shot me and my brother, I’d want to talk about my brother every chance I got to make sure people ain’t forget him. I know it’s still fresh, but it ain’t like it’s going to get easier to talk about him a couple years. Someone gotta keep his memory alive.”
Royce paused, taking in his words for a moment. “Yeah, you right.”
…
Later that day, Royce found himself seated in a quiet corner of the football stadium, facing a reporter and cameraman. He grabbed at the collar of his jersey, shifting uncomfortably in the director’s chair they’d plopped down for him.
Alce Guidry whispered something to the cameraman who walked out in front of Royce and held a white piece of paper in front of him for a moment before stepping back behind the camera.
“Alright, Royce,” Alce said. “We’re going to start simple. Can you say and spell your name for us.”
“Yeah,” Royce cleared his through. “Royce Lafitte. R-o-y-c-e L-a-f-i-t-t-e.”
“Perfect. I like that you got a bit of that Houma accent. A lot of my folks grew up down there so it reminds me of home. So, congratulations on being named this week’s Sportsline Defensive Player of the Week. You’ve really popped up out of nowhere on this UHigh team. I remember talking to Coach Cunningham back in the summer and your name wasn’t even on the roster. You’re from down the bayou in Houma, right?”
“Yeah,” Royce said, stopping there, but Alce’s prodding look prompted him to add on to his answer. “Yeah, I went to Terrebonne the last couple of years. Houma Junior High for my freshman year. Moved up here in January, went out for the team and here I am.”
“I know it must’ve been hard for you to switch schools your senior year, especially with the death of your brother, Romeo.”
Royce froze for a moment, debating whether to say anything. Coach Vaughn hovered nearby to make sure nothing went awry, but he didn’t seem like he was paying attention to the interview, trusting Royce not to say anything they told him not to.
“I wouldn’t be here without Rome,” he started, his voice rough. “I didn’t even like football like talking about when we were kids. I played it because he played it. I didn’t want to be on the same side of the ball as him, though, because everyone already confused us. Our TPR team wanted both us in the backfield. Him at quarterback and me at running back. I cried all week until they said they wouldn’t make me play both ways. We did everything together, man. Thought we were going to go to college together too, but y—yeah.”
“He must’ve been a big influence,” Alce said, his tone softening in a practiced manner.
“I wouldn’t say it like that. We pushed each other. Like any other brothers, we were competitive. I’m sure any of these guys would say the same about their brothers,” Royce said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the team. “But we were twins so it wasn’t just ‘oh your brother did this last year.’ He did it yesterday. I did it today. But when you’re close like, twins, you feel like you’re supposed to take care of each other, watch out for each other. I failed him on that.”
His words hung heavy in the air, the rawness of it pressing down on them both. He took a shaky breath, thinking about stopping but there was no point now. “I let him down when he needed me the most. And I can’t change that.”
Alce looked over at the cameraman who gave him a thumbs up before he responded. “That must be hard for a young guy like you to live with. But do you think, in a way, playing the way you do keeps his memory alive, even if he’s not here?”
Royce swallowed hard. “I’m putting on for both of us. I know I gotta live out the dream that he can’t. He was the one heading to a big school. We were supposed to go on an official to Kentucky the next week after… Every time I step on that field, I’m playing like that game could be my last because I know, for real, that it could be.”
“Thanks, Royce,” Alce nodded. “Alright, let’s talk about Port Allen. Y’all are running through the district part of your schedule and at times it looks too easy…”
…
The story aired later that night and the buzz on social media had taken over by the time repeated on the 10 p.m. news. Word spread fast, and it seemed like Royce’s story was everywhere, his face appearing on feeds, people cheering him on, telling stories about their own brothers, their own losses. Fans started tagging their favorite college teams, urging them to recruit him because he had “real character.”
Royce sat in his room, scrolling through the deluge of messages he had between Instagram and Twitter. His phone lit up with texts from the guys, Arianna, Toni and Alix.
’My cousins wanted me to tell you that they didn’t know they were meeting a celebrity the other day,’ Alix joked with a laughing emoji.
The text he got from Sadie was less jovial.
’So, that’s what you been hiding,’
Royce left that one on delivered, not knowing how to answer it.
Other messages were even less positive.
But as he scrolled through his Instagram, he saw a familiar name pop up on his screen, someone he never expected to hear from again – Britni.
’He’s in the ground because of you, and you’re living the superstar life that you took from him. We all knew you were always jealous of Romeo no matter what you said in front of that camera. WE KNOW. How do you sleep at night?’
He read the words a couple of times before sucking his teeth and starting to type out a scathing response that she was talking about his brother and that she was just a bitch that he used to fuck, but he took a deep breath and deleted the message before hitting sense.
As if being hit with some kind of instant karma a stream of texts and messages from college recruiters asking how they could get in contact with him drowned out any negative messages.
Regardless of what anyone thought, he was chasing his own dreams and he was chasing Romeo’s.
Royce knocked on Coach Cunningham’s door, glancing through the window to make sure that he was at his desk as he said he would be.
“You wanted to see me, Coach?” he asked, stepping into the room.
The whiteboards were filled with the gameplan for their next game against Port Allen. Printouts covered the coach’s desk and there were so many laptops and tablets open around him that you’d think that he was running Geek Squad out of his office.
All this for a team that UHigh was almost guaranteed to beat and beat handidly.
“Yeah, sit down,” Cunningham said, pointing to the chairs on the opposite side of his desk.
Royce moved a stack of folders out of one of the chairs, putting them on top of an equally large stack on the other chair. The in-depth game planning despite the caliber of opponent a reminder of what was at stake for the Cubs players, college scholarships after state championship rings.
Coach Cunningham leaned back, arms crossed, watching Royce carefully. “You’ve been named the Sportsline Player of the Week. They’re going to come after practice and interview you for their story.”
“I don’t want to do no interview, Coach,” Royce said. “They can go talk to someone else about that.”
The old coach nodded. “I get that, but I’m going to give you two reasons why this is going to help you. It gives you some exposure for schools looking to offer you a scholarship and it shows those schools that you know how to handle yourself with a camera shoved in your face. You don’t want to be the kid saying something stupid after you get your asses whipped 47-10 in Tuscaloosa. The only way to do it is to do it.”
“I mean, I guess. I ain’t no quarterback, though. How often are people going to be wanting to talk to me?”
“You’d be surprised, son.” Coach Cunningham handed him a media release form. “Take a picture of that and send it to your guardian and tell them to sign it. I think we already got one for you, but I just want to make sure.”
Royce looked over the piece of paper. “All they gonna ask about is football?”
The coach paused before answering. “I’m not going to lie to you, son. They’re definitely going to ask about your brother. It’s a part of your story. They go ask the kid at EA about his life and he’s going to tell them ‘aw, shucks, mister. We country boys just like to fish.’ That’s not getting eyes on their newscast.”
Royce nodded, feeling more apprehension about the interview than he did only moments ago. “Alright, Coach. I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I ask. That and for you not to let this get in your head and throw you off during practice. We need you focused for Port Allen.”
…
Royce spent the rest of the day in his head, Coach Cunningham’s words turning over in his mind. During lunch, he found Malik sitting on a bench, languidly sending texts with one hand as he ate Hot Cheetos with the other.
Royce sat down next to him, snatching up the bag of chips and tossing it in his lap. “Nigga, why you eating like the dumb bitch in the back of a class that be like ‘Miss-uh. I need to go-uh’?”
“You spend so much time fucking with bitches like that that you done started associating everyone eating fucking Cheetos with it, huh? A man can’t eat chips in peace now without someone saying some shit,” Malik said, rolling the bag up and throwing them into his backpack.
“That’s you be fucking with them 504 hoes. Gotta take off they helmet before they give you some head and shit.”
Malik held his hands up. “Say, bruh. Head is head. If a Helen Keller ass bitch wanna suck my dick then who am I to turn her down?”
“You going straight to fucking hell.”
“But I’m gonna go there after getting my dick sucked,” Malik laughed.
“Man, you fucking stupid,” Royce shook his head. His tone turned serious. “Say, you ever did one of these Sportline interviews?”
Malik raised an eyebrow, rubbing his chin. “Nah, I ain’t never been the player of the week. They ain’t seeing my shine. Why? You got it last week or something?”
“Yeah, Coach called me into his office earlier and told me. He said they’re probably going to ask about more than just football though and I don’t know if I want to be talking about all that shit so some white folks can pity me.”
Malik sucked his teeth. “They gonna look at you and pity you anyway. You Black in Baton Rouge. They gonna pity you and then clutch they purse if they see you within 100 miles of Perkins or Highland.”
“So, you’d do it?”
“If I were you? Fuck yeah, you ain’t got but two schools trying to get you signed. You better go get on them people camera so they can put your highlights all over the place for fucking free.”
“What about the other shit?”
Malik shrugged. “Man, if some niggas shot me and my brother, I’d want to talk about my brother every chance I got to make sure people ain’t forget him. I know it’s still fresh, but it ain’t like it’s going to get easier to talk about him a couple years. Someone gotta keep his memory alive.”
Royce paused, taking in his words for a moment. “Yeah, you right.”
…
Later that day, Royce found himself seated in a quiet corner of the football stadium, facing a reporter and cameraman. He grabbed at the collar of his jersey, shifting uncomfortably in the director’s chair they’d plopped down for him.
Alce Guidry whispered something to the cameraman who walked out in front of Royce and held a white piece of paper in front of him for a moment before stepping back behind the camera.
“Alright, Royce,” Alce said. “We’re going to start simple. Can you say and spell your name for us.”
“Yeah,” Royce cleared his through. “Royce Lafitte. R-o-y-c-e L-a-f-i-t-t-e.”
“Perfect. I like that you got a bit of that Houma accent. A lot of my folks grew up down there so it reminds me of home. So, congratulations on being named this week’s Sportsline Defensive Player of the Week. You’ve really popped up out of nowhere on this UHigh team. I remember talking to Coach Cunningham back in the summer and your name wasn’t even on the roster. You’re from down the bayou in Houma, right?”
“Yeah,” Royce said, stopping there, but Alce’s prodding look prompted him to add on to his answer. “Yeah, I went to Terrebonne the last couple of years. Houma Junior High for my freshman year. Moved up here in January, went out for the team and here I am.”
“I know it must’ve been hard for you to switch schools your senior year, especially with the death of your brother, Romeo.”
Royce froze for a moment, debating whether to say anything. Coach Vaughn hovered nearby to make sure nothing went awry, but he didn’t seem like he was paying attention to the interview, trusting Royce not to say anything they told him not to.
“I wouldn’t be here without Rome,” he started, his voice rough. “I didn’t even like football like talking about when we were kids. I played it because he played it. I didn’t want to be on the same side of the ball as him, though, because everyone already confused us. Our TPR team wanted both us in the backfield. Him at quarterback and me at running back. I cried all week until they said they wouldn’t make me play both ways. We did everything together, man. Thought we were going to go to college together too, but y—yeah.”
“He must’ve been a big influence,” Alce said, his tone softening in a practiced manner.
“I wouldn’t say it like that. We pushed each other. Like any other brothers, we were competitive. I’m sure any of these guys would say the same about their brothers,” Royce said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the team. “But we were twins so it wasn’t just ‘oh your brother did this last year.’ He did it yesterday. I did it today. But when you’re close like, twins, you feel like you’re supposed to take care of each other, watch out for each other. I failed him on that.”
His words hung heavy in the air, the rawness of it pressing down on them both. He took a shaky breath, thinking about stopping but there was no point now. “I let him down when he needed me the most. And I can’t change that.”
Alce looked over at the cameraman who gave him a thumbs up before he responded. “That must be hard for a young guy like you to live with. But do you think, in a way, playing the way you do keeps his memory alive, even if he’s not here?”
Royce swallowed hard. “I’m putting on for both of us. I know I gotta live out the dream that he can’t. He was the one heading to a big school. We were supposed to go on an official to Kentucky the next week after… Every time I step on that field, I’m playing like that game could be my last because I know, for real, that it could be.”
“Thanks, Royce,” Alce nodded. “Alright, let’s talk about Port Allen. Y’all are running through the district part of your schedule and at times it looks too easy…”
…
The story aired later that night and the buzz on social media had taken over by the time repeated on the 10 p.m. news. Word spread fast, and it seemed like Royce’s story was everywhere, his face appearing on feeds, people cheering him on, telling stories about their own brothers, their own losses. Fans started tagging their favorite college teams, urging them to recruit him because he had “real character.”
Royce sat in his room, scrolling through the deluge of messages he had between Instagram and Twitter. His phone lit up with texts from the guys, Arianna, Toni and Alix.
’My cousins wanted me to tell you that they didn’t know they were meeting a celebrity the other day,’ Alix joked with a laughing emoji.
The text he got from Sadie was less jovial.
’So, that’s what you been hiding,’
Royce left that one on delivered, not knowing how to answer it.
Other messages were even less positive.
But as he scrolled through his Instagram, he saw a familiar name pop up on his screen, someone he never expected to hear from again – Britni.
’He’s in the ground because of you, and you’re living the superstar life that you took from him. We all knew you were always jealous of Romeo no matter what you said in front of that camera. WE KNOW. How do you sleep at night?’
He read the words a couple of times before sucking his teeth and starting to type out a scathing response that she was talking about his brother and that she was just a bitch that he used to fuck, but he took a deep breath and deleted the message before hitting sense.
As if being hit with some kind of instant karma a stream of texts and messages from college recruiters asking how they could get in contact with him drowned out any negative messages.
Regardless of what anyone thought, he was chasing his own dreams and he was chasing Romeo’s.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7866
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Britni a sicko forreal. That's what she gets for having her name spelled like that though.
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Wonder how Britni’s gonna take Royce out? 
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Agent
- Posts: 11811
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 22:54
Dying to Live
Straight to jail
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16861
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Not a Choir Boy
Royce shuffled from one foot to the other, nervous energy coursing through him as he scanned the offense. Port Allen’s quarterback stood in shotgun, pointing out potential rushers and calling out adjustments. The tight end stood up and reset, shifting slightly inward. Royce barked out an adjustment, signaling his own change to the defensive line. His teammates adjusted, aligning to exploit the offense.
The quarterback started his cadence, his voice echoing across the line. Royce balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to spring forward. When the quarterback snapped the ball, he exploded off the line, daring between the left guard and tackle who were too slow to pick him up.
By the time the quarterback reached the top of his drop, Royce was at full speed. Scanning for an open target, he didn’t see Royce cutting in from his blindside. Royce raised his arm as the distance closed, bringing it down on the quarterback’s right as he used his other arm to grab the quarterback’s jersey to spin him down.
The ball was jolted loose as the quarterback fell to the turf. A Pelicans offensive lineman was the first to jump on the ball, keeping possession, but Royce would be credited with the sack.
He sprang up, flexing his left arm and thumping his bicep with his other hand, letting out a triumphant roar as his teammates rushed over to celebrate.
…
“That’s sack number four for UHigh’s Royce Lafitte. He’s been absolutely terrorizing Port Allen’s offense tonight. Fourth and long coming up for the Pelicans with the score remaining 49-14 Cubs.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce sat on the patio as he flipped through what felt like dozens of envelopes, packed with recruitment collateral from schools around the country. The names on them still shocked him despite the calls, texts and emails that had accompanied them – Alabama, Auburn, Georgia Tech, Oregon State, South Carolina, Houston, TCU, Tennessee, and those were just the big schools. Every school in a Group of 5 conference had reached out to roll the dice.
When Malik had suggested that doing that interview with WAFB would put his name out there, he figured that he might get an extra look from the Louisiana-Lafayette’s of the world, not that Nick Saban’s Alabama would be reaching out to him.
Tyrell walked out onto the patio, holding a beer and a pressure washer gun, a part of the honey do list that Rana had given him. “Man, you got these schools running behind you like you owe them money. You better watch out before they start sending girls to DM you and try to baby trap you into a scholarship.”
Royce looked from Georgia Tech’s packet. “You speaking from experience? You got some kids you ain’t telling my sister about?”
“We ain’t have that back then, lil’ bro.”
“Yeah, they had to send your ass a telegram, some shit with some fucking morse code, right?”
Tyrell hit Royce on the shoulder with the pressure washer gun. “You gonna stop messing with me about how old I am or I’m gonna have to beat your ass to show you that I ain’t too old to whip one of you young boys.”
“Throw your hip out trying to do that. You know,” Royce started, picking up Tennessee’s packet. “It’s kinda wild how all this is going. It went from zero to 100. One day, I’m wondering if I’m even going to be playing football again and next thing you know,” he gestured at all of the envelopes.
“Yeah, you playing with big boys now. That’s why. They’re coming to see this player or that player and you’re out there, too. It ain’t like back at Terrebonne when your play gotta convince them to come out just for you. Now, they can try to get four or five of you.”
Royce nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. I guess I spent so little time watching Rome deal with this that I never really paid attention to the ins and outs. He had a shoebox with all this kind of shit in it. All I needed was a lil’ rubber band to wrap around like two generic interest letters.”
“You gotta play it smart, though. They’re all going to be telling you what they think you need to hear even if it’s just selling you a dream. If you wanna start or something, don’t take them at their word. One of those coaches leave at the end of the year then they want someone else to have that job.”
“So, what you’re saying is,” Royce held up the Crimson Tide’s packet. “I should commit to Alabama right now because Saban ain’t going nowhere?”
“He old. He might.”
“That man sold his soul to the devil. He ain’t going nowhere.”
“If I were you, I’d really consider Southern or one of those smaller schools. You know they’re not selling you bullshit. If they say you’re going to get PT, you’re going to get PT and they’re not going to bring in some transfer to start over you.”
“Right,” Royce said, nodding. He sighed, standing up as his phone started vibrating with texts from the crew about a party later that night. He tapped on the beer bottle hanging from Tyrell’s hand as he passed. “Better not drink too many of these while Rana got you out here working like a slave.”
“You better take notes! This how you get a woman to stay!”
“Yeah, alright,” Royce laughed.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce rubbed his eyes as his phone buzzed on the nightstand, the light streaming in through the window reminding him how late he’d stayed out the previous night. Groaning, he reached for it, squinting at the message from Sadie: ’Church starts in an hour. Pick you up?’
He dragged a hand across his face, the dull throb of a headache pressing at his temples. Memories of last night’s party flashed through his mind – loud music, drinks in hand, people cheering as he and Malik went shot for shot. Sadie had been asking him to go to church with her for weeks. He knew he should, knowing how much it meant to her.
But he just couldn’t.
’Nah, hungover’ he texted back.
A few moments later, his phone buzzed again. ’It’s important to me, Royce. I want you to come. Please?’
He shook his head, running his hand over his hair. ’Nah. Can’t do it. Too hungover. Hit me up next week’
There was no response to that text as she left him on read.
Throwing his phone back on the nightstand, he went back to sleep.
…
Royce leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand on the faucet and the other holding a glass of water he was sipping from, waiting for his headache to subside. He glanced out of the window, confused as he saw Sadie’s Altima pull up to the end of the driveway. She hopped out of the car, wearing her Sunday’s best.
Royce put the cup down, walking outside to meet her. Her face was set in a hard expression.
“What you doing here?” he asked, sitting down on the doorstep as the world threatened to start spinning again. “How you even know my address?”
“You sent it to me when you were trying to get me over here to fuck. You couldn’t come with me for a couple hours? You up here looking like you haven’t gotten out the damn bed all damn day.”
He looked down at his attire of a tanktop and basketball shorts. “I told you I ain’t feel good. Even if a nigga was lying, that ain’t mean you gotta come up here like a crazy ex-girlfriend.”
“No, I came here because it’s harder to say no to someone in person. We so-called talking and you can’t do one thing for me because I asked? This is important to me. If you’re trying to do something here then it needs to be important to you, too.”
“Fuck you mean, man? Church?”
“Yes. I like partying as much as the next person, but that’s not going to come between me and God.”
Royce sucked his teeth, waving his hand at the comment. “That religion shit for you. I know that shit fake. Ain’t no light at the end of that tunnel, love. Ain’t shit waiting for you on the other side.”
Her expression darkened as if his words hit a nerve. “Wow,” she said, her voice low. “That’s how you really feel, huh?”
“I’m just saying. I ain’t stopping you from going to church. We can still kick it even if I don’t. It ain’t stop nothing before why it’s stopping anything now?”
Silence filled the space between them, heavy and brittle.
“That’s the problem with y’all, man,” she said quietly, arms folder over her chest. “I bet if one of them wh—You know what? Maybe you’re right. It sounds to me like we’re not a match because you keep doing everything to show me you don’t think so.”
“Now, you tripping. What are we even arguing for?”
“Because I want something real and you’ve already shown that you’ll hide parts of your life from me. Now, you can’t even do something that’s important to me when I’ve asked once because you been out all night drinking and shit.”
He threw his hands up. “What you wanted me to say? ‘Hey, my brother and me? We got shot. He dead. I almost died. That shit was crazy, though.’?”
“You childish as fuck when you really get down to it,” she said, sucking her teeth. “All I’m asking for is what y’all be giving them white girls y’all be chasing behind. But I should’ve known better with that ‘say, love’ shit.”
“Man, I ain’t chasing behind no white girls. I’m talking to you. That’s it.”
Sadie raised an eyebrow, staring at him for a moment but not speaking the words she seemingly wanted to. Instead, she flicked her hand at him. “Boy, bye. You let me know when you want to grow up.”
He thought about going after her as she walked away. But he didn’t. He just shook his head, stood up, and went back in the house to go back to sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~
The afternoon sun began its descent toward the horizon, casting a warm, mellow light over the small park where people from the neighborhood gathered after church. A slow, easy energy settled over the area as kids sprinted between tables piled with fried chicken, potato salad and homemade sweet tea.
Families milled around, catching up on gossip and exchanging laughter. Malik reached over one of his cousin’s shoulders, grabbed a chicken drumette off his plate much to the younger boy’s chagrin.
“You wasn’t gonna eat that anyway. Got too much pepper for you,” Malik laughed as he walked around the line of people, greeting some of the elders of the neighborhood as they admonished him for messing with his cousin.
His jaw tightened as he looked up to see Poochie walking toward him. He was dressed in a designer hoodie, a gold chain gleaming around his neck. He spotted Malik, too, and approached with a careful expression, hands shoved into his pockets.
“What’s good?” Poochie said, nodding slightly.
“Fuck nigga,” Malik’s tone was sharp, dismissive.
“When you gonna let that hate in your heart go, bruh? Ain’t that what we all supposed to be here for? Put down the guns, do whatever else? This shit got old four, five years ago. I don’t even know what you beefed out over.”
“I should snatch that fake ass chain for you saying that dumb ass shit to me,” Malik said, sucking his teeth. “It don’t even matter what the beef’s over. It’s beef so like I been told you when I see you it’s up.”
Poochie took his hands out of his pockets. “We used to be boys, man. Used to be out in the street throwing the ball around, kicking it, playing the game even though you suck at Madden. If anyone changed up, it’s you.”
“Nigga, you out here rapping about killing niggas and shit and telling me that I changed up. You ain’t never even been in a fight, Eric,” Malik said, putting emphasis on Poochie’s real name. “You a fake, a fraud, a phony. Everybody know it. They just hang around your ass waiting for you to fuck up so they can send the drop to the big homies.”
“That shit right there,” Poochie said, pointing at Malik. “That’s why you really mad. You mad that I got SEC offers and you scraping together from garbage shit. You a jealous ass little bitch if we keep it a buck. But I’m trying to squash it because this shit stupid.”
Malik looked him up and down, his lips curling into a mocking smile. “Nigga, you out here coping pleas? Like I said, ain’t never been in a fight and know that you can’t fight so you gotta talk your way out of shit.”
“Bruh, look around,” Poochie swung his arm around. “This is about growing up. They got kids out here. Kids in the neighborhood. Probably the only two from the street making it out is me and you and they see us beefed out.”
“Nah, what they seeing is that you a bitch ass nigga,” Malik laughed. “I ain’t letting shit go until I get my one.”
Poochie’s face hardened. “I ain’t letting you fuck up shit for me because you still made about some shit that happened when we were 11, 12 years old.”
“Do what you gotta do, bruh. We can go ask Choupic to put on the gloves right now if you worried about the police coming pick you up for getting your ass beat.”
“You ain’t understanding. You gonna be stuck on that shit forever,” Poochie said, turning to walk away, his shoulders tense.
Malik watched him for a moment before bringing the chicken drumette up to his mouth to take a bite, nodding at the near perfect taste.
He held it up, turning to the old heads. “Aye, who cooked this shit?”
Royce shuffled from one foot to the other, nervous energy coursing through him as he scanned the offense. Port Allen’s quarterback stood in shotgun, pointing out potential rushers and calling out adjustments. The tight end stood up and reset, shifting slightly inward. Royce barked out an adjustment, signaling his own change to the defensive line. His teammates adjusted, aligning to exploit the offense.
The quarterback started his cadence, his voice echoing across the line. Royce balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to spring forward. When the quarterback snapped the ball, he exploded off the line, daring between the left guard and tackle who were too slow to pick him up.
By the time the quarterback reached the top of his drop, Royce was at full speed. Scanning for an open target, he didn’t see Royce cutting in from his blindside. Royce raised his arm as the distance closed, bringing it down on the quarterback’s right as he used his other arm to grab the quarterback’s jersey to spin him down.
The ball was jolted loose as the quarterback fell to the turf. A Pelicans offensive lineman was the first to jump on the ball, keeping possession, but Royce would be credited with the sack.
He sprang up, flexing his left arm and thumping his bicep with his other hand, letting out a triumphant roar as his teammates rushed over to celebrate.
…
“That’s sack number four for UHigh’s Royce Lafitte. He’s been absolutely terrorizing Port Allen’s offense tonight. Fourth and long coming up for the Pelicans with the score remaining 49-14 Cubs.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce sat on the patio as he flipped through what felt like dozens of envelopes, packed with recruitment collateral from schools around the country. The names on them still shocked him despite the calls, texts and emails that had accompanied them – Alabama, Auburn, Georgia Tech, Oregon State, South Carolina, Houston, TCU, Tennessee, and those were just the big schools. Every school in a Group of 5 conference had reached out to roll the dice.
When Malik had suggested that doing that interview with WAFB would put his name out there, he figured that he might get an extra look from the Louisiana-Lafayette’s of the world, not that Nick Saban’s Alabama would be reaching out to him.
Tyrell walked out onto the patio, holding a beer and a pressure washer gun, a part of the honey do list that Rana had given him. “Man, you got these schools running behind you like you owe them money. You better watch out before they start sending girls to DM you and try to baby trap you into a scholarship.”
Royce looked from Georgia Tech’s packet. “You speaking from experience? You got some kids you ain’t telling my sister about?”
“We ain’t have that back then, lil’ bro.”
“Yeah, they had to send your ass a telegram, some shit with some fucking morse code, right?”
Tyrell hit Royce on the shoulder with the pressure washer gun. “You gonna stop messing with me about how old I am or I’m gonna have to beat your ass to show you that I ain’t too old to whip one of you young boys.”
“Throw your hip out trying to do that. You know,” Royce started, picking up Tennessee’s packet. “It’s kinda wild how all this is going. It went from zero to 100. One day, I’m wondering if I’m even going to be playing football again and next thing you know,” he gestured at all of the envelopes.
“Yeah, you playing with big boys now. That’s why. They’re coming to see this player or that player and you’re out there, too. It ain’t like back at Terrebonne when your play gotta convince them to come out just for you. Now, they can try to get four or five of you.”
Royce nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. I guess I spent so little time watching Rome deal with this that I never really paid attention to the ins and outs. He had a shoebox with all this kind of shit in it. All I needed was a lil’ rubber band to wrap around like two generic interest letters.”
“You gotta play it smart, though. They’re all going to be telling you what they think you need to hear even if it’s just selling you a dream. If you wanna start or something, don’t take them at their word. One of those coaches leave at the end of the year then they want someone else to have that job.”
“So, what you’re saying is,” Royce held up the Crimson Tide’s packet. “I should commit to Alabama right now because Saban ain’t going nowhere?”
“He old. He might.”
“That man sold his soul to the devil. He ain’t going nowhere.”
“If I were you, I’d really consider Southern or one of those smaller schools. You know they’re not selling you bullshit. If they say you’re going to get PT, you’re going to get PT and they’re not going to bring in some transfer to start over you.”
“Right,” Royce said, nodding. He sighed, standing up as his phone started vibrating with texts from the crew about a party later that night. He tapped on the beer bottle hanging from Tyrell’s hand as he passed. “Better not drink too many of these while Rana got you out here working like a slave.”
“You better take notes! This how you get a woman to stay!”
“Yeah, alright,” Royce laughed.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce rubbed his eyes as his phone buzzed on the nightstand, the light streaming in through the window reminding him how late he’d stayed out the previous night. Groaning, he reached for it, squinting at the message from Sadie: ’Church starts in an hour. Pick you up?’
He dragged a hand across his face, the dull throb of a headache pressing at his temples. Memories of last night’s party flashed through his mind – loud music, drinks in hand, people cheering as he and Malik went shot for shot. Sadie had been asking him to go to church with her for weeks. He knew he should, knowing how much it meant to her.
But he just couldn’t.
’Nah, hungover’ he texted back.
A few moments later, his phone buzzed again. ’It’s important to me, Royce. I want you to come. Please?’
He shook his head, running his hand over his hair. ’Nah. Can’t do it. Too hungover. Hit me up next week’
There was no response to that text as she left him on read.
Throwing his phone back on the nightstand, he went back to sleep.
…
Royce leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand on the faucet and the other holding a glass of water he was sipping from, waiting for his headache to subside. He glanced out of the window, confused as he saw Sadie’s Altima pull up to the end of the driveway. She hopped out of the car, wearing her Sunday’s best.
Royce put the cup down, walking outside to meet her. Her face was set in a hard expression.
“What you doing here?” he asked, sitting down on the doorstep as the world threatened to start spinning again. “How you even know my address?”
“You sent it to me when you were trying to get me over here to fuck. You couldn’t come with me for a couple hours? You up here looking like you haven’t gotten out the damn bed all damn day.”
He looked down at his attire of a tanktop and basketball shorts. “I told you I ain’t feel good. Even if a nigga was lying, that ain’t mean you gotta come up here like a crazy ex-girlfriend.”
“No, I came here because it’s harder to say no to someone in person. We so-called talking and you can’t do one thing for me because I asked? This is important to me. If you’re trying to do something here then it needs to be important to you, too.”
“Fuck you mean, man? Church?”
“Yes. I like partying as much as the next person, but that’s not going to come between me and God.”
Royce sucked his teeth, waving his hand at the comment. “That religion shit for you. I know that shit fake. Ain’t no light at the end of that tunnel, love. Ain’t shit waiting for you on the other side.”
Her expression darkened as if his words hit a nerve. “Wow,” she said, her voice low. “That’s how you really feel, huh?”
“I’m just saying. I ain’t stopping you from going to church. We can still kick it even if I don’t. It ain’t stop nothing before why it’s stopping anything now?”
Silence filled the space between them, heavy and brittle.
“That’s the problem with y’all, man,” she said quietly, arms folder over her chest. “I bet if one of them wh—You know what? Maybe you’re right. It sounds to me like we’re not a match because you keep doing everything to show me you don’t think so.”
“Now, you tripping. What are we even arguing for?”
“Because I want something real and you’ve already shown that you’ll hide parts of your life from me. Now, you can’t even do something that’s important to me when I’ve asked once because you been out all night drinking and shit.”
He threw his hands up. “What you wanted me to say? ‘Hey, my brother and me? We got shot. He dead. I almost died. That shit was crazy, though.’?”
“You childish as fuck when you really get down to it,” she said, sucking her teeth. “All I’m asking for is what y’all be giving them white girls y’all be chasing behind. But I should’ve known better with that ‘say, love’ shit.”
“Man, I ain’t chasing behind no white girls. I’m talking to you. That’s it.”
Sadie raised an eyebrow, staring at him for a moment but not speaking the words she seemingly wanted to. Instead, she flicked her hand at him. “Boy, bye. You let me know when you want to grow up.”
He thought about going after her as she walked away. But he didn’t. He just shook his head, stood up, and went back in the house to go back to sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~
The afternoon sun began its descent toward the horizon, casting a warm, mellow light over the small park where people from the neighborhood gathered after church. A slow, easy energy settled over the area as kids sprinted between tables piled with fried chicken, potato salad and homemade sweet tea.
Families milled around, catching up on gossip and exchanging laughter. Malik reached over one of his cousin’s shoulders, grabbed a chicken drumette off his plate much to the younger boy’s chagrin.
“You wasn’t gonna eat that anyway. Got too much pepper for you,” Malik laughed as he walked around the line of people, greeting some of the elders of the neighborhood as they admonished him for messing with his cousin.
His jaw tightened as he looked up to see Poochie walking toward him. He was dressed in a designer hoodie, a gold chain gleaming around his neck. He spotted Malik, too, and approached with a careful expression, hands shoved into his pockets.
“What’s good?” Poochie said, nodding slightly.
“Fuck nigga,” Malik’s tone was sharp, dismissive.
“When you gonna let that hate in your heart go, bruh? Ain’t that what we all supposed to be here for? Put down the guns, do whatever else? This shit got old four, five years ago. I don’t even know what you beefed out over.”
“I should snatch that fake ass chain for you saying that dumb ass shit to me,” Malik said, sucking his teeth. “It don’t even matter what the beef’s over. It’s beef so like I been told you when I see you it’s up.”
Poochie took his hands out of his pockets. “We used to be boys, man. Used to be out in the street throwing the ball around, kicking it, playing the game even though you suck at Madden. If anyone changed up, it’s you.”
“Nigga, you out here rapping about killing niggas and shit and telling me that I changed up. You ain’t never even been in a fight, Eric,” Malik said, putting emphasis on Poochie’s real name. “You a fake, a fraud, a phony. Everybody know it. They just hang around your ass waiting for you to fuck up so they can send the drop to the big homies.”
“That shit right there,” Poochie said, pointing at Malik. “That’s why you really mad. You mad that I got SEC offers and you scraping together from garbage shit. You a jealous ass little bitch if we keep it a buck. But I’m trying to squash it because this shit stupid.”
Malik looked him up and down, his lips curling into a mocking smile. “Nigga, you out here coping pleas? Like I said, ain’t never been in a fight and know that you can’t fight so you gotta talk your way out of shit.”
“Bruh, look around,” Poochie swung his arm around. “This is about growing up. They got kids out here. Kids in the neighborhood. Probably the only two from the street making it out is me and you and they see us beefed out.”
“Nah, what they seeing is that you a bitch ass nigga,” Malik laughed. “I ain’t letting shit go until I get my one.”
Poochie’s face hardened. “I ain’t letting you fuck up shit for me because you still made about some shit that happened when we were 11, 12 years old.”
“Do what you gotta do, bruh. We can go ask Choupic to put on the gloves right now if you worried about the police coming pick you up for getting your ass beat.”
“You ain’t understanding. You gonna be stuck on that shit forever,” Poochie said, turning to walk away, his shoulders tense.
Malik watched him for a moment before bringing the chicken drumette up to his mouth to take a bite, nodding at the near perfect taste.
He held it up, turning to the old heads. “Aye, who cooked this shit?”
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7866
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Malik really a crash out huh 
boy ain't bout no growth
boy ain't bout no growth-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16861
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
That’s why him and Royce get along. Both of them always ready to Swiss cheese something
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Soapy
- Posts: 16614
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42