LSU’s campus was alive with energy as the biggest game of the season was finally there. The first Saturday in November, Alabama. It was the kind of chaotic buzz that only the biggest rivalry games could produce. The air was thick with the scent of barbecue and beer, mingling with the sounds of music blaring from speakers and the steady hum of fans shouting, laughing and chanting LSU fight songs.
The atmosphere was only heightened by College Gameday descending on the campus, featuring a top 10 battle between the two programs, something that hadn’t been seen in some time. Fans were out tailgating days before and drinks had been flowing non-stop since the sun rose.
Alix stood near a folding table, holding a ping pong ball in her hand as Dominic flicked another toward cups at the opposite end of the table. The pair they were playing against groaned as the ball landed in some questionably cheap beer.
She adjusted the oversized LSU jersey she wore—one Royce had acquired for her when she’d asked if he got discounts at the bookstore on team gear—tugging at the side where she’d tied it up. All around her, the crowd swelled with excitement, anticipation fueled by alcohol.
“You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get a ticket,” Dominic said, his tone half-joking but laced with mock indignation. “Motherfucker taxed me like I was asking to fuck his girlfriend or something. $350 for this shit, and we better not lose.”
Alix laughed lightly, though the comment struck a chord she didn’t mention. She didn’t have to pay or fight for her ticket—not for this game or any other home game. Royce had made sure of that. Every week, he’d handed her a ticket without hesitation. There was no conversation, no questions asked. It had become a quiet ritual between them, one she hadn’t though much about until now.
“Guess you should’ve made better friends,” she teased, taking a sip from her drink.
Dominic smirked, wrapping his arm around her waist as he leaned in slight. “Maybe I just need to know the right people. You got the connect?”
Alix arched an eyebrow, keeping her smile casual. “What if I did, but you got to suck his dick for him to hook you up with tickets?”
“I’d say that’s wild that you spitting on that thang for some football tickets,” Dominic said, laughing. “And I’ll just keep going on scavenger hunts for that shit.”
He was good company, easy to talk to, and always quick with a joke. Still, Alix couldn’t shake the subtle weight that lingered between them. Standing there with Dominic, knowing Royce was nearby preparing for the game, felt… complicated. She’d told Royce about Dominic—told herself that meant she wasn’t hiding anything—but it didn’t make the situation any less messy.
Dominic held a cup out to her, breaking her out of her thoughts. “You gotta drink, partner. You’re the one that keep missing.”
Alix smiled, taking the cup from him and downing the beer.
…
“I’ll bat the piss out you, bitch!” Royce shouted, shoving an Alabama player after the first play of the game.
Tensions were high from the opening kickoff, a trip to the SEC championship game likely on the line for the winner—assuming they won the following three games to close out the season. The stadium was rocking, reaching a level of noise that Royce didn’t think was possible.
The referees ran over and separated the two teams after a scrum sparked on the field, only causing an explosion of noise in Tiger Stadium as the respective fans shouted derogatory chants at one another.
“Keep that energy! Keep that energy!” Another Crimson Tide player shouted back at Royce, clapping in his face as the referees worked to gain control of the situation.
“I’m gonna fuck you up, nigga!” Royce shot back, pointing his finger at the player’s face.
…
“LSU makes the stop here in the redzone and Alabama is going to have to settle for a field goal on their first drive of the game.”
“That’s a big win for Brian Kelly’s team to open this one. We’re probably not going to get a high-scoring affair so every point kept off the board will count.”
…
“The Tigers match the field goal from Alabama’s first drive to tie this game up at three a piece.”
…
The crowd roared as Jalen Milroe stepped back into the pocket, scanning the field for an open receiver. LSU’s defense had settled into a zone, each player holding their ground and reading the quarterback’s eyes. Royce hovered near the middle of the field, his knees bent, his body coiled like a spring ready to pounce.
He tracked the quarterback’s movements, his helmet swiveling as he processed the unfolding play. Milroe glanced toward the right sideline, his shoulders dipping slightly as he stepped up in the pocket to avoid a sack.
The quarterback’s eyes locked on his target: an in route cutting through the middle of the field. Royce darted toward the passing lane as Milroe released the ball, a crisp spiral hurtling toward the receiver’s chest.
Royce broke on it perfectly. His timing was flawless, his moment carrying him directly into the path of the ball. He extended his hands, ready to snatch it out of the air.
But then, the ball hit his palms and ricocheted off, slipping through his fingers. The receiver stumbled as the ball dropped harmlessly to the turf, incomplete.
“Fuck!” Royce shouted, slapping his hands together in frustration as the crowd let out a collective groan.
Zy smacked Royce on the helmet, shouting encouragement to him after the drop.. “You in his head now. You got the next one.”
…
“Williams dives into the endzone and LSU has their first lead of the game!”
…
Milroe dropped back, his eyes scanning the field as LSU’s defensive line brought pressure. Royce hovered near the middle of the field, his eyes darting between the quarterback and Jam Miller leaking out toward the sideline. Royce glanced over his shoulder before breaking to the flats, anticipating the play.
The quarterback turned and whipped the ball to Miller. The back caught the ball and planted his foot to turn upfield.
“Contain! Contain!” a voice barked from the sideline, but Royce barely registered it. He had the angle. He was closing the distance. He was preparing for a big hit and a stop for a loss.
Miller saw Royce closing in and cut toward the inside as Royce lunched. Royce’s arms extended, fingertips grazing his jersey, but Miller’s lateral quickness was too much. Royce whiffed on the tackle, his momentum carrying him into empty space as the back darted past him.
“Shit! Shit!” Royce shouted, scrambling to his feet but it was too late.
Miller hit full speed, weaving between defenders as he tore down the sideline. He was gone after the first couple missed tackles, streaking untouched the remaining yards. The Alabama section of the stadium erupted as the back crossed into the end zone, holding the ball aloft.
The boos from the purple and gold contingent began to rain down as Royce jogged back to the sideline, his helmet feeling heavier with every step.
Royce sat down on the bench, taking a long swig from the water bottle a trainer handed him.
…
“INTERCEPTED BY ALABAMA!”
…
“Milroe pitches it to Miller and the Tide is going to retake the lead!”
…
Milroe barked out commands at the line, his voice barely audible over the deafening roar of Tiger Stadium. LSU’s defense shifted subtly, disguising their intentions. Royce crouched on the edge of the line, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet.
Royce’s heart pounded as the ball was snapped. He exploded off the line, his first steps quick and precise as he surged toward the pocket. The offensive tackle slid out to meet him, but Royce ducked low, using his speed to dip under the block. He felt the tackle’s hand glance off his shoulder pad as he slipped past, closing the gap to the quarterback.
Milroe, sensing pressure, spun out of the pocket just as Royce lunged. Royce reached out fingers brushing his jersey, but Milroe reset his feet and fired a laser downfield.
Royce stumbled slightly, turning his head just in time to see the ball soaring toward a receiver streaking down the seam. Major had bitten on an underneath route, leaving the receiver with a step on his man. The ball dropped perfectly into his hands, and the crowd collectively sucked in a breath as the receiver turned upfield.
The receiver cut across the field, shaking off a diving tackle before barreling into open space. By the time he was brought down near LSU’s 20-yard line, the damage had been done—a 52-yard gain that flipped the field.
Royce bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath as the rest of the defense jogged downfield to reset. Frustration simmered in his chest. He’d been a fraction of a second too late—a single moment that had cost them a chunk of yardage and momentum.
“Y’all quiet now, huh?!” Milroe shouted at the LSU defenders as he ran down the field.
“Royce!” he heard from the sideline.
He turned his head to see West motioning for him to come out as the senior jogged onto the field.
Royce hung his head, jogging toward the sideline.
…
“Touchdown Alabama!”
…
“Alabama adds a field goal and they’re opening it up now!”
…
“Touchdown Alabama!”
…
Royce sat on the bench, his helmet balanced on his knees, staring blankly at the field. The fourth quarter had barely begun, but the game was already over. Alabama’s offense found their rhythm in the second quarter, dissecting LSU’s defense drive after drive with ruthless efficiency. Royce’s cleats tapped against the turf as the frustration built inside him, each play on the field feeling like a punch he couldn’t block.
From the sideline, he had the worst view of the game: close enough to see every mistake, every missed tackle, every blown assignment, but far enough to be helpless. After a poor first half, the coaches had decided to sit him, leaving the job to more experienced players.
He hadn’t entered the game since.
Across the field, Alabama’s crimson jerseys swarmed with confidence. Milroe, unfazed by the earlier pressure, picked apart LSU’s secondary with precision. On the sideline, their players celebrated every touchdown like a nail driven into LSU’s coffin.
The energy in Tiger Stadium, so electric at kickoff, had drained. The stands thinned as fans began trickled toward the exits, their voices no longer carrying chants but quiet murmurs of disappointment. The LSU sideline mirrored the mood, players sitting with slumped shoulders, their heads low as they avoided meeting each other’s eyes.
Royce shifted on the bench, resting his chin on his hands. The noise of the game—the whistles, the crashing of pads, the jeers from what remained of the crowd—faded into a dull hum.
He glanced at the scoreboard as Alabama scored again, the lights changing to show LSU 13, Alabama 41.
He leaned back, tilting his head to the darkened sky above Tiger Stadium. The cool night air felt heavy, like the weight of every missed opportunity pressing against his chest. His first taste of the LSU-Alabama rivalry had turned bitter, the kind of lesson no coach could prepare him for.
This was ugly
