Dying to Live

[Caesar]

Pour Out the Pain

The air was heavy with the smell of damp grass and adrenaline as UHigh’s defense took the field. Royce tugged on the wrist of his gloves, his breath coming in sharp bursts. The roar of the crowd faded to a dull hum in his ears as he focused on the Glen Oaks quarterback lining up behind the center. The ball snapped, and Royce exploded through the line like a missile.

The running back barely had time to cradle the ball before Royce buried his shoulder in his chest, driving him into the turf. The crack of the collision echoed through the stadium, drawing a collective gasp from the crowd. Royce shoved the player’s head into the turf as he stood up, shoving a lineman.

The referees blew their whistles as a brief shoving match broke out.

“Watch that, five!” the referee barked, pointing at Royce. “We’re not going to tolerate that tonight.”

Coach Cunningham shouted something from the sideline, but Royce didn’t turn to look. He was already setting his sights on the next play.

…

“That’s another big hit by UHigh’s Lafitte who has been running around the field like a man on a mission tonight.”

…

“Lafitte makes the stop in the backfield, but it looks like he swung him down by his facemask. That’s going to be a fifteen yard penalty on the play.”

…

“Lafitte blows up the receiver coming across the middle of the field. That’s another three and out for Glen Oaks.”

…

Royce bit down on his mouthpiece, flexing his hands with nervous energy as he scanned the offense. The Panthers’ quarterback barked out signals at the line of scrimmage, his voice drowned out by the cheers and chants of the crowd. Glen Oaks was down big, and it didn’t look like things were going to get any better for them.

Royce balanced on the balls of his feet. His eyes darted between the quarterback and the running back, reading the play before the snap, making calling out adjustments to the defense.

The quarterback called for the ball, and Royce surged forward, weaving through the offensive line like water slipping through cracks. The running back flared out to the left for a screen pass, and Royce adjusted instantly, closing the distance with speed.

The quarterback floated the ball just over the outstretched hands of a lineman, and the back turned upfield, cradling the pass. Before he could even plat his foot to cut, Royce arrived like a bull in a China shop.

With a brutal, shoulder-first collision, Royce drove the back into the ground. The hit echoed across the field, a sound that silenced the crowd for a heartbeat before erupting into a mix of cheers and groans. The running back lay motionless for moment before rolling onto his side, dazed.

Royce stood over the fallen player, his chest heaving, his face unreadable beneath the helmet. Malik ran over, grabbing Royce by the arm, but it was too late.

The referee’s whistle cut through the noise of the crowd, long and shrill. Flags flew from every corner of the field.

“Personal foul, #5 on the defense. Taunting. Fifteen yard penalty. First down,” the referee announced.

“What the fuck is you doing?” Malik hissed.

Royce shoved Malik away. “He caught the fucking ball and I fucking hit him. That’s what we supposed to do, ain’t it?”

The referee approached, pointing to the sideline. “One more like that, five, and you’re done. You got me?”

Royce gave a curt nod, his jaw tight and turned back to the huddle without a word. Behind him, the Glen Oaks trainers helped the running back to his feet, the player wobbling as they guided him off the field.

For the sideline, Coach Cunningham, his expression a mix of frustration and concern as he shouted toward Royce. “Keep it clean, Lafitte!”

…

“Touchdown UHigh. 30-0.”

…

“Touchdown UHigh. 37-0.”

…

Royce’s intensity showed no signs of fading even as the scoreboard continued to light up for the Cubs. He stalked the sideline, pacing like a caged animal as his teammates laughed and joked around him, Coach Cunningham approached, placing a firm hand on Royce’s shoulder.

“Royce,” the coach said, his voice low and steady, “you’ve got to ease up. We’re winning big, and I’m not going to lose a player to suspension because you can’t rein it in. We’re beating them. We don’t need to hurt them.”

Royce didn’t respond. He couldn’t His chest burned, his mind racing with memories he didn’t want to face—Romeo’s face, pale and lifeless; the suffocating weight of grief at the funeral.

“Royce!” Cunningham bark, snapping him back to the present.

“Yeah, Coach,” Royce muttered. “Yeah, I hear you.”

…

The score had only gotten more lopsided as the third quarter ticked away. Glen Oaks had little fight left, but their quarterback, desperate to salvage something, dropped back for a quick pass on second down. Royce lined up in the middle of the field, seeing the play unfolding before the snap.

The ball left the quarterback’s hand on a tight spiral, a quick slant intended for the slot receiver. The receiver caught it in stride at the has marks, turning his head upfield—and right into Royce’s path.

Royce launched himself, lowering his shoulder and leading with devastating force. The collision was instantaneous and brutal. The receiver’s head snapped back as he was driven into the turf. The ball popped loose on impact and bounced aimlessly toward the sideline. The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers an uneasy murmurs, but the field itself fell silent.

Royce stood over the receiver but Donovan and Justin were quick to shove him back, seeing the referees beginning to look in their direction. The receiver struggled to move, rolling to his knees and then back to his back.

The Panthers’ sideline erupted in anger, coaches shouting and gesturing wildly as they called for the referees to throw a flag, any flag.

Coach Cunningham had seen enough, storming onto to the field to grab Royce by his shoulder pads and dragging him off the field. “Off the fucking field now.”

Royce didn’t fight it, letting himself be shoved by the coach. The crowd buzzed with confusion and frustration as Cunningham shouted at Royce.

“What the hell are you thinking? What did I tell you? You aren’t trying to play football. You’re trying to kill someone out there. You’re out. Sit. Down.”

Royce glared at Cunningham for a long second before walking past him to the far end of the bench. He sat down, yanking off his helmet and throwing down at the ground. His teammates avoided him, sensing the storm brewing inside.

Back on the field, the receiver was helped to his feet, wobbling as two trainers guided him off. The referee gave Cunningham a pointed look.

…

Royce didn’t move from the end of the bench for the rest of the night. When the final whistle blew, the Cubs’ players stormed the field, laughing and shouted as the scoreboard flashed a final of 60-7.

Malik walked over, offering him a hand.

“Come on, man. Game’s over,” he said.

Royce hesitated before standing up. He brushed by Malik, heading toward the locker room alone as the rest of the team shook hands with their opponents. Royce glanced back at the field when he reached the path to the locker room, swearing that he could see the apparition that had replaced his memories of Romeo standing at the corner of the endzone, pointing in his direction.

He was burning the candle at both ends, but he’d burn out completely before he let go of the pain.

[Caesar]

Weight of the World

Royce woke up in a cold sweat, the ghostly residue of his recurring nightmare pressing against his chest like a physical weight. The room was silent save for the hum of the ceiling fan, but his mind buzzed with memories he couldn’t escape. Without a second thought, he got up, grabbing his keys from the nightstand and slipping out of the house.

The hum of the highway filled Royce’s ears as he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles pale against the dark interior of the car. The faint smell of the gym bag in the back seat lingered, but his mind was far from the vehicle. Flashes of Romeo’s face haunted him—his laugh, his personality so different from Royce’s. Royce shook his head as if he could dislodge the memory.

He turned up the volume on the radio, but no song could drown out the thoughts chasing him. The closer he got to Houma, the tighter his chest became. He hadn’t been back since Mardi Gras. He hadn’t wanted to after what happened then.

But something in him had snapped that night, the memory of when he’d stepped out of the house a year ago, heading out to get something to drink and finding himself bleeding on the pavement while his brother died nearby.

He just needed to get back. Set things straight.

…

The gravel crunched beneath Royce’s shoes, the sound sharp and grating in the stillness of the night. He stopped in front of the house, staring at the peeling paint of the porch and the faint outline of where the house number had once been. His breath clouded the cold air.

For a moment, he considered walking away. Maybe Reg was right—maybe there wasn’t anything here for him anymore. But the thought of leaving without at least trying made his chest tighten so he clenched his fist and started up the walkway.

Reg stood up from the chair on the corner of the porch, one of his friends sitting in the chair next to him. Royce and Romeo had done the same thing so many times before, sitting and people watching as the hours ticked by. Reg’s face hardened, slightly obscured by the shadows from the streetlight overhead. The light cast deep shadows on his features, making him look older, harsher.

“What the fuck you doing here, nigga?” Reg asked, his voice flat but loaded with hostility.

“I came to see Ma,” Royce said. “I need to talk to her.”

Reg walked down the porch steps, his eyes narrowing. “She don’t want to see your ass. I already told you before ain’t nothing here for you. Bring your ass back to Baton Rouge before you get your ass whupped again.”

“Nigga, she my mama, too.” Royce’s jaw tightened, the muscles twitching under his skin. “Get the fuck out the way. Ain’t nobody worried about your crackhead ass. You got lucky when I was on my ass, but you already know I’ll deal with you. Get out the way.”

“You hard of hearing?” Reg stepped forward. The scent of cigarettes, dirt and sweat wafted off him. “She don’t wanna see you, nigga. You think you can just keep showing up here after everything you don’t –”

“Everything I done? I ain’t kill him. The niggas who killed him are in jail. If you wanna be big and bad then carry your ass to Dixon and do it there.”

“You did kill him, though. You never could stand that he was better than you. You might not have pulled the trigger, but you put him in the situation for it to happen. He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for your stupid ass.”

Royce sucked his teeth. “Of all motherfuckers to talk about being jealous of they siblings, you the last one to do that shit. You been a clucker since we were kids, now you got a little bit of respect so you want to be big dog with the big dog status. Just remember it took one of your brothers dying and the other one getting fucked up for you to get here.”

Reg snorted, shaking his head. “The streets ain’t forget you ran up to Baton Rouge, leaving a mess behind for everyone else to deal with. Family ain’t forget it either.”

“Ain’t nobody ran nowhere. Y’all know where I’m at.”

“You can carry your ass back to where you been at because you ain’t welcome here.”

Royce shoved Reg, sending him stumbling back. “Nigga, you gonna get the fuck out of my way.”

Reg swung first, his fist clipping Royce’s cheekbone. The sharp sting radiated through Royce’s face, but it only fueled the fire building inside him. He countered with a hook that sent Reg sprawling onto the pavement.

The fight quickly descended into chaos., fists flying, and curses spilling into the air. Years of resentment and unspoken anger spilled out in every punch. Reg swung wildly as he tried to get back to his feet, his blows glancing off Royce’s arms as Royce dodged and retaliated with precision. It wasn’t long before Royce had the upper hand, his left hand pinned Reg down and his right hand raining down punches to the wherever Reg didn’t have his hands blocking.

“Yeah, bitch. Can’t fuck with me when I got two good legs, huh?” Royce panted, his chest heaving as his breath fogged in the cold air. His fist hovered in the space between them, trembling with the effort to hold back.

“Get off him, boy,” their mother’s voice cut through the night like a slap. Both men turned their head toward the house. She stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim light behind her. Her face was etched with exhaustion, her shoulders sagging under the weight of years of heartbreak.

Royce hesitated, the adrenaline still surging through his veins. Slowly, he released Reg and stood, stepping back to give his brother space. Reg scrambled to his feet, brushing gravel off his arms as he shot Royce a stare before climbing the steps back up to the porch.

“Ma,” Royce began, his voice faltering. “I just wanted to---”

“Go,” she said, cutting him off. Her voice was flat, devoid of any warmth or acknowledgement.

“Ma, please,” Royce pleaded, taking a step closer. “I just want to talk to you. Tell you what’s been going on.”

She turned her back to him, retreating into the house without another word. The door clicked shut, and with it, any hope Royce had clung to.

He stood there in the quiet, staring at Reg on the porch, the weight of her silence crushing him more than any of Reg’s punches ever could.

…

Royce’s knock was softer this time, hesitant, as if the weight of everything had drained the strength from him. He shifted from foot to foot, staring at the chipped paint on the door while faint sounds of music filtered through the thin walls. After a moment, the door creaked open, and Arianna appeared, her face a mix of surprise and concern.

“The fuck happened to your face?” she asked, her gaze sweeping over the fresh bruise blooming on his cheekbone and a dried cut above his brow from a lucky elbow that Reg had managed to sneak through the scuffle.

“Don’t worry about it,” Royce muttered, his voice low as he avoided her eyes. He walked past her into his aunt’s house, the familiar scent of lavender and cocoa butter wrapping around him like a reluctant embrace.

Arianna crossed her arms over her chest after closing the door behind him. She followed him into the living room. “Who the fuck you fighting at three in the morning? In Houma no less?”

Royce dropped onto the sofa like a stone sinking into water, his body slumping until her was nearly horizontal. The fabric itched, but he ignored it. His head fell back against the cushions and he closed his eyes, trying to block out everything—the questions, the judgement, the memories chasing him.

“You drunk, nigga?” Arianna asked, stepping closer. Her tone was sharp, but her eyes softened when he didn’t respond right away.

“No,” he said finally, his voice flat and hoarse with exhaustion.

She exhaled a long breath, the irritation in her posture giving way to worry. “Then what happened?” she asked again, gentler this time. “You look like shit.”

“I’m fine,” he said, though the edge in his voice made it clear he didn’t want to talk about it.

Arianna frowned but let it go. “You staying here?”

“For a bit, until the sun come up,” he mumbled, barely opening his eyes.

“Fine,” she said, the word clipped. She turned toward the hallway, pausing before looking back at him. “There’s a blanket in the hall closet. You know where it is.”

Royce didn’t acknowledge her, his eyes sliding shut again as he let his body sink deeper into the cushions. The exhaustion weighing him down was too heavy to fight, and even the low hum of the television in the next room couldn’t keep him awake.

Arianna stood there for a moment longer, watching him. She sighed, shaking her head as she headed down the hall to her room. Mike-Mike peeked around the corner, cautiously eyeing Royce before he retreated to his room as well.

Curled on the sofa, Royce’s breathing slowed as sleep claimed him.

…

The morning sun barely pierced through the gray haze of clouds, its pale light stretching long, thin shadows across the cemetery. Royce’s shoes crunched in the dying grass, the sound loud in the stillness. When he reached Romeo’s grave, he stopped, his chest tightening as he saw the familiar name etched into the cold stone.

Romeo Kevon Lafitte. Only a few letters from being his own name—Royce Kevon Lafitte. It was almost mocking in the way that it was a tie to how close he was to being in the ground next to Romeo. Being in the ground instead of him.

His knees buckled as he lowed himself to the ground, the dampness of the grass soaking through his jeans. He reached out, his trembling fingers brushing over the smooth, cool surface of the tombstone.

“What’s up, Rome?” he said, his voice a fragile whisper. “It’s been a lil’ minute, huh?”

He drew in a shaky breath, repositioning himself so he was sitting next to the tombstone. “I don’t even know where to start, man. Everything’s fucked up since that night. Ma won’t even talk to me. Shit’s just fucked up since that night,” his voice broke and he clamped his jaw shut, struggling to keep the tears at bay. But they came anyway, spilling hot and fast down his cheeks.

“I can’t shake this shit, Rome,” he continued, his voice trembling. “Every time I close my eyes, it’s there. Us walking out that store. The gunshots. The sound of you hitting the ground…” He bit down on his lip, hard enough to taste blood. “I couldn’t save you, man. I should’ve done something. I shouldn’t have had you there. I should’ve—”

His words choked off into a sob, his shoulders shaking as he covered his face with his hands. For a moment, he just sat there, the silence of the cemetery pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t escape.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice cut through his grief like a blade. He froze, lowering his hands as he turned to see Britni standing a few feet away. Her arms hung at her sides, a bouquet of flowers in one hand, her eyes were red, though her expression was hard as stone.

“Britni,” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. He wiped at his face, through the tears were still streaking down. “I… I didn’t know you’d be here.”

She didn’t move, her posture stiff and defensive. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice flat but sharp.

“This is my fucking brother’s grave,” Royce replied, his voice rising with a flash of indignation. “You ain’t about to tell me I can’t be—”

“He’s dead because of you!” Britni’s voice cracked as she screamed, the rawness in her tone cutting through Royce like physical blow. Her face twisted with grief and anger as tears streamed down her cheeks. “You took everything, Royce. Everything!”

Her words hung in the air, sharp and unrelenting. Royce opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. His throat felt like it was closing, and his chest ached with a guilt he couldn’t deny.

“You always wanted to be in the spotlight. That’s why you would always try to drag him down with you,” Britni continued, her voice quieter now but no less devastating. “And look what it cost. Romeo’s dead. He’s gone, and you’re still here, like nothing happened. Living the fucking good life.”

“That’s not true,” Royce managed, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” she interrupted, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “Didn’t drag him into this mess? He always had your back, Royce, no matter how reckless you were. I tried and tried and tried to tell him not to follow you. And now he’s gone. Because of you.”

Royce staggered back as if she’d struck him. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, but the weight of her words pressed down on him until he couldn’t breathe. He looked at Romeo’s tombstone, the name glaring up at him like an accusation.

Britni shook her head, walking forward and shoving him out of the way as she fell to the ground in front of the tombstone, her face crumpling as more tears fell. She turned away, her shoulders trembling with silent sobs.

Royce stood there for a moment, paralyzed, before forcing himself to move. His legs felt like lead as he backed away from the grave, his gaze lingering on the stone and Britni only last time before he turned and walked away.

Her words echoed in his ears.

…

The sound of music played from a hidden phone and speaker, just as Royce remember. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a harsh glow over the shelves stocked with the same snacks and drinks that had once seemed so ordinary. Royce hesitated in the doorway, the memories of that night flashing in his mind like a cruel montage: the laughter, the jokes, the gunshots.

It was followed by an equally harrowing montage of what he’d gone through over the last twelve hours in town.

His shoes scuffed against the linoleum as he swept over the aisles. At the counter, Vanessa was sorting through a stack of receipts, her dark hair tied up in a loose bun. She glanced up, and her movements froze.

“Royce,” she said softly, her voice tinged with surprise and something heavier—sympathy, maybe guilt. “I… I didn’t think I’d see you back here.”

He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, his gaze darting around the store before settling on here. “Yeah, me either,” he muttered, his voice clipped.

Vanessa stepped out from behind the counter. “I’m… I’m so sorry about Romeo,” she said, her words tentative, as if she was afraid they might shatter something fragile.

Royce’s jaw tightened and he took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said gruffly, not trusting himself to say more.

Vanessa hesitated, her brows knitting together. “He was a good guy, Royce. You both were. Always in here, always making us laugh.” She smiled faintly, but it faded when Royce didn’t respond.

He nodded once, a sharp, curt motion, and walked to the cooler. Grabbing a bottle of water, he made his way back to the counter and dropped a couple of crumbled bills on the counter.

Vanessa rang him up in silence, sliding the bottle toward him, she rested fingers on his. “If you ever need someone to talk to—”

“I’m good,” he interrupted, cutting her off as he pulled the bottle away. Without another word, he pushed the door open and stepped outside.

He twisted the cap off the bottle, the memories of that night swirling around him like a storm he couldn’t escape. He half expected that car to come roaring around the corner, ready to finish the job.

As he took a swig, a figure approached from the sideline.

Wandeneka.

She had a toddler balanced on her hip, a little boy with wide eyes and curly hair. Her expression shifted as she spotted Royce, her lips pressing into a thin line and her eyes narrowing.

“Fuck you looking at?” Royce muttered, his voice laced with bitterness as he spint on the ground near her feet.

Wandeneka stopped a few steps away, adjusting the child on her hip. Her voice trembled, but it carried a sharp edge. “You think you’re innocent?”

Royce stilled, his grip tightening on the water bottle.

“You walk around like you ain’t got no blond on your hands,” she continued, her voice rising. “Jeremi’s dead because of you, nigga. You think we all forgot?”

Royce’s lip curled up at the mention of Jeremi’s name, despite the revelation.

Wandeneka shifted the boy on her hip again, her eyes glinting with unshed tears. “He killed himself in prison, you know? Took his own life just to avoid testifying against his brother because you had to start some shit.” She shook her head, her voice breaking. “And what do you do? Walk around here like you’re some kind of victim.”

“Fuck your baby daddy, bitch. I hope he rots in fucking hell,” Royce said, but the accusation weighed on him all the same, combining with the accusations about his role in Royce’s death.

Wandaneka scoffed, pulling her son closer. “Fuck you, motherfucker. Just know you ain’t innocent. You ain’t never been.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked toward the store, her child clinging to her as she disappeared inside.

Royce stood there for a moment. Then, with a heavy sigh, he turned and walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

…

The faint glow of the porch light illuminated Alix as she sat on the steps outside her house, her knees tucked to her chest. Royce’s car crept into the driveway, the engine cutting off with a low rumble. For a moment, he stayed behind the wheel, staring at her. She looked different under the soft light—calmer, but her concern was visible in the way she tapped her fingers against her knee.

When Royce finally stepped out, his shoulder hunched and his steps heavy, Alix rose to her feet. She pulled her sweater tighter around herself, her expression shifting to worry.

“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you and Rana said you just disappeared,” she said softly, her voice laced with a mix of relief and concern.

Royce didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to. His throat felt tight, and his chest ached from the weight of the day. Instead of responding, he staggered toward her.

Alix’s eyes widened as he approached, and before she could say anything else, he collapsed into her arms, almost knocking her over. He buried his head in her chest. His body trembled against hers, silent sobs wracking his frame. Her arms instinctively wrapped around him, one hand pressing gently against the back of his hand, the other rubbing slow circles on his back.

“It should’ve been me,” he choked out, his voice breaking as the words escaped him. “It should’ve been me, Alix.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. She rested her chin lightly on the top of his head. Her own heart twisting at the pain in his voice.

“Royce…” she began, but he interrupted her, shaking his head.

“They were right, man,” he whispered hoarsely. “Britni… Wandeneka… everybody. This is my fault. All of it.”

Alix pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands cupping his face. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression raw with anguish. “Stop,” she said firmly but gently. “Stop blaming yourself.”

“It’s my fucking fault, man. He’s dead because of me. Everyone knows it,” his voice cracked, tears streaming freely now. “I should’ve protected him. I should’ve…”

“You can’t change what happened, Royce,” Alix said, her voice steady even as her own eyes filled with tears. “You can’t keep punishing yourself for something that was out of your control.”

He shook his head again, his fists knotting into her sweater. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice thick with guilt. “It wasn’t out of my control. If I hadn’t—”

She silenced him by pulling him close again, her arms tightening around him as if she could him together through sheer force. “I don’t need to get it,” she said quietly. “I just need you to know you’re not alone.”

Alix pulled back once more. “I got you, Royce.”

His eyes searched hers, filled with doubt and pain.

“Come inside,” she said, her voice softening. “You look like you haven’t eaten or slept in days.”

Royce hesitated, glancing back toward his car. “Nah, I’m just gonna—”

Alix interrupted him, reaching for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “Please,” she added, her eyes pleading. “Let me take care of you.”

He nodded, allowing her to lead him into the house, where the weight of the day began to lift, if only ever so slightly.

[Captain Canada]

Left hook after right hook after left hook...

Royce got smoked in that last update.

[Caesar]

Who Art

The sound of knocking pulled Royce from his restless sleep. He groaned, his body stiff from spending hours with Alix in a bed not meant from two people. He hadn’t had much sleep while he was there, and he’d gotten even less when he got back to Rana’s, his thought still weighing on his mind.

“Come open the fucking door,” Malik’s voice called from outside.

Royce squinted at the clock: 10:31 a.m. His muscles tensed, the reflexive frustration of the last week bubbling up. But after last night—after pouring out his soul to Alix—he couldn’t muster the energy for a fight. He let out a heavy sigh and walked to the front, unlocking the door.

Malik stepped in, his usual swagger subdued. His hands were stuffed in his hoodie pockets, his expression uncharacteristically somber.

Royce sat down at the table, rubbing his eyes to try to wake up. “What you want, man?” he asked, his voice scratchy with exhaustion.

Malik sat across from Royce, leaning back in the chair. “Why ain’t you tell me that this was the week your brother got killed? That’s all you had to tell a nigga, and I would’ve backed off.”

“We talk about our feelings now?” Royce asked. “Figured you knew, or it wouldn’t matter either way.”

Malik sucked his teeth. “Why Black folks gotta be so damn stubborn? Everyone else sit down and pour out they feelings to each other, but we can’t even reach out to the homie and see if they good. That’s why so many of these young niggas out here be crashing out.”

“I told you I’m good. We ain’t gotta keep rehashing it. You know why I was fucked up. Don’t make no sense to cry about it.”

“Nigga, we boys. I know I ain’t known you all that long and shit, but look, I ain’t sentimental either. I’m just saying.”

Royce leaned back in his chair as well, mirroring Malik’s posture. A part of him felt as if he should tell Malik about him and Alix at that moment, but he didn’t have the energy for an argument—or a fight.

Royce shrugged. “Yeah, I’m cool now. It ain’t no problem anymore.”

“You know how I told you about all how we were all living back in the day? In the Top?” Malik asked, leaning on his elbows. “Back when I was a lil’ nigga, we were playing football one night in the street. As much as shit change, it still say the same, huh?” he laughed. “I was like 11 or 12. The whole neighborhood was out there. Even that bitch ass nigga Poochie. My uncle out there with some of the big homies, our cousins and shit. A car at the end of the block creeps up, turns its lights out. You already know what that mean.”

Royce didn’t say anything, letting Malik continue uninterrupted. The two of them had never been the sharing types.

“Three, four motherfuckers leaning out that bitch as it came down the street. Dracs, all that. Spraying the whole block, ain’t worried about nobody out there. Kids screaming, women crying. My uncle owed a nigga some bread. They shot him and a couple of the OGs. One minute, everyone joking around having a good time, next minute, it’s yellow tape and white chalk.”

He shook his head, his voice trailing off.

“Anyway, all that to say, I know about what you dealing with,” Malik said.

Royce nodded, Malik’s words hitting closer to home than he’d expected. After a long pause, he said. “I get it.”

Malik sat back and shrugged. “That’s what I mean about Black folks. We all been through this shit, but we want to hold it in like it make us some shit that we ain’t. What we experience is what we experience.”

“With Rome,” Royce started. “I keep thinking maybe if I’d just let them niggas shoot me when I was running from them, they would’ve dipped and he’d still be alive. Or if I ain’t never fought them at all. Everyone say that shit my fault. You’d think I shot Romeo myself with how people talk about it.”

“That’s people talking from they pain,” Malik said. “You were there with your brother when he died. You almost died. You were with him. That’s all people ask for when someone close to them die.”

“Yeah,” Royce nodded.

“But if your bitch ass start crying in here then I’m gonna clown you at practice every motherfucking day,” Malik said, laughing.

Royce sucked his teeth before laughing as well. “Nigga, ain’t nobody about to cry. It’s your bitch ass that came here to booday at my sister kitchen table.”

“Yeah, whatever, nigga,” Malik reached across the table and the two of them dapped each other up. “Next time you feel like you about to crash out, though. Let me know so you don’t accidentally swing on me and get your ass dealt with.”

“You can’t fight,” Royce laughed. He stood up and walked into the kitchen.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. He scrolled through his messages, his thumb hovering over a certain name. Sighing, he tapped the thread and typed out a quick message.

’What you up to today?’

~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, Royce sat in a church pew, the button down he wore being the only one he owned—the same one he wore to Romeo’s funeral. It didn’t fit too well anymore, but it seemed like a better choice than a hoodie.

He felt like a fish out of water, sitting in an unfamiliar setting, having only been in churches a few times in his life. The light streamed through the stained-glass windows giving the space a warm, almost surreal glow. Sadie sat beside him, dressed in white, her parents were on the opposite side of her. They reminded him of Britni’s parents, pillars of the community, Black excellence.

Royce was searching for something, anything—peace, understanding, maybe forgiveness. He wasn’t sure church would provide any of that, but there he was anyway.

The pastor, a wiry man that Royce felt favored Al Sharpton with a deep resonant voice, stood at the pulpit, his sermon focused on loyalty and redemption.

“Loyalty,” the pastor said, pacing the platform. “It’s not about sticking around when things are easy. No, loyalty is proven in the fire, when things fall apart, when promises are broken. It’s in those moments that we decide who are and who serve.

“And let me tell you. God’s,” he paused, scanning the congregation. “God’s loyalty to us never falters. Not in the fire. Not in the storm. And because of His loyalty, redemption is always possible.”

Royce shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the pastor’s words piercing through him like arrows.

“Redemption,” the pastor continued, his voice growing softer but no less powerful. “It’s not a gift for the perfect. It’s a gift for the broken, the ones who’ve stumbled, the ones who think they’ve gone too far. If you need a word, God put you here today for that reason. Y’all ain’t hear me. God put you here today for a reason. All of God’s children are redeemable because they are created in his image. And God is good all the time. And all the time…”

“God is good,” the congregation said in unison.

Royce swallowed hard, his throat tight. The words felt personal. He glanced at Sadie, who gave him a small, encouraging smile.

…

After the service, Royce lingering near the exit with Sadie. As they stepped outside, Sadie’s parents approached.

“Mom, Dad, this is Royce,” she said, her voice bright. “Royce, these are my parents. Henry and Teresa.”

Royce looked at the couple and it only muddled the character he’d created in his head for Sadie. He knew she liked to go out, but she was in the church pews every Sunday. The well-put together people that were her parents made him think the partying was something she kept from them.

Her father, Henry, was a towering man with a commanding presence, his dark suit neatly pressed. He extended a hand, his grip firm and unyielding. “Nice to meet you, Royce.”

Teresa, Sadie’s mother, had an easy, welcoming smile. She reached out as well, her touch softer. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Royce forced a polite smile, feeling uncomfortable. “Good to meet y’all.”

“Where are you from, Royce?” Henry asked, his tone measured.

He was tempted to lie and say he was from Baton Rouge. Something told him that he needed to keep the distance from who he really was. He glanced at Sadie and decided to be honest. “Down south. Houma.”

Henry nodded, his sharp eyes studying him. “How’d you end up in Baton Rouge?”

“Moved in with family… after the hurricane,” Royce said. “Hurricane Ida.”

He could see Sadie slightly raise an eyebrow out of the corner of his eye.

“That was such a bad one,” Teresa said. “I’m sorry that your family had to go through that. Hopefully things weren’t too bad for you?”

“Roof got peeled off and the house flooded, but we’ll get back on our feet. That’s just the way of life down the bayou. You pick up after everything gets turned upside down.”

“With the Lord as our shepherd,” Teresa said, closing her eyes and nodding.

“Do you go to UHigh?” Henry asked.

“Yes, sir,” Royce said, fidgeting a bit with his hands, growing more uncomfortable by the moment.

“How about your college prospects? Sadie’s deciding between Arizona State and Miami.”

Royce glanced at her, it not being lost on him that both of those universities were known as party schools. “I’m still playing it by ear. I’m close to getting a couple scholarship offers I think so we’ll see what pans out.”

“Oh, you play sports?” Teresa asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Football.”

“Henry used to play for McKinley way back in the 70s! He wasn’t too bad, but he could talk your ear off about it.”

“Those were the days,” he said, nodding.

“Dad, Royce doesn’t want to hear about you playing football with leather helmets,” Sadie interjected.

Seeing a way to get off the hotseat, Royce took it. “Oh no. I’m always up to here about the old days. The game is so different now.”

“You boys pass too doggone much. That’s what’s different,” Henry said, his demeanor changing almost immediately from the scrutinizing father to the sports fan.

…

The better part of an hour later, Sadie and Royce were walking to the parking lot, after Sadie had found a way to end the lengthy conversation between Royce and her father about the intricacies of the 46 defense.

“You know they’re going to look you up and find out why you’re really here, right?” Sadie asked.

Royce shrugged. “My sisters did move up here after the storm. It’s not a complete lie. It’s just something you gotta dig through to find out.”

“Lying in front of the Lord’s House. You’re going to get us both struck down. Why didn’t you tell me about that before?”

“I don’t want everyone pitying me, to be honest with you,” he said.

She turned to him, her expression thoughtful as they came to a stop next to his car. “What do you really want then?”

The question caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean in life,” she said. “You see how I came up. I’m not used to the chaos. That’s how my homegirls live their lives, messing with these young niggas who are either going to be slanging dope, making 10 bastards or shooting it out with the police. Or all of the above. If we’re going to keep seeing each other, I need to know. What do you want?”

Royce hesitated. For so long, his life had been about survival—getting through the day, the week, the month. His life had been the definition of getting it out of the mud.

“I just want normal,” he said finally. “I’m tired of the roaches in the hallway, the crackheads on the corner. Not knowing if the next motherfucker you meet is going to up pole on you because you stepped on his J’s. I’m tired of everything being so hard all the time. I just want normal.”

Sadie studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” she said simply. “I’m good with that.”

As Royce unlocked the car door, she placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “See you around, Royce.”

“You telling me all I have to do was come to church with you a few times and you’ll let me hit? Well, maybe like for a few months at this rate,” Royce laughed.

“Boy, bye,” Sadie said, walking away but laughing, too.

[Captain Canada]

Confused by what Royce is chasing in Sadie while leaning on Alix as a confidant but word. Glad he's starting to reclaim his life, even if its just a bit.

[Caesar]

Confused by what Royce is chasing in Sadie while leaning on Alix as a confidant but word. Glad he's starting to reclaim his life, even if its just a bit.

I could explain it to you, but you gotta understand it.

Also, is he?

[djp73]

Girl fight incoming

[Caesar]

Can’t Shake It

Royce thought his descent back into depression due to the anniversary of Romeo’s death would be brief, only needing a week to shake it and get back to what he now knew as his new normal.

However, that would be far from the case.

By the time the first practice of the week rolled around, Coach Cunningham’s frustration was palpable, radiating form him like heat off the asphalt in summer. Royce could feel the coach’s eyes on him, sharp and searching, every time he lined up for a rep. He knew he was out of sync—his footwork was off, his reactions a split second too slow, and his body language screamed disinterest. He missed easy assignments and whiffed on tackles during live reps.

The emotion and mental toll of everything was beginning to bleed into the physical, no matter how much he tried to stop it.

When practice ended, Royce was already making his way toward the locker room, head down, when Cunningham’s voice cut through the din like a whistle blast.

“Royce! My office. Now.”

The weight of those words hung in the air as Royce stopped mid-stride. HE considered pretending not to hear but knew that would only invite more of the coach’s wrath.

He followed Cunningham into the office. The coach shut the door firmly behind him. Royce stood awkwardly near the chair in front of Cunningham’s desk, not quite sitting, not quite standing.

“Have a seat,” the old coach said, motioning to the chair. Royce sat, leaning back, his hand under his chin.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked, his tone even but edged with concern.

Royce searched for an answer that might diffuse the without exposing too much. “I’m good, Coach.”

“Good?” Cunningham echoed, leaning back slightly and raising an eyebrow. His tone shifted, skeptical and sharp. “Because from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t look good. One week, you’re running around like a madman, hitting everything that moves and now you’re distracted and sloppy. We’re about to hit the playoffs. That’s not good for the team.”

Royce shifted in his seat, leaning forward a bit and dropping his elbows to his knees.

The silence stretched until Cunningham leaned forward as well, his hands pressing flat against the desk. “We’ve been talking about benching you, Royce. We can get someone else in there until you get your head on straight. Or you don’t, but we’re not going to risk the team with how you’re playing out there.”

The words hit Royce unexpectedly hard. The thought of being sidelined, when he didn’t have many more games to impress colleges, sent a jolt of panic through him.

“I just had a bad week. My girlfriend broke up with me. You know how it is, Coach,” Royce said quickly, his voice stiff as he forced out the line.

Coach Cunningham didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied Royce with the kind of patience that made the silence feel unbearable. Finally, he sighed, the disappointment in his expression evident.

“Alright,” he said slowly, leaning back again. “If that’s all it is, then you’ve got to turn it around. Fast. Because we can’t afford this, Royce. We can’t let anyone drag us down.”

Royce nodded. “Got it, Coach.”

“Good,” Cunningham said, his tone clipped. “You’re going to be on a short leash Friday. Any of what we’ve been seeing and you’re going to be watching the game.”

“Yes, sir,” Royce said before getting to his feet and slipping out of the office. As the door closed behind him, the hollowness he’d been carrying all week seemed to deepen.

He passed a mirror on the wall and caught his reflection: the slouched shoulders, the tired eyes, the distant expression. He’d felt like he’d made progress to climbing out of the rut but seeing the image looking back at him, he knew that wasn’t the case.

He pushed the thought aside, stuffing it down like everything else, and focused on surviving the next game.

~~~~~~~~~~

The crowd roared as UHigh’s defense jogged onto the field, the scoreboard showing a comfortable 35-0 lead late in the third quarter. Royce stood in the huddle, his hands on his hips, sweat dripping from his brow. It wasn’t a question of if they’d win—Collegiate hadn’t crossed midfield all game—but of how dominant they could be.

The offense lined up, and Royce took in the formation. They’d been conservative all night, either through fear of putting the ball in the air or knowledge that their offensive line wasn’t good enough to hold up against the Cubs’ pass rush. Third and four was run territory for them.

“Rita! Rita! Rita” Royce shouted to his teammates.

The defense shifted, Malik walking down into the box, adding an eighth player close to the line of scrimmage.

The ball was snapped, and everything seemed to slow. The linemen crashed into each other, and Royce swung his arm down to swim by the tight end and get to the ball carrier. The running back bounced it outside to the right, just as Royce had anticipated.

Royce was on him in an instant, lowering his shoulder and driving into the ball carrier with a thunderous hit. The impact echoed through the stadium, and the running back crumpled to the turf, the ball clutched tightly to his chest.

The stands erupted, his teammates swarming him in celebration.

“Streets need a body!” Malik yelled as he ran toward the sideline with Royce, dapping him up.

Royce accepted the slaps on the helmet and shoulder pads as he jogged off the field. He glanced toward where Coach Cunningham stood, arms crossed, his face unreadable. The coach hadn’t said anything about Royce’s play so far that night, but he knew that could change in an instant.

“If the offense scores on this next drive, starters are out!” Coach Vaughn shouted to the defense as they huddled around him to get any adjustments the defensive coordinator would deem necessary to make—as much as changes were needed when your team was cruising to a big win.

Royce stood at the edge of the huddle, his hands on his hips as he listened to the instructions. He glanced up into the crowd, finding himself looking for any scouts.

Instead, he once again swore he saw the apparition that had been following him, its face hollow and gaunt. He shook his head and it disappeared, replaced by an old woman wearing a t-shirt for Collegiate.

…

“University Lab improves to 8-1 on the season with a 56-0 win over the Collegiate Dolphins. The Cubs will play Parkview Baptist next week with the district title on the line.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was already high in the sky as Royce leaned down to place a ball on the tee. Dew still clung to the grass, glinting in the light as if someone had scattered diamonds over the fairway. Tyrell had woken him early, insisting they play a round, claiming that Royce needed to get out of the house and clear his head. Royce didn’t argue, still feeling bad about his outburst last week.

And welcoming the distraction.

Royce lined up his shot and swung. While he had hitting for distance down, accuracy was not his strong suit as the ball flew into a row of trees lining the edge of the green. Tyrell, on the other hand, was smooth and focused, landing shots with a precision that made Royce mutter under his breath.

By the third hole, Royce cursed as sending another ball into the rough. He tossed the driver aside and went to sit in the cart.

“You’re gonna have a stroke if you keep holding all that in,” Tyrell said, lining up his put. “Blood pressure probably look like an old Black man’s who been chaining smoking Pall Malls all his life, surviving on fried chicken and Hennessy.”

Royce stayed silent, watching as Tyrell sunk his putt with ease.

“You might as well gone on and talk about it because we got fifteen more holes.”

Royce sighed. “I was out of pocket the other day. I shouldn’t have gone off on y’all like that. Y’all are just trying to help me and I know that.”

Tyrell leaned on the putter but didn’t interrupt.

“I try to get a hold on that shit, but it’s like I’m doing good for a few weeks and the next thing you know, I’m ready to crash out. Everything be good on some shit and in my head I got a voice saying ‘nah, blow this shit up.’” Royce shook his head. “But I shouldn’t take it out on you and Rana.”

Tyrell watched him for a moment before walking over to the cart and putting his putter in the bag. “You know what Rana would say right now, right?”

“That I need to go talk to a therapist.”

“So, I ain’t going to say that because she got that covered. You’re dealing with a lot of shit right now. What happened to you and your brother, now you back on the field, all this recruiting shit. That’s a lot of pressure. A lot of different things coming at you. Then that ain’t even to mention all them fast ass lil’ girls you be bringing to the house.”

Royce sucked his teeth. “At least one of them the opposite of fast.”

“I’m just fucking with you,” Tyrell laughed. “You’re just going to have to take it a day at a time because you don’t have another option.”

“I got the Kevon Lafitte option,” Royce said. “Go find someone to front me a bird and flip that shit until I end up in the cell next to my pops. Ain’t that some kind of shit like nature versus nurture. That’s probably my destiny anyway when this football shit don’t pan out.”

“If you were going to end up like that, you’d already be on the corner,” Tyrell got in the cart and drove them in search of where Royce’s shot had landed. “You still got more schools reaching out, don’t you?”

“The big ones slowed down, but yeah, they still reaching out,” Royce nodded.

“Don’t let them oversell you on bullshit. Go somewhere that’s a good situation, not just somewhere you can post on social media about.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Tyrell gestured toward the ball that Royce had hit, slowing the cart to a stop. “I’m going to be honest with you, lil’ bro. You come from a bad situation and it only got worse with what happened to you and your brother. Don’t let that decide how you live your life. Shit don’t get easier unless you eat your fiber.”

“Bruh, what kind of fucking country ass saying was that?” Royce asked, shaking his head.

“One that makes fucking sense,” Tyrell shot back. He pointed to the ball again. “Now go hit that in the water or something so we can just go to the next hole.”

Royce shook his head, getting out of the cart to go take his next shot.

[Caesar]

Dangerous, Dangerous

The hum of the air conditioning blended with the faint chirping of birds outside, creating a soothing backdrop that lulled Royce into stillness. The morning light spilled through Alix’s thin curtains, painting streaks of gold across her walls and catching the faint specks of dust floating lazily in the air. Royce blinked, his gaze drifting to the ceiling before lowering to the girl curled against him.

Alix’s head rested on his chest, her hair ticking his skin as it spread in a loose halo over the blanket. Her hand moved in lazy circles on his forearm, her touch both intimate and aimless, as if she were grounding herself in the moment. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breath, matching the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

For a fleeting moment, Royce felt a rare kind of peace. It wasn’t the all-consuming kind. No, this peace was quieter, more fragile—like a bubble pressing against a needle ready to burst. And he knew it always would.

“You ever think about breaking the curse?” Alix’s voice broke the silence, soft and hesitant as though she wasn’t sure she wanted to be heard.

Royce’s brow furrowed as he glanced down at her. “What curse?”

She tilted her head up, her eyes locking onto his with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, something almost sad. “Broken homes. Broken people. Kids growing up thinking that’s normal. People like us.”

Royce exhaled, pausing to think about her question. “No, not really,” he admitted. “If we could break that cycle we would. Wouldn’t be people living six, seven generations in the same rundown houses if all you had to do was want to fix it.”

Alix’s gaze dropped back to his chest, and her fingers stilled, resting lightly against his skin. “Sometimes, I think about it,” she said quietly. “I have this friend, Marie, and I wish I could have her life all the time. But it’s easier than just wanting it. I’m not saying I have it bad, but I know I’m fucked up.”

Royce shifted beneath her. He didn’t know how to respond to that. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about the weight of where he came from—his family struggles, Romeo’s death, his shooting, the constant balancing act of surviving and thriving. But thinking about it and doing something about it were two entirely different beasts.

“So what? You’re saying we’re just stuck? That’s what you think?” Royce asked.

“Maybe,” she murmured. “Or maybe we’re just scared.”

“Scared? Scared of what?”

She sat up slightly, her hair falling over one shoulder as she looked at him. “Scared of doing something different. Of stepping out of what’s familiar. Even if it’s bad for us, at least we know how it ends.”

He scoffed. “Or we not meant to be nothing different. Most people are born, grow up, die. Ain’t no fairytale shit in there. It’s just how it is.”

“Is it?” she shot back, her tone sharper now. “Be honest, Royce. Do you really think about a future? Beyond whatever it is you’re chasing right now.”

He hesitated. The truth was, he didn’t. One doesn’t come close to dying and suddenly begin future planning. They, or rather Royce at least, do the opposite. He wasn’t taking his life week by week or month by month, he took it hour by hour at best.

“No. Ain’t much to look forward to,” he admitted finally. “Do you?”

“Sometimes,” she said, laying her head back down on his chest. “But it’s hard to picture. Like I know I’m going to college, but is it going to change anything? I see bits and pieces, but nothing that feels real. It’s always like you’re one mistake from just continuing the cycle. Just staying like this.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with this,” Royce said.

“You know,” Alix said after a pause, her voice softer now. “If I were being honest with myself, I’d end this before I messed up things between you and Sadie. She’s better for you than I am. And someone like Vic’s better for me.”

“The fuck you bringing them up for?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

“Because it’s true,” she said simply, her gaze meeting his again. There was no malice in her eyes, only an honesty that made him feel exposed. “I don’t really know her, but I know of her. I know of her family and shit. That’s the kind of thing that grounds someone. She’s not the type to do… to be like me. Vic’s like that, too. His parents are both professors. He’s steady. Safe. There’s no chaos there. Marc would like him. But you and me?” she paused. “We keep each other in the cycle. Same patterns, same mistakes.”

Royce sucked his teeth. He knew, deep down, she wasn’t wrong. “Sadie, since you bringing her up, won’t even let a nigga hit.”

“And you don’t care because I’m here. You can play that game, pretend you want to do the slow and steady thing.”

“But bet that lame ass nigga Vic hitting. You getting your cake and eating it, too.”

She shook her head. “No. He’s all about that old school dating shit. Intentional or whatever. It scares the fuck out of me, because all I can think about is falling for that shit and ending up like my mom. But I know that’s what I should want.”

“So, what you saying is because I’m not coming here with a bowtie and some flowers that he better than me?” Royce asked, his face twisting into a frown.

“I’m not saying that any more than I’m saying that Sadie is better than me because she isn’t fucking you behind your best friend’s back.”

“What you saying then?” he asked, his voice, low, uncertain.

Alix sighed, her fingers resuming their lazy patterns on his arm. “That’s just one of the many reasons we should end this. Whatever this is. I’m holding you back, but I can’t let go. I let you dump all the bad here and pretend everywhere else.”

The weight of her words settled between them, heavy and unavoidable. Royce felt it pressing against his chest, suffocating in its truth. But instead of confronting it, instead of diving into the messiness of what they were to each other, he let the silence stretch.

“Alix,” he started.

She shook her head, her fingers brushing lightly against his hands. “Not now. I don’t want to fight about it. Not today.”

They stayed that way, neither willing to take the conversation further. Eventually, they fell back asleep, leaving the questions and answers to linger, unresolved in the golden-lit room.

~~~~~~~~~~

The tangy scent of lemon pepper wings filled the air as Royce sat in a corner booth in Wing Stop, his phone in one hand and a half-eaten basket of wings in front of him. The muted hum of conversations blended with the bass-heavy hip-hop track playing over the speakers, but Royce wasn’t paying attention. His mind was still on the morning with Alix, replaying their words over and over like a song he couldn’t shake.

The door swung open, letting in a gust of air. Royce’s eyes flicked up just as Poochie walked in, his typical large necklace shining in the fluorescent lights. Behind him a was tall, broad-shouldered man with an intimidating swagger and dark shades that hid his eyes but not his intent.

“Getting used to your new job?” Poochie asked Royce when he noticed him sitting nearby. “Or you more McDonald’s than Wing Stop?”

“I told you in Alabama and I’m going to tell your ass again. It’s on sight when I see you so we can take this outside and catch that one,” Royce said, putting his phone down on the table and leaning back.

The man slid off his shades, revealing sharp, predatory eyes that locked onto Royce like a hawk sizing up its prey. He nodded slightly, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This the lil’ nigga?”

Poochie nodded. “Yeah, he run with Malik and them. Always running his mouth, but I ain’t never seen him do nothing.”

“Sound like Malik.” The man sat down across from Royce, beckoning for Poochie to do the same. His presence immediately made the small table feel crowded. His eyes stayed on Royce, unblinking as if he could read every though running through Royce’s head. He turned to Poochie. “He know who I am?”

Poochie shook his head. “Probably not. He ain’t from BR.” Poochie gestured to the man. “This my cousin, Meech.”

Royce held his hands out. “Like you said, I ain’t from here so I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean to me. If y’all niggas about to do something, then let’s get it over with so I can go back to eating my wings.”

Meech chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. “Relax, little homie. I’m not here for drama. I’m just here to talk.”

“I ain’t got nothing to talk about with y’all.”

“Hear me out, though,” Meech said. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t got anything standing in the way of getting that bag in college.”

“Fuck you talking about, man?” Royce asked.

Meech gestured vaguely, his large hands adorned with heavy rings that caught the light “Opportunities. I like to keep an eye on the young stars in the city, make sure they’re not getting played. It’s a lot of people out there that don’t have your best interest, you feel me?”

Royce sucked his teeth. “I’m good. I don’t need no nigga I don’t know looking out for me.” He looked at Poochie. “That how you get that car?”

Poochie shrugged, but didn’t answer.

“I been doing it on my own. I can keep doing it on my own,” Royce said.

Meech leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His smirk faded into something colder, more calculating. “Football ain’t the only way to get paid, lil’ bro. There’s real mun-yun out there if you know where to look. The kind that don’t depend on scouts or scholarships so you can just focus on balling.”

Royce’s jaw clenched. “Nah, I’m straight.”

Meech studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned back, his smirk returning. “Fair enough. But I’m gonna keep it real with you, slime. We gotta look out for our own. We the only ones that’s going to get us where we need to go. Just something to think about.”

Meech stood, Poochie following suit. The two of them walked to the counter to order, leaving Royce alone at the table. He glanced at Poochie, wondering just how deep the star receiver was in with his cousin.

Shaking his head, he picked up a flat and bit into it. For a moment, he considered leaving, but he knew how that’d look. Instead, he picked up his phone and went back to scrolling through social media.

[Caesar]

Sic ‘Em

Royce pulled on the strings of his hoodie, feeling oddly out of place despite the casual vibe at the community center. Malik had asked him to be there with him as he planned to announce where he’d be going to college. It was one of the worst kept secrets, but he was still going through the rigamarole of having an entire event.

Jonah had been enlisted to set everything up, gaining a growing penchant for boosting the brands of high school athletes. Far from the typical event in a basketball arena at a table, the community center was warmer, more personal. Streamers and ballons in Baylor’s Green and gold draped the room. Kids ran around with plates of cookies, their laugher mingling with the chatter of parents and neighbors who’d shown up to celebrate Malik.

A projector was set up against a wall, playing a reel of Malik’s highlights. Clips of him snatching interceptions, delivering bone-crushing hits, and returning a punt for a touchdown looped over and over.

“Why the fuck you standing over here like you ain’t my people?” Malik’s voice cut through the noise. He walked over, rocking a Baylor hoodie and jeans, looking like he’d just walked off the camps instead of wearing the stereotypical ill-fitting suit.

“Ain’t you supposed to try to hide where you going until the last minute?” Royce asked, dapping Malik up.

“For what? I already told them and that shit probably all over Twitter by now. You know how them weird niggas are with trying to figure out where we going before anyone else,” Malik said, waving his hand dismissively.

Royce laughed. “Nah, I don’t know a damn thing about no weird motherfuckers following behind me. I told your ass to stop going up on Choctaw wearing ya mama heels trying to turn tricks.”

“Oh, you got jokes now, huh? You the funny guy?”

“You put yourself in that water,” Royce said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He gestured to the decorations. “You had Jonah come up here and set this shit up then kicked him out or what?”

“Hell yeah. That’s reparations. Bring your white ass here, work for free and get your ass back in that shack!” Malik laughed. “Nah, he had some other shit to do. You know I couldn’t get him out of here if I tried. That boy love him some Black women. Especially old ones.”

“Facts,” Royce nodded.

Malik tapped Royce on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Say, come with me. I want you to meet my mama and them.”

“Don’t be surprised if she try to adopt me to replace you,” Royce said.

“Nigga, please. I’m her favorite.”

Royce followed Malik to a table near the back, where a petite woman sat with three kids who were busy attacking a tray of mini sandwiches. The youngest, a little girl in pigtails, clung to her mom’s leg, her eyes wide as Royce approached. The oldest boy, maybe ten, stopped mid-bite and stared at Royce.

“Ma, this my potna, Royce,” Malik said, throwing an arm around Royce’s shoulder and pointing at him.

“Nice to meet you,” Royce said, holding out his hand. He felt uniquely awkward standing in front of the woman, her kind but sharp gaze different from the last look that his own mother had given him—one devoid of any kindness.

Ms. Thomas shook his hand warmly. “Malik don’t even shut up about you. I would’ve thought he’s been knowing you since y’all were kids,” she said with a smile. “I’m glad he’s getting some friends who are quieter though. Baton Rouge’s hard for Black boys as it is.”

Royce blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah, it’s all good. This my guy. He annoying, but you already know that.”

“You’re right,” Ms. Thomas laughed.

“C’mon, Ma. You supposed to be on my side,” Malik said.

The little boy finally worked up the courage to speak. He pointed up at Royce with food-stained fingers. “You going D1, too?”

Royce laughed. “Yeah, lil’ bro. You just gotta convince your brother to get me a scholarship, too. He’s been holding out.”

The boy nodded seriously and went back to his sandwich.

Standing there, meeting Malik’s family, being present for something as big as this for Malik, he could feel the guilt creeping in.

The weight of his secret—of sneaking around with Alix behind Malik’s back—felt heavier now. Meeting his family, seeing the way his siblings looked up to him, hearing how Malik talked about him, made it harder to carry. For the briefest of moments, given his and Alix’s last conversation, Royce thought about just coming clean.

Instead, he shook the thought away. In a few months, he’d be heading to college and the… thing with Alix would end.

“C’mon, bruh,” Malik said before leaning closer to Royce. “I hid the henny in the back.”

“Shit. The last time y’all had me drinking that shit I was throwing up all night,” Royce said, shaking his head.

“That’s because you a lightweight,” Malik laughed.

The two of them started to walk away as Ms. Thomas called after them.

“Y’all don’t come back in here smelling like liquor and embarrassing yourself!” the woman shouted, her mother’s intuition showing.

~~~~~~~~~~

Royce laid on the couch at Rana’s house, a show playing on the TV as he texted back and forth with Sadie about hanging out, trying to work through her ever-busy schedule. Rana and Tyrell walked into the room, talking in hushed tones.

Royce looked at them, choosing to keep his behavior as calm as possible over the last couple of weeks even if he felt that an argument was brewing. Rana walked over to him and set a wedding planning book on the coffee table.

“Tyrell wants you in the wedding,” she said, looking at her brother with a raised eyebrow as if expecting a certain answer from him.

“What about you?” Royce asked, not looking from the phone as he tapped out another text. “You know I don’t do that sappy shit.”

“I do, too,” Rana said, looking back over her shoulder at Tyrell, who was leaning across the wall heading to the hallway.

Royce sighed, throwing his legs off the side of the sofa so he could sit up. He pulled the coffee table closer to him and opened the book. It was filled with sticky notes, sketches of table arrangements, and swatches of fabric Rana had been obsessing over for weeks.

It was all things that Royce was unfamiliar with. His parents had gotten married long before he was born and they were one of the only married—as married as one could be with one spouse serving a life sentence—couples in the family.

There was a cousin who got married a few years back, but he lived in Atlanta and didn’t invite any of the family from Louisiana. Rana getting married would be unique for their family, both immediate and extended.

“You sure?” Royce asked, breaking the silence. He scratched at his arm as he took in the names of the colors on the swatches, all things that he felt could have been called simple colors like red or blue. “We were going at each other neck a couple weeks ago.”

Rana sighed. “Yeah. Which I understand. You’re hurting. We’re hurting.”

Tyrell pushed away from the wall and walked into the room. “Look, Royce, family fights. That’s what we do. But Rana and I talked about it, and we still want you in the wedding. You’re here brother, and you’re my brother now. You gotta be a part of the day.”

Royce raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”

“Yeah, man,” Tyrell said, sitting in the chair across from Royce. “You’re still a dickhead, but I can’t say I wasn’t when I was your age. You’ve been through a lot, but no one’s sweating little arguments.”

Rana nodded, her gaze softening. “I get it, Royce. I know you’ve been hurting. You’re still hurting. But we’re not giving up on you.”

Royce looked between the two of them, their faces earnest, no judgement or resentment in their eyes.

“Alright,” he said finally, leaning back into the couch. “I’ll do it. But—” he paused. “y’all gotta have some bridesmaids who are young and single so I got something to do at the reception, if you know what I mean.”

Rana rolled her eyes. “Boy, calm your ass down.”

“You might be out of luck, bro,” Tyrell laughed.

“Guess I’ll just have to bring a plus-one then. That’s how that works right?” Royce asked. “What’s the color scheme? This mocha almond and caviar crème? I can get something fly to wear,” Royce said.

“You’ll wear what I tell you to wear,” Rana shot back.

~~~~~~~~~~

UHigh was up two touchdowns over Parkview Baptist in the third quarter, the Cubs not showing any issues of dealing with their opponents despite the Eagles coming into the game with the district title on the line.

Royce shifted back and forth, calling out adjustments to his teammates as he scanning the backfield. Parkview had been favoring slants and quick outs all night, trying to keep things short and safe.

The quarterback barked out signals, and Royce eyed the formation, looking for any keys that would telegraph the play. He took a step forward closer to the line, his body language attempting to sell that he’d be coming on a blitz.

The ball was snapped and the quarterback dropped back, his eyes immediately locking on to the tight end cutting across the middle. Royce hung back, reading the quarterback’s eyes, his steps deliberate but fluid, like a predator stalking its prey.

The tight end settled into open space near the hash marks. The quarterback fired, a tight spiral zipping toward his chest.

Royce sprung forward.

He planted his foot and lunged, cutting in front of the tight end just as the ball arrived. The ball smacked in his hands with a satisfying thud, and Royce didn’t hesitate. He tucked the ball close to his chest and pivoted, the tight end stumbling behind him before diving forward to try to clip his feet and bring him down as he ran away.

The crowd and sideline roared as he turned up field.

The field stretched out in front of him, a sea of green dotted with Parkview players scrambling to recover. Royce juked past an offensive lineman, stiff-armed the running back trying to cut him off and found himself in the clear, the end zone in sight.

The crowd erupted as Royce crossed the goal line, holding the ball high before spiking it into the turf. His teammates swarmed him, all of them breaking out the dance moves in the only that only Louisiana players could.

…

“And that’s all here in Baton Rouge. UHigh captures another district title and a bye in the playoffs after crushing Parkview Baptist, 55-21!”