Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16979
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
****Character List: https://dynastysports.net/viewtopic.php?p=69562#p69562****
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16979
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
What did he do?! #JusticeForRoyce
Bro can't win with you. It's giving anti-Black.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16808
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
you can still treat the hoes like they're people lmao
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16979
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
The Pipeline
The smell of fried chicken and tangy hot sauce hung heavy in the air as Mike-Mike leaned back in his seat, wiping grease from his fingers with a crumpled napkin. Amari had just finished a wild story about sneaking into some girl’s house, leaving the group of boys erupting in laughter. Zaire slammed his fist on the sticky table, tears forming in his eyes, while Keon nearly choked on his soda. Darren leaned back, his deep chuckle blending with the commotion, while Keith tossed a wing bone onto the plate, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You ain’t get caught when the dog started barking?” Mike-Mike asked, shaking his head.
“Nah, bro. I was out that bitch like I owed taxes,” Amari said, grinning wide. “I told y’all I’m like ol’ boy on Power, a whole ass ghost.”
“A ghost my ass,” Keon shot back. “Everyone know that Tiana mama and daddy both crackheads. They probably thought that you were just coming drop off some rock.”
Amari sucked his teeth, swatting his hand at the comment. “You just saying that shit because Tiana ain’t wanna give you none. I bet if she did, you would’ve had your ass over there pipe in your hand and all.”
“Ain’t nobody worried about Tiana. Bitch built like mini-Lizzo,” Zaire chimed in. “But I know you like them bitches that smell like ham, cocoa butter and ya grandmama sofa cushions.”
The table erupted into more laughter as the boys tore into their wings, tossing the occasional bone onto the shared plate in the middle. The restaurant was far from fancy, but it was a neighborhood fixture, a place where the young people came of age. Their older brothers and cousins had done exactly what they were doing many a time before them.
The bell over the door jingled, but Mike-Mike barely noticed until a voice called out, loud enough to cut through their chatter.
“Ayo, ain’t your people them Lafitte niggas?”
The laughter died instantly. Mike-Mike looked up to see a tall, lanky guy in a hoodie and jeans walking toward their table. His face vaguely familiar, and it clicked when he got closer: Javonte, one of Jeremi and Jamie’s cousins.
“Yeah, they my cousins,” Mike-Mike replied, leaning back in his seat, trying to keep his tone casual.
Javonte smirked, crossing his arms. “Figured. You look just like them pussy ass niggas.”
The table went quiet. Darren and Keith exchanged glances, unspoken questions passing between them.
Mike-Mike felt his stomach tighten. His fingers curled into fisted under the table, but he forced himself to stay seated. “Watch your mouth,” he said, his voice low but steady.
Javonte shrugged. “You could take tough but that Romeo pack still in the air and Royce ain’t been seen in the bricks for a minute. Ran like a little bitch. Can’t respect them niggas at all.”
Mike-Mike’s breath hitched. The room seemed to tilt, his vision narrowing on Javonte. The memory of seeing Romeo and Royce on the pavement flashed in his mind, visions of the funeral, the way Royce couldn’t even stand without help. He wanted to get up, to swing, but his legs felt rooted to the floor.
“Yo, you gonna let him say that shit?” Amari asked, his voice cutting through the tension.
“Mike-Mike,” Keon added, leaning in. “That’s your blood, man.”
Mike-Mike glanced at his friends, his heart pounding. He didn’t want to fight, not here, not now, but the weight of their eyes on him made it impossible to back down. He swallowed hard, his voice shaking. “Fuck you, man. No one think you tough.”
“That’s what I thought. Pussy just like your people,” Javonte taunted, taking a step closer.
Mike-Mike pushed his chair back and stood, his body tense. His palms were slick with sweat, and his pulse hammered in his ears. He didn’t want to do this, but he knew the rules of the neighborhood. He couldn’t let it slide.
“Say that shit again,” Mike-Mike said, stepping closer.
“All y’all pussies. Whole family is,” Javonte replied. “You ain’t gonna do shit about it because you a bitch.”
Mike-Mike hesitated for a split second, his fists clenching and unclenching.
“Swing on that nigga, Mike!” Darren shouted.
And that was it. Mike-Mike swung, his fist connecting with Javonte’s jaw, and the fight was on. Chair screeched against the floor as the two boys grappled, fists flying and elbows swinging. Javonte got a few good hits in, but Mike-Mike didn’t back down, matching him blow for blow.
The sound of commotion brought the staff running, shouting for them to stop, but neither boy listened. It wasn’t until someone yellow, “Cops!” that they broke apart, panting and glaring at each other.
“Come on, nigga,” Amari said, grabbing Mike-Mike’s arm and pulled him toward a back exit. The group bolted, ducking through the yards along the bayouside and disappearing into the night.
…
Mike jumped on the A/C unit, reaching up to climb through Laila’s bedroom window. The adrenaline from the fight had worn off, leaving his body sore and his mind restless. The familiar scent of lavender greeted him as he swung his legs inside, the soft hum of a box fan masking the faint creak of the floorboards.
Laila was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on her bed in a tank top and shorts, her curls loose around her shoulders.
“What happened to your face?” she asked, tilting her head as he sat down beside her.
He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. He could still feel the sting in his knuckles, a faint reminder of the punches he’d thrown. “Some dude was talking about Romeo. It’s no big deal.”
Laila didn’t reply right away, her gaze steady as she studied his face. She leaned back against the headboard, her movements calm, deliberate. “You’re not going to change anyone’s mind by fighting with them,” she said finally, her tone gentle but firm. “I like that you don’t try to act all hard.”
He sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The weight of the night hung heavy on his shoulders. “You know how it around here. You always gotta prove that people can’t fuck with you.” His voice cracked slightly, and he clenched his jaw, hating how raw he sounded.
Laila shifted closer, reaching out to her hand on his arm. Her touch was warm ground. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Mike,” she said softly. “Most of these dudes out here are going to end up in jail or dead. Who cares what they think?”
Her words hit harder than he expected, cutting through the noise in his head. For a moment, he didn’t respond, afraid that if he opened his mouth, the emotions pressing against his chest would spill out. Instead, he nodded, letting the quiet stretch between them.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It wrapped around them, the kind of quiet that only came with trust. The tension from earlier melted away, leaving behind something softer, something real. Laila shifted again, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her curls tickled his cheek, and he let out a slow breath, feeling a flicker of peace for the first time all night.
“You know,” she said after a while, her voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve been thinking about us…”
Mike turned his head to look at her, his heart picking up speed. “Yeah?”
She straightened up, her eyes searching his. “I think we’re ready.”
Her woods hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Mike’s stomach flipped, a mix of anticipation and nerves. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Laila, I don’t know…” he started, his voice hesitant. “What if—”
“What if nothing,” she interrupted, her tone insistent but tender. She leaned in closer, her face just inches from his. “I care about you, and I know you care about me. It’s not about anyone else, Mike. Just us.”
He looked into her eyes, the sincerity there making his chest ache. A part of him wanted to pull away, to tell her he wasn’t sure, that he didn’t want to mess this up. But another part—that part told him to dive in.
He hesitated, his mind racing. Every doubt, every insecurity screamed at him to stop, to hold back. But the way she looked at him, the quiet patience in her expression, may it impossible to say no. Slowly, he nodded.
“Okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Laila’s face lit up with a smile, one that made his chest feel lighter. She leaned in to kiss him, her lips soft against his. He closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the moment.
The smell of fried chicken and tangy hot sauce hung heavy in the air as Mike-Mike leaned back in his seat, wiping grease from his fingers with a crumpled napkin. Amari had just finished a wild story about sneaking into some girl’s house, leaving the group of boys erupting in laughter. Zaire slammed his fist on the sticky table, tears forming in his eyes, while Keon nearly choked on his soda. Darren leaned back, his deep chuckle blending with the commotion, while Keith tossed a wing bone onto the plate, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You ain’t get caught when the dog started barking?” Mike-Mike asked, shaking his head.
“Nah, bro. I was out that bitch like I owed taxes,” Amari said, grinning wide. “I told y’all I’m like ol’ boy on Power, a whole ass ghost.”
“A ghost my ass,” Keon shot back. “Everyone know that Tiana mama and daddy both crackheads. They probably thought that you were just coming drop off some rock.”
Amari sucked his teeth, swatting his hand at the comment. “You just saying that shit because Tiana ain’t wanna give you none. I bet if she did, you would’ve had your ass over there pipe in your hand and all.”
“Ain’t nobody worried about Tiana. Bitch built like mini-Lizzo,” Zaire chimed in. “But I know you like them bitches that smell like ham, cocoa butter and ya grandmama sofa cushions.”
The table erupted into more laughter as the boys tore into their wings, tossing the occasional bone onto the shared plate in the middle. The restaurant was far from fancy, but it was a neighborhood fixture, a place where the young people came of age. Their older brothers and cousins had done exactly what they were doing many a time before them.
The bell over the door jingled, but Mike-Mike barely noticed until a voice called out, loud enough to cut through their chatter.
“Ayo, ain’t your people them Lafitte niggas?”
The laughter died instantly. Mike-Mike looked up to see a tall, lanky guy in a hoodie and jeans walking toward their table. His face vaguely familiar, and it clicked when he got closer: Javonte, one of Jeremi and Jamie’s cousins.
“Yeah, they my cousins,” Mike-Mike replied, leaning back in his seat, trying to keep his tone casual.
Javonte smirked, crossing his arms. “Figured. You look just like them pussy ass niggas.”
The table went quiet. Darren and Keith exchanged glances, unspoken questions passing between them.
Mike-Mike felt his stomach tighten. His fingers curled into fisted under the table, but he forced himself to stay seated. “Watch your mouth,” he said, his voice low but steady.
Javonte shrugged. “You could take tough but that Romeo pack still in the air and Royce ain’t been seen in the bricks for a minute. Ran like a little bitch. Can’t respect them niggas at all.”
Mike-Mike’s breath hitched. The room seemed to tilt, his vision narrowing on Javonte. The memory of seeing Romeo and Royce on the pavement flashed in his mind, visions of the funeral, the way Royce couldn’t even stand without help. He wanted to get up, to swing, but his legs felt rooted to the floor.
“Yo, you gonna let him say that shit?” Amari asked, his voice cutting through the tension.
“Mike-Mike,” Keon added, leaning in. “That’s your blood, man.”
Mike-Mike glanced at his friends, his heart pounding. He didn’t want to fight, not here, not now, but the weight of their eyes on him made it impossible to back down. He swallowed hard, his voice shaking. “Fuck you, man. No one think you tough.”
“That’s what I thought. Pussy just like your people,” Javonte taunted, taking a step closer.
Mike-Mike pushed his chair back and stood, his body tense. His palms were slick with sweat, and his pulse hammered in his ears. He didn’t want to do this, but he knew the rules of the neighborhood. He couldn’t let it slide.
“Say that shit again,” Mike-Mike said, stepping closer.
“All y’all pussies. Whole family is,” Javonte replied. “You ain’t gonna do shit about it because you a bitch.”
Mike-Mike hesitated for a split second, his fists clenching and unclenching.
“Swing on that nigga, Mike!” Darren shouted.
And that was it. Mike-Mike swung, his fist connecting with Javonte’s jaw, and the fight was on. Chair screeched against the floor as the two boys grappled, fists flying and elbows swinging. Javonte got a few good hits in, but Mike-Mike didn’t back down, matching him blow for blow.
The sound of commotion brought the staff running, shouting for them to stop, but neither boy listened. It wasn’t until someone yellow, “Cops!” that they broke apart, panting and glaring at each other.
“Come on, nigga,” Amari said, grabbing Mike-Mike’s arm and pulled him toward a back exit. The group bolted, ducking through the yards along the bayouside and disappearing into the night.
…
Mike jumped on the A/C unit, reaching up to climb through Laila’s bedroom window. The adrenaline from the fight had worn off, leaving his body sore and his mind restless. The familiar scent of lavender greeted him as he swung his legs inside, the soft hum of a box fan masking the faint creak of the floorboards.
Laila was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on her bed in a tank top and shorts, her curls loose around her shoulders.
“What happened to your face?” she asked, tilting her head as he sat down beside her.
He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. He could still feel the sting in his knuckles, a faint reminder of the punches he’d thrown. “Some dude was talking about Romeo. It’s no big deal.”
Laila didn’t reply right away, her gaze steady as she studied his face. She leaned back against the headboard, her movements calm, deliberate. “You’re not going to change anyone’s mind by fighting with them,” she said finally, her tone gentle but firm. “I like that you don’t try to act all hard.”
He sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The weight of the night hung heavy on his shoulders. “You know how it around here. You always gotta prove that people can’t fuck with you.” His voice cracked slightly, and he clenched his jaw, hating how raw he sounded.
Laila shifted closer, reaching out to her hand on his arm. Her touch was warm ground. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Mike,” she said softly. “Most of these dudes out here are going to end up in jail or dead. Who cares what they think?”
Her words hit harder than he expected, cutting through the noise in his head. For a moment, he didn’t respond, afraid that if he opened his mouth, the emotions pressing against his chest would spill out. Instead, he nodded, letting the quiet stretch between them.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It wrapped around them, the kind of quiet that only came with trust. The tension from earlier melted away, leaving behind something softer, something real. Laila shifted again, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her curls tickled his cheek, and he let out a slow breath, feeling a flicker of peace for the first time all night.
“You know,” she said after a while, her voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve been thinking about us…”
Mike turned his head to look at her, his heart picking up speed. “Yeah?”
She straightened up, her eyes searching his. “I think we’re ready.”
Her woods hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Mike’s stomach flipped, a mix of anticipation and nerves. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Laila, I don’t know…” he started, his voice hesitant. “What if—”
“What if nothing,” she interrupted, her tone insistent but tender. She leaned in closer, her face just inches from his. “I care about you, and I know you care about me. It’s not about anyone else, Mike. Just us.”
He looked into her eyes, the sincerity there making his chest ache. A part of him wanted to pull away, to tell her he wasn’t sure, that he didn’t want to mess this up. But another part—that part told him to dive in.
He hesitated, his mind racing. Every doubt, every insecurity screamed at him to stop, to hold back. But the way she looked at him, the quiet patience in her expression, may it impossible to say no. Slowly, he nodded.
“Okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Laila’s face lit up with a smile, one that made his chest feel lighter. She leaned in to kiss him, her lips soft against his. He closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the moment.
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The JZA
- Posts: 9439
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 13:10
Dying to Live
Mike-Mike representin'
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16979
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Seatbelt On
The tension on the field was electric, the score deadlocked at 7-all as UCLA’s offense lined up against LSU’s defense midway through the second quarter. Royce crouched low, his breath misting in the crisp autumn air. His focus was singular, locked on the quarterback like a predator sizing up its prey.
Royce exploded forward when the quarterback called for the snap. The left tackle lunged to block him, but Royce shed the attempt with a quick rip move, his arms swiping upward to break free. Garbers, sensing danger, backpedaled, eyes darting downfield in search of a target. Royce closed the distance, cleats churning up chunks of turf, his outstretched arms just inches away from a game-changing sack. But at the last moment, the quarterback dipped his shoulder, stepped up and released the ball, a desperate heave off the middle.
The pass spiraled through the air, a wobble betraying the haste in which it was thrown. It seemed to hang for an eternity before Zy broke on it with pinpoint timing. He leapt high, his hands extending like claws, and snatched the ball out of the air just as the intended receiver reached for it. The stadium erupted in a cacophony of cheers and groans as Zy came down with the interception, landing on his feet and pivoting upfield before he was spun to the ground by a receiver.
“Don’t throw shit over the middle, nigga!” Royce shouted at the quarterback, holding his wrists together. “Clamps all fucking day.”
…
“Nussmeier to Hilton, Jr. and that’s an LSU touchdown!”
…
Royce shifted over, lining up over the tight end who was split out into the slot on the right. He rolled his fingers against his palm, looking back into the backfield, listening for any adjustments.
At the snap, the tight end darted off the line, angled toward the middle of the field on an in-breaking route. Royce stayed glued to him, shadowing his every step, but as the play developed, Royce’s instincts kicked in. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the quarterback’s shoulders turning, his arm cocking to fire.
Royce saw another receiver coming open on an over. Breaking off his coverage, he turned on a dime and exploded into the passing lane. His timing was perfect—he was already in motion as Garbers released the ball, a sharp spiral meant for the crossing receiver. Royce planted his feet, reached out with both hands, and plucked the ball cleanly out of the air.
The interception sent shockwaves through the stadium. Royce tucked the ball away and turned downfield field. UCLA players scrambled to bring him down, but Royce weaved through the chaos, finally being tackled at midfield after a return of 23.
Royce sprung to his feet. He pounded on his chest and then motioned strapping in a seatbelt as his teammates mobbed him.
…
“Touchdown Tiiiiiiigers!”
…
“LSU gets another one!”
…
It was 3rd and 12 on UCLA’s 32, a critical moment late in the second quarter. The Bruins needed a big play to reverse the momentum of a game that was starting to get out of hand with LSU having scored three unanswered touchdowns in the quarter.
Royce was stationed just inside the hashes, his eyes darting around the field, scanning UCLA’s formation. The air was thick with anticipation.
Royce dropped into a zone, his feet light and hips fluid as the receivers released off the line. The slot receiver released inside, running just past the first down marker before slamming on the brakes, planting his cleats hard into the turf to cut into a hook route, angling back toward Garbers.
Royce didn’t bite on the initial burst of speed. As soon as the receiver started to decelerate, Royce broke forward, planting his foot and charging toward the receiver. The quarterback didn’t see him, focused on the receiver’s numbers as he released the ball. It was a sharp, low throw, but Royce was already there. Timing it perfectly, he cut in front of the receiver just as the ball arrived, snatching it cleanly out of the air with both hands.
The crowd gasped, and for a split second, time seemed to freeze. Royce straightened up with the ball tucked securely against his chest and turned upfield. The Bruins sideline erupted into shouts, players and coaches signaling wildly to bring him down. He sidestepped one would-be tackled, stiff-armed another, and picked up 12 yards before being gang-tackled at the UCLA 42.
“I’m him! I’m fucking him! I’m really like that! Better keep that bitch on the ground!” Royce shouted at UCLA’s sideline as he spun the ball on the turf, turning to run back across the field in celebration with his teammates.
…
“Nussmeier throws an interception deep in the redzone and that’s going to give the Bruins another chance to get back into this game here in the third quarter!”
…
“Jones plows into the endzone and ties it up at 21! Brian Kelly will be kicking himself for not converting on the four interceptions that his defense has gifted him. We’ve got a ball game here in Baton Rouge!”
…
“Garbers steps up and hits Pegan—and he’s gone! That’s going to the house! UCLA is going to take the lead!”
…
“Mama, there’s that man again! Braden Pegan breaks a tackle and that’s going to be his second touchdown of the third quarter! The Bruins are opening it up now!”
…
“It’s not déjà vu! Garbers, Pegan, UCLA touchdown! LSU has completely collapsed here in the third quarter!”
…
The stadium was a cauldron of noise as the fourth quarter ticked away, LSU trailing UCLA by a single point, clawing back into proceedings after a disastrous third quarter that saw the Bruins open up a big lead.
Royce stood on the field, hands on his hips, sweat dripping from his face. The defense had been chasing ghosts for the entire second half, all of the Bruins’ plays going for 10s and 20s instead of the 4s and 5s of the first half.
UCLA faced a 2nd and 8 just on the other side of midfield. Everyone in the stadium had their eyes on Braden Pegan, the receiver having caught three touchdowns in the third quarter alone.
Garbers barked out the snap count, the Bruins’ receivers spread wide. They streaked downfield. Royce dropped back into a zone, his eyes flicking between the quarterback and the nearest receiver. He could feel the tension in the air, the kind of pressure that bent steel.
The pocket held just long enough. Garbers stepped up, planted his feet, and unleashed a deep ball, a soaring spiral that seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Royce immediately turned, watching the ball arc toward the corner of the endzone.
The pass had been launched with pinpoint precision, lofted perfectly over the defensive backs and into the waiting arms of Pegan.
He crossed the goal line untouched, spiking the ball in triumph as the scoreboard changed.
Garbers ran down the field, arms failing wildly in celebration. He turned back toward Royce as he passed him, holding up his left hand and counting off the five touchdowns he’d thrown on his fingers.
“Fuck,” Royce snapped, snatching off his chin strap as he walked to the sideline.
The tension on the field was electric, the score deadlocked at 7-all as UCLA’s offense lined up against LSU’s defense midway through the second quarter. Royce crouched low, his breath misting in the crisp autumn air. His focus was singular, locked on the quarterback like a predator sizing up its prey.
Royce exploded forward when the quarterback called for the snap. The left tackle lunged to block him, but Royce shed the attempt with a quick rip move, his arms swiping upward to break free. Garbers, sensing danger, backpedaled, eyes darting downfield in search of a target. Royce closed the distance, cleats churning up chunks of turf, his outstretched arms just inches away from a game-changing sack. But at the last moment, the quarterback dipped his shoulder, stepped up and released the ball, a desperate heave off the middle.
The pass spiraled through the air, a wobble betraying the haste in which it was thrown. It seemed to hang for an eternity before Zy broke on it with pinpoint timing. He leapt high, his hands extending like claws, and snatched the ball out of the air just as the intended receiver reached for it. The stadium erupted in a cacophony of cheers and groans as Zy came down with the interception, landing on his feet and pivoting upfield before he was spun to the ground by a receiver.
“Don’t throw shit over the middle, nigga!” Royce shouted at the quarterback, holding his wrists together. “Clamps all fucking day.”
…
“Nussmeier to Hilton, Jr. and that’s an LSU touchdown!”
…
Royce shifted over, lining up over the tight end who was split out into the slot on the right. He rolled his fingers against his palm, looking back into the backfield, listening for any adjustments.
At the snap, the tight end darted off the line, angled toward the middle of the field on an in-breaking route. Royce stayed glued to him, shadowing his every step, but as the play developed, Royce’s instincts kicked in. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the quarterback’s shoulders turning, his arm cocking to fire.
Royce saw another receiver coming open on an over. Breaking off his coverage, he turned on a dime and exploded into the passing lane. His timing was perfect—he was already in motion as Garbers released the ball, a sharp spiral meant for the crossing receiver. Royce planted his feet, reached out with both hands, and plucked the ball cleanly out of the air.
The interception sent shockwaves through the stadium. Royce tucked the ball away and turned downfield field. UCLA players scrambled to bring him down, but Royce weaved through the chaos, finally being tackled at midfield after a return of 23.
Royce sprung to his feet. He pounded on his chest and then motioned strapping in a seatbelt as his teammates mobbed him.
…
“Touchdown Tiiiiiiigers!”
…
“LSU gets another one!”
…
It was 3rd and 12 on UCLA’s 32, a critical moment late in the second quarter. The Bruins needed a big play to reverse the momentum of a game that was starting to get out of hand with LSU having scored three unanswered touchdowns in the quarter.
Royce was stationed just inside the hashes, his eyes darting around the field, scanning UCLA’s formation. The air was thick with anticipation.
Royce dropped into a zone, his feet light and hips fluid as the receivers released off the line. The slot receiver released inside, running just past the first down marker before slamming on the brakes, planting his cleats hard into the turf to cut into a hook route, angling back toward Garbers.
Royce didn’t bite on the initial burst of speed. As soon as the receiver started to decelerate, Royce broke forward, planting his foot and charging toward the receiver. The quarterback didn’t see him, focused on the receiver’s numbers as he released the ball. It was a sharp, low throw, but Royce was already there. Timing it perfectly, he cut in front of the receiver just as the ball arrived, snatching it cleanly out of the air with both hands.
The crowd gasped, and for a split second, time seemed to freeze. Royce straightened up with the ball tucked securely against his chest and turned upfield. The Bruins sideline erupted into shouts, players and coaches signaling wildly to bring him down. He sidestepped one would-be tackled, stiff-armed another, and picked up 12 yards before being gang-tackled at the UCLA 42.
“I’m him! I’m fucking him! I’m really like that! Better keep that bitch on the ground!” Royce shouted at UCLA’s sideline as he spun the ball on the turf, turning to run back across the field in celebration with his teammates.
…
“Nussmeier throws an interception deep in the redzone and that’s going to give the Bruins another chance to get back into this game here in the third quarter!”
…
“Jones plows into the endzone and ties it up at 21! Brian Kelly will be kicking himself for not converting on the four interceptions that his defense has gifted him. We’ve got a ball game here in Baton Rouge!”
…
“Garbers steps up and hits Pegan—and he’s gone! That’s going to the house! UCLA is going to take the lead!”
…
“Mama, there’s that man again! Braden Pegan breaks a tackle and that’s going to be his second touchdown of the third quarter! The Bruins are opening it up now!”
…
“It’s not déjà vu! Garbers, Pegan, UCLA touchdown! LSU has completely collapsed here in the third quarter!”
…
The stadium was a cauldron of noise as the fourth quarter ticked away, LSU trailing UCLA by a single point, clawing back into proceedings after a disastrous third quarter that saw the Bruins open up a big lead.
Royce stood on the field, hands on his hips, sweat dripping from his face. The defense had been chasing ghosts for the entire second half, all of the Bruins’ plays going for 10s and 20s instead of the 4s and 5s of the first half.
UCLA faced a 2nd and 8 just on the other side of midfield. Everyone in the stadium had their eyes on Braden Pegan, the receiver having caught three touchdowns in the third quarter alone.
Garbers barked out the snap count, the Bruins’ receivers spread wide. They streaked downfield. Royce dropped back into a zone, his eyes flicking between the quarterback and the nearest receiver. He could feel the tension in the air, the kind of pressure that bent steel.
The pocket held just long enough. Garbers stepped up, planted his feet, and unleashed a deep ball, a soaring spiral that seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Royce immediately turned, watching the ball arc toward the corner of the endzone.
The pass had been launched with pinpoint precision, lofted perfectly over the defensive backs and into the waiting arms of Pegan.
He crossed the goal line untouched, spiking the ball in triumph as the scoreboard changed.
Garbers ran down the field, arms failing wildly in celebration. He turned back toward Royce as he passed him, holding up his left hand and counting off the five touchdowns he’d thrown on his fingers.
“Fuck,” Royce snapped, snatching off his chin strap as he walked to the sideline.
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djp73
- Posts: 13240
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Jameis Winston in disguise
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7974
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
That boy really a safety in disguise. Move him on the depth chart. Crazy to lose to UCLA though.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16979
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Jameis Winston before and after contacts.
They keep calling plays for him like he’s a safety. No blitzes just go sit in that hook zone or man up on that tight end. It’s all good though!Captain Canada wrote: ↑05 Dec 2024, 12:32That boy really a safety in disguise. Move him on the depth chart. Crazy to lose to UCLA though.
Man, it’s not my fault they had Randy Moss on the outside.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
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