Slander
Bro said fuck you pining over your first loveCaptain Canada wrote: ↑23 Jan 2025, 17:54Malik going through it over two people he barely been in contact with in over a year? Soft.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Back Home
The road stretched out in front of Royce, long and straight, as he drove into Houma. The early afternoon sun filtered through the windshield, casting shadows across the dashboard. The familiar sights of his hometown rolled past—small shops, weathered houses, and the bayou winding its way through the edges of town. He hadn’t been back in months, and while Baton Rouge had begun to feel like home, Houma still tugged at something deep inside him.
Royce wasn’t sure why he came back. Maybe it was the weight of everything happening at LSU, the constant scrutiny, the bar incident that wouldn’t die down. Maybe it was his father’s voice in his head, ordering him to make things right with his mother. Or maybe he just needed the simplicity of home—the place where life, for all its challenges, had made a little more sense.
But the thought of walking up to his mother’s door, of standing there with all the unresolved pain between them, kept him from driving to her house. Instead, he pulled into the parking lot of an old wing spot he’d practically lived at during high school. The faded sign still hung above the door, and the smell of fried food hit him the moment he stepped out of the car.
Inside, the restaurant was almost exactly as he remembered it—sticky linoleum floors, worn booths, and the steady hum of music coming from a speaker in the corner. He approached the counter to order, but a familiar voice stopped him.
“Yo, Ro?”
Royce turned and saw Mike-Mike sitting in one of the booths. His cousin looked up from his plate of wings, his expression half-surprised, half-wary. Across from him sat another guy, one Royce didn’t recognize—a wiry man with sharp eyes and a too-casual posture that screamed trouble.
Royce walked over, his gaze flicking between Mike-Mike and the stranger as he held out his hand to Mike-Mike. “Damn, what’s up, Mike-Mike?”
“Just Mike,” Mike corrected as he reached across to accept Royce’s handshake. “What are you doing in Houma?”
Royce held his hands up. “My bad, lil’ bro. Shit, ain’t had nothing else to do so I figured I’d come through. You getting big, lil’ cuz. You out here hitting them weights like you trying to switch to defense with the real niggas.”
Mike leaned back in the booth, pick up a flat and picking at it. “Nah, they just got a new coach over there and all he want receivers to do is fucking block like it’s 1999 and niggas trying to run the Wing-T still.”
“Shit, them boys at H.L. do still run the Wing T. Even when my pops was playing at Terrebonne they did.,” Royce said, glancing at the other guy. “This your boy?”
“Yeah, this Treg,” Mike said casually. “We, uh, work together.”
Royce raised an eyebrow but didn’t press it. “Yo. Let me holla at you outside right quick.”
Mike hesitated but eventually slid out of the booth. “Yeah, alright.”
Royce led him outside, the two of them standing near the edge of the parking lot. The muffled sounds of the restaurant buzzed behind them.
Royce leaned against his car, his arms crossed as he stared at Mike, who stood with one hand shoved in his pocket and the other clutching a soda cup from the wing place. The tension between them felt as thick as the Houma air. Royce sighed, running a hand over his face.
“You serious, nigga?” Royce asked, breaking the silence. “You forgetting my daddy sold that shit? I know what a nigga that selling dope look like. You ain’t built like that. Go home and go play some fucking football.”
Mike scoffed, looking away toward the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. “Man, you don’t get it. You know I ain’t got no other options. I’m hustling to try to get by You think I’m just gonna sit around and wait for something to happen?”
“Motherfucker, you even know how to break down a pack? No, you just get the shit from that nigga,” Royce snapped, pointing toward the restaurant where Treg was still inside. “You acting like I wasn’t struggling in this shit just like you. Either get your ass back on that football field and leave this drug shit alone or get your ass in them motherfucking books.”
Mike turned back to him, his face hard. “A football field? For what, Royce? You think I don’t want that? You think I’m not trying? I’ve been sending film out for months, man. All I’ve got to show for it is a couple of garbage D3 schools saying I could maybe walk on. Walk on. They don’t even want me enough to offer a scholarship.”
“Then carry your ass to them fucking D3 schools,” Royce said, his voice rising in frustration. “Ain’t shit to get in the fucking portal and transfer somewhere else. Or go to fucking Nicholls.”
Mike laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Yeah? Tell that to the scouts who don’t even look twice when they come to games. They’re not checking for me, Ro. I ain’t tall enough. I ain’t fast enough. And even when I show out on the field, they just look at the school I’m coming from and keep it moving.”
“Nigga, I’m not trying to hear them excuses,” Royce said, stepping closer. “I wasn’t on nobody radar when I was at Terrebonne. Everyone was looking at Rome. You know how it was. What you getting $50, $100? All that shit to give up like a bitch.”
“I’m not giving up!” Mike snapped, his voice loud enough to make Royce glance around to make sure no one was watching them. “I’m doing what I gotta do, alright? I’m out here making moves because sitting on my ass waiting for some scout to notice me ain’t cutting it.”
“Making moves?” Royce said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “What moves you making? You ain’t even making minimum wage when you put it all together. You’d be better off walking back in this bitch and asking them for a fucking application.”
Mike took a step closer, the space between them narrowing as his frustration boiled over. “You don’t get it, Ro. You had scouts coming to your games. You had people hyping you up. I don’t have that. Nobody’s out here saying, ‘Oh, Mike’s gonna be the next big thing.’ I’m just another dude trying to make it out.”
Royce’s jaw tightened as he shoved Mike back, jabbing his finger into his younger cousin’s face. “Yo, my nigga. Don’t bow up to me. I’ll punch you down out here. Don’t let that shit go to your head and make you forget who I am. When you were out here following us around trying to be cool, I was holding shit down for my family. Don’t tell me about trying to make it out like I grew up in the fucking Lakes.”
Mike exhaled sharply, the anger in his expression shifting to something more vulnerable, his fists clenching at his sides. “What choice do I have, Ro? I can’t keep asking for money from my moms, from Arianna. They barely getting by as it is. I’m driving this car you gave me, and every time I get in it, it’s like a reminder that I’m not doing enough. And I’m supposed to just put everything into football and the shit ain’t going nowhere?”
Royce shook his head, leaning against the car again. “If you don’t want to ask your mama or Arianna, you got my number, motherfucker.”
“For what?” Mike asked, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Another handout? I don’t want your money, Royce. I don’t want to be the charity case cousin of the dude who making it. I want to make it on my own.”
Royce sucked his teeth, looking at his cousin with a mix of frustration and pity. “A closed mouth don’t get fed, lil’ bro. But where you think this shit lead? What happens when some niggas pull up on you to run your pockets? You gonna lay them down? You trading pads and routes for killing niggas?”
Mike’s shoulders sagged slightly, but the defiance in his eyes didn’t waver. “Man, you know it ain’t that hot over here. It’s not like I’m on East Street or in Village East. I sell it all to the same few people and no one really know I’m out here like that.”
Royce shook his head, his voice softer now. “It don’t matter if you ‘not out here like that.’ Sooner or later, you gonna be at one end of the barrel. If you not ready to take a motherfucker life, and it’s probably going to be ol’ boy in there, then you better get your back to them playbooks and leave this dopeboy shit for someone else.”
Mike didn’t respond immediately, his gaze dropping to the ground. When he finally looked up, there was a flicker of uncertainty in his expression, but it quickly faded as he straightened up. “I appreciate you looking out, Ro. But like I said, I gotta do what I gotta do.”
Royce studied him for a long moment, searching for the right words. Finally, he exhaled, pushing off the car. “June over in Patriot Point sell throwaways. You might want to go see him.”
Mike nodded, his expression unreadable. “Got it.”
Royce climbed into his car, glancing at his cousin one last time before pulling out of the parking lot. The conversation weighed heavy on him, the reality of Mike’s situation—and his choices—gnawing at the edges of Royce’s thoughts. As he drove away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his cousin was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, and he wasn’t sure how to pull him back.
The road stretched out in front of Royce, long and straight, as he drove into Houma. The early afternoon sun filtered through the windshield, casting shadows across the dashboard. The familiar sights of his hometown rolled past—small shops, weathered houses, and the bayou winding its way through the edges of town. He hadn’t been back in months, and while Baton Rouge had begun to feel like home, Houma still tugged at something deep inside him.
Royce wasn’t sure why he came back. Maybe it was the weight of everything happening at LSU, the constant scrutiny, the bar incident that wouldn’t die down. Maybe it was his father’s voice in his head, ordering him to make things right with his mother. Or maybe he just needed the simplicity of home—the place where life, for all its challenges, had made a little more sense.
But the thought of walking up to his mother’s door, of standing there with all the unresolved pain between them, kept him from driving to her house. Instead, he pulled into the parking lot of an old wing spot he’d practically lived at during high school. The faded sign still hung above the door, and the smell of fried food hit him the moment he stepped out of the car.
Inside, the restaurant was almost exactly as he remembered it—sticky linoleum floors, worn booths, and the steady hum of music coming from a speaker in the corner. He approached the counter to order, but a familiar voice stopped him.
“Yo, Ro?”
Royce turned and saw Mike-Mike sitting in one of the booths. His cousin looked up from his plate of wings, his expression half-surprised, half-wary. Across from him sat another guy, one Royce didn’t recognize—a wiry man with sharp eyes and a too-casual posture that screamed trouble.
Royce walked over, his gaze flicking between Mike-Mike and the stranger as he held out his hand to Mike-Mike. “Damn, what’s up, Mike-Mike?”
“Just Mike,” Mike corrected as he reached across to accept Royce’s handshake. “What are you doing in Houma?”
Royce held his hands up. “My bad, lil’ bro. Shit, ain’t had nothing else to do so I figured I’d come through. You getting big, lil’ cuz. You out here hitting them weights like you trying to switch to defense with the real niggas.”
Mike leaned back in the booth, pick up a flat and picking at it. “Nah, they just got a new coach over there and all he want receivers to do is fucking block like it’s 1999 and niggas trying to run the Wing-T still.”
“Shit, them boys at H.L. do still run the Wing T. Even when my pops was playing at Terrebonne they did.,” Royce said, glancing at the other guy. “This your boy?”
“Yeah, this Treg,” Mike said casually. “We, uh, work together.”
Royce raised an eyebrow but didn’t press it. “Yo. Let me holla at you outside right quick.”
Mike hesitated but eventually slid out of the booth. “Yeah, alright.”
Royce led him outside, the two of them standing near the edge of the parking lot. The muffled sounds of the restaurant buzzed behind them.
Royce leaned against his car, his arms crossed as he stared at Mike, who stood with one hand shoved in his pocket and the other clutching a soda cup from the wing place. The tension between them felt as thick as the Houma air. Royce sighed, running a hand over his face.
“You serious, nigga?” Royce asked, breaking the silence. “You forgetting my daddy sold that shit? I know what a nigga that selling dope look like. You ain’t built like that. Go home and go play some fucking football.”
Mike scoffed, looking away toward the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. “Man, you don’t get it. You know I ain’t got no other options. I’m hustling to try to get by You think I’m just gonna sit around and wait for something to happen?”
“Motherfucker, you even know how to break down a pack? No, you just get the shit from that nigga,” Royce snapped, pointing toward the restaurant where Treg was still inside. “You acting like I wasn’t struggling in this shit just like you. Either get your ass back on that football field and leave this drug shit alone or get your ass in them motherfucking books.”
Mike turned back to him, his face hard. “A football field? For what, Royce? You think I don’t want that? You think I’m not trying? I’ve been sending film out for months, man. All I’ve got to show for it is a couple of garbage D3 schools saying I could maybe walk on. Walk on. They don’t even want me enough to offer a scholarship.”
“Then carry your ass to them fucking D3 schools,” Royce said, his voice rising in frustration. “Ain’t shit to get in the fucking portal and transfer somewhere else. Or go to fucking Nicholls.”
Mike laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Yeah? Tell that to the scouts who don’t even look twice when they come to games. They’re not checking for me, Ro. I ain’t tall enough. I ain’t fast enough. And even when I show out on the field, they just look at the school I’m coming from and keep it moving.”
“Nigga, I’m not trying to hear them excuses,” Royce said, stepping closer. “I wasn’t on nobody radar when I was at Terrebonne. Everyone was looking at Rome. You know how it was. What you getting $50, $100? All that shit to give up like a bitch.”
“I’m not giving up!” Mike snapped, his voice loud enough to make Royce glance around to make sure no one was watching them. “I’m doing what I gotta do, alright? I’m out here making moves because sitting on my ass waiting for some scout to notice me ain’t cutting it.”
“Making moves?” Royce said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “What moves you making? You ain’t even making minimum wage when you put it all together. You’d be better off walking back in this bitch and asking them for a fucking application.”
Mike took a step closer, the space between them narrowing as his frustration boiled over. “You don’t get it, Ro. You had scouts coming to your games. You had people hyping you up. I don’t have that. Nobody’s out here saying, ‘Oh, Mike’s gonna be the next big thing.’ I’m just another dude trying to make it out.”
Royce’s jaw tightened as he shoved Mike back, jabbing his finger into his younger cousin’s face. “Yo, my nigga. Don’t bow up to me. I’ll punch you down out here. Don’t let that shit go to your head and make you forget who I am. When you were out here following us around trying to be cool, I was holding shit down for my family. Don’t tell me about trying to make it out like I grew up in the fucking Lakes.”
Mike exhaled sharply, the anger in his expression shifting to something more vulnerable, his fists clenching at his sides. “What choice do I have, Ro? I can’t keep asking for money from my moms, from Arianna. They barely getting by as it is. I’m driving this car you gave me, and every time I get in it, it’s like a reminder that I’m not doing enough. And I’m supposed to just put everything into football and the shit ain’t going nowhere?”
Royce shook his head, leaning against the car again. “If you don’t want to ask your mama or Arianna, you got my number, motherfucker.”
“For what?” Mike asked, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Another handout? I don’t want your money, Royce. I don’t want to be the charity case cousin of the dude who making it. I want to make it on my own.”
Royce sucked his teeth, looking at his cousin with a mix of frustration and pity. “A closed mouth don’t get fed, lil’ bro. But where you think this shit lead? What happens when some niggas pull up on you to run your pockets? You gonna lay them down? You trading pads and routes for killing niggas?”
Mike’s shoulders sagged slightly, but the defiance in his eyes didn’t waver. “Man, you know it ain’t that hot over here. It’s not like I’m on East Street or in Village East. I sell it all to the same few people and no one really know I’m out here like that.”
Royce shook his head, his voice softer now. “It don’t matter if you ‘not out here like that.’ Sooner or later, you gonna be at one end of the barrel. If you not ready to take a motherfucker life, and it’s probably going to be ol’ boy in there, then you better get your back to them playbooks and leave this dopeboy shit for someone else.”
Mike didn’t respond immediately, his gaze dropping to the ground. When he finally looked up, there was a flicker of uncertainty in his expression, but it quickly faded as he straightened up. “I appreciate you looking out, Ro. But like I said, I gotta do what I gotta do.”
Royce studied him for a long moment, searching for the right words. Finally, he exhaled, pushing off the car. “June over in Patriot Point sell throwaways. You might want to go see him.”
Mike nodded, his expression unreadable. “Got it.”
Royce climbed into his car, glancing at his cousin one last time before pulling out of the parking lot. The conversation weighed heavy on him, the reality of Mike’s situation—and his choices—gnawing at the edges of Royce’s thoughts. As he drove away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his cousin was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, and he wasn’t sure how to pull him back.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Send the Drop
The evening air was thick with humidity as Shayla sat on the worn leather couch in Meech’s cramped living room, idly scrolling through her phone. The soft hum of an old box fan filled the silence, its blades barely cutting through the heat. Meech sat across from her at a small, cluttered table, rolling a blunt with methodical precision. The faint scent of weed mingled with the lingering aroma of fried food from earlier in the day.
Shayla sighed, tossing her phone onto the cushion beside her. “I don’t get why you even care so much about Royce,” she said, her tone tinged with frustration. “He barely even talks to me. Half the time, he don’t even answer my texts. You acting like that nigga don’t got forty thousand bitches at LSU running behind him.”
Meech looked up briefly, his expression unreadable. “You just gotta be patient. His ass already in some shit. That ain’t gonna be the last of that.”
“Patient?” Shayla let out a humorless laugh. “The only time he hits me up is when he wants me to come over. And even then, it’s like… I don’t know, he’s just distant. It’s just fucking and then he tell me to get out.”
Meech lit the blunt and took a slow drag, leaning back in his chair. “That’s why you gotta fix it. Get closer to him.”
Shayla frowned, crossing her arms. “Why? Ain’t no getting closer to him, because again nigga, he got beaucoup bitches around him. What’s even the point, Meech? Why you plotting on him anyway?”
Meech blew out a cloud of smoke, his eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s none of your business.”
Shayla rolled her eyes, leaning forward. “The fuck it ain’t. It is my business if you’re trying to use me for something. I’m not stupid, Meech. You’re always talking about getting close to him, but you never say why.”
Meech took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly. “You just need to focus on doing what the fuck I’m telling you to do. You know what you fucking need to know.”
Shayla’s jaw tightened, her frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “You’re always playing games, Meech. Royce ain’t dumb. He’s not gonna let me in just because you think he will.”
“He doesn’t have to let you in,” Meech said, his tone calm but firm. “You just need to be there. Stick around, stay close. He’ll slip up eventually. They always do.”
Shayla stared at him, her expression a mix of doubt and anger. “This is about money, isn’t it? That’s all you ever care about.”
Meech smirked, leaning forward slightly. “See you ain’t as dumb as you make yourself out to be.”
Shayla shook her head, leaning back against the couch. “This shit ain’t gonna end well at all, Meech. You talking about trying to scam some nigga that’s up there at them white folks’ school playing football for them. He ain’t just some dude from around the way.”
“Maybe,” Meech said, shrugging. “But he not untouchable. All you gotta do is wait it out. He start wilding around them white girls a little too much and they gonna run that nigga out there like they did that boy Drake Davis.”
Shayla looked away, her mind racing. She didn’t like the way this was going, but she also knew Meech well enough to realize he wouldn’t back down. Whatever plan he had, he was determined to see it through—and she was caught in the middle.
“Just do what I’m asking, Shayla,” Meech said, his voice softening slightly. “You’ll get your cut. You ain’t catching feelings for that lame ass nigga, huh?”
Shayla didn’t respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the fan as it spun lazily in the corner. Finally, she exhaled, her shoulders slumping. “No. But if this shit blows up, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Meech grinned, taking another drag from his blunt. “Man, ain’t nothing gonna blow up. I got it under control.”
Shayla didn’t share his confidence. As she picked up her phone again, a heavy feeling settled in her chest. Royce might have been distant, but he didn’t deserve whatever Meech had planned. And deep down, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be a part of it.
~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m just saying,” Julian said, adjusting the brim of his cap, “if you don’t get ahead of this, it’s gonna blow up worse than it already has. You know they always looking to knock down young Black men out here.”
Royce, Julian, Marcus, and Khalil sat on a low stone wall near the student union. A couple of empty takeout boxes were scattered between them, remnants of their late lunch. Royce leaned back on his elbows, the weight of the last few weeks pressing on him even as he tried to keep his posture relaxed. Julian was animated, gesturing with his hands as he spoke, while Marcus and Khalil occasionally chimed in.
Royce exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Billy said he’s dealing with it. What you want me to do? Call WAFB and make a statement myself?”
“Nah, but you gotta be careful,” Marcus interjected, his tone serious. “Motherfuckers love a scandal, and if you keep letting this shit spiral, it’s gonna mess up everything. Your money, your spot on the team—everything.”
“Man, y’all acting like I’m just sitting here not doing shit,” Royce shot back, his voice defensive. “I’m trusting Billy to handle it. That’s what I pay that motherfucker for.”
Julian raised an eyebrow. “I get that, but you still gotta move right. One more mess-up, and they’ll bury you. They gonna have someone new to replace your ass by the end of the week.”
Khalil nodded, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, bro. We’re just saying, be smart. You got too much on the line.”
Before Royce could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air. “Yo, Ju!”
The group turned to see Malcolm strolling through the courtyard, his bag slung over one shoulder. He was grinning, his steps easy and confident. Julian stood to dap him up, the two exchanging a quick handshake and a couple of friendly words.
“What’s good, my guy?” Julian asked, nodding toward the rest of the group.
“Same old,” Malcolm said. “When can I get that cut, though? I’m looking rough.”
Julian chuckled, brushing imaginary lint off his shirt. “Come through this weekend. I got you.”
“Bet,” Malcolm said, glancing briefly at Royce before turning to leave. As he walked away, he threw a casual comment over his shoulder. “Messing with them white girls done gone and gotten you in trouble, huh, young brother?”
The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy and sharp. Royce’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed. “Fuck off, nigga,” he said, his voice low but icy.
Malcolm didn’t stop, just lifted a hand in a mock wave as he continued down the path. The group watched him go in silence until Khalil broke it with a chuckle. “You know, that’s crazy as fuck coming from him.”
Marcus frowned, looking at Khalil. “What you mean?”
Khalil smirked, shaking his head. “That man fucking some Sue Young looking ass bitch. ‘Me love you long time’ type of bitch, so he ain’t got no room to talk about no one else not being with a Black chick. And he be kicking it with that nigga Emmett, ol’ boy in the college republicans or whatever that shit called.”
Julian shook his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Damn, y’all saying my guy is Clarence Thomas 2.0? About to be up there putting us back on the plantation?”
Royce sat back again, running a hand over his face. The frustration bubbling inside him was hard to contain, but he didn’t want to let Malcolm’s words stick. “Man, fuck all that shit. If I wasn’t dealing with this, I’d be ready to start fighting all these corny ass niggas on this campus that always got some shit to say because they feel bad about themselves.”
“Ignore that shit, man,” Marcus said firmly. “You gotta keep your cool, lil’ bro. Don’t let them clown ass niggas get under your skin.”
Royce nodded, though his jaw was still tight. He flipped his phone over on the table as it vibrated incessantly, ignoring the texts from Alix.
~~~~~~~~~~
Britni unlocked the door to her dorm room and pushed it open, the familiar scent of lavender air freshener wafting out to greet her. The room was dim, lit only by the glow of Leah’s desk lamp. Her roommate was hunched over a textbook, scribbling notes in the margins with the precision of someone who had perfected the art of late-night studying.
Britni shut the door behind her with a soft click and leaned against it, letting her bag slide off her shoulder and onto the floor. She exhaled deeply, her face a mixture of exhaustion and frustration.
Leah looked up, her pen pausing mid-sentence. “You’re back early.”
Britni shrugged, kicking off her shoes and trudging to her bed. “It wasn’t working.”
Leah tilted her head, her dark curls falling over one shoulder. “Rough night?”
Britni flopped onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Rough doesn’t even cover it. I just—” She cut herself off, pressing her palms against her face as if trying to rub away the lingering tension.
Leah set her pen down and swiveled in her chair to face Britni fully. “Want to talk about it?”
Britni groaned softly, her voice muffled by her hands. “It’s like every time I go out with someone, it just… feels wrong. Like I shouldn’t even be there.”
Leah’s expression softened as she pushed her chair closer to Britni’s bed. “You’re still thinking about Romeo, aren’t you?”
Britni’s hands fell away from her face, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She nodded. “How am I supposed to move on when it feels like I’m betraying him just by trying?”
Leah hesitated before sitting on the edge of Britni’s bed. “Girl, it’s been what? Two years? You’re not betraying him by trying to live your life. He’d want you to be happy.”
Britni sat up, her movements sharp with frustration. “How do you know what he’d want? You didn’t know him.”
Leah held up her hands defensively. “I’m not trying to overstep. I just mean… you’re allowed to move forward. It doesn’t mean you’re forgetting him.”
Britni’s voice cracked as she spoke, the tears she’d been holding back finally spilling over. “But I don’t know how to move forward. I don’t even know where to start.”
Leah reached out, resting a comforting hand on Britni’s shoulder. “Maybe that’s the problem. You’re trying to force something that doesn’t feel right. It’s okay to take a step back. Focus on yourself for a while. You don’t have to have it all figured out.”
Britni sniffed, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I just feel so stuck, Leah. Like no matter what I do, I’m not moving.”
“You’re not stuck,” Leah said gently. “You’re healing. And that takes time. It doesn’t have to look like going on dates or doing what everyone else is doing. You just need to figure out what feels good for you.”
For a moment, Britni sat silently, her gaze dropping to the floor. She fiddled with the edge of her blanket, her mind racing through Leah’s words. Finally, she let out a shaky breath and looked up. “Maybe you’re right. I just… I don’t want to feel like this forever.”
Leah smiled softly. “You won’t. You’re stronger than you think, Brit.”
Britni managed a weak smile in return, the knot in her chest loosening ever so slightly.
The evening air was thick with humidity as Shayla sat on the worn leather couch in Meech’s cramped living room, idly scrolling through her phone. The soft hum of an old box fan filled the silence, its blades barely cutting through the heat. Meech sat across from her at a small, cluttered table, rolling a blunt with methodical precision. The faint scent of weed mingled with the lingering aroma of fried food from earlier in the day.
Shayla sighed, tossing her phone onto the cushion beside her. “I don’t get why you even care so much about Royce,” she said, her tone tinged with frustration. “He barely even talks to me. Half the time, he don’t even answer my texts. You acting like that nigga don’t got forty thousand bitches at LSU running behind him.”
Meech looked up briefly, his expression unreadable. “You just gotta be patient. His ass already in some shit. That ain’t gonna be the last of that.”
“Patient?” Shayla let out a humorless laugh. “The only time he hits me up is when he wants me to come over. And even then, it’s like… I don’t know, he’s just distant. It’s just fucking and then he tell me to get out.”
Meech lit the blunt and took a slow drag, leaning back in his chair. “That’s why you gotta fix it. Get closer to him.”
Shayla frowned, crossing her arms. “Why? Ain’t no getting closer to him, because again nigga, he got beaucoup bitches around him. What’s even the point, Meech? Why you plotting on him anyway?”
Meech blew out a cloud of smoke, his eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s none of your business.”
Shayla rolled her eyes, leaning forward. “The fuck it ain’t. It is my business if you’re trying to use me for something. I’m not stupid, Meech. You’re always talking about getting close to him, but you never say why.”
Meech took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly. “You just need to focus on doing what the fuck I’m telling you to do. You know what you fucking need to know.”
Shayla’s jaw tightened, her frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “You’re always playing games, Meech. Royce ain’t dumb. He’s not gonna let me in just because you think he will.”
“He doesn’t have to let you in,” Meech said, his tone calm but firm. “You just need to be there. Stick around, stay close. He’ll slip up eventually. They always do.”
Shayla stared at him, her expression a mix of doubt and anger. “This is about money, isn’t it? That’s all you ever care about.”
Meech smirked, leaning forward slightly. “See you ain’t as dumb as you make yourself out to be.”
Shayla shook her head, leaning back against the couch. “This shit ain’t gonna end well at all, Meech. You talking about trying to scam some nigga that’s up there at them white folks’ school playing football for them. He ain’t just some dude from around the way.”
“Maybe,” Meech said, shrugging. “But he not untouchable. All you gotta do is wait it out. He start wilding around them white girls a little too much and they gonna run that nigga out there like they did that boy Drake Davis.”
Shayla looked away, her mind racing. She didn’t like the way this was going, but she also knew Meech well enough to realize he wouldn’t back down. Whatever plan he had, he was determined to see it through—and she was caught in the middle.
“Just do what I’m asking, Shayla,” Meech said, his voice softening slightly. “You’ll get your cut. You ain’t catching feelings for that lame ass nigga, huh?”
Shayla didn’t respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the fan as it spun lazily in the corner. Finally, she exhaled, her shoulders slumping. “No. But if this shit blows up, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Meech grinned, taking another drag from his blunt. “Man, ain’t nothing gonna blow up. I got it under control.”
Shayla didn’t share his confidence. As she picked up her phone again, a heavy feeling settled in her chest. Royce might have been distant, but he didn’t deserve whatever Meech had planned. And deep down, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be a part of it.
~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m just saying,” Julian said, adjusting the brim of his cap, “if you don’t get ahead of this, it’s gonna blow up worse than it already has. You know they always looking to knock down young Black men out here.”
Royce, Julian, Marcus, and Khalil sat on a low stone wall near the student union. A couple of empty takeout boxes were scattered between them, remnants of their late lunch. Royce leaned back on his elbows, the weight of the last few weeks pressing on him even as he tried to keep his posture relaxed. Julian was animated, gesturing with his hands as he spoke, while Marcus and Khalil occasionally chimed in.
Royce exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Billy said he’s dealing with it. What you want me to do? Call WAFB and make a statement myself?”
“Nah, but you gotta be careful,” Marcus interjected, his tone serious. “Motherfuckers love a scandal, and if you keep letting this shit spiral, it’s gonna mess up everything. Your money, your spot on the team—everything.”
“Man, y’all acting like I’m just sitting here not doing shit,” Royce shot back, his voice defensive. “I’m trusting Billy to handle it. That’s what I pay that motherfucker for.”
Julian raised an eyebrow. “I get that, but you still gotta move right. One more mess-up, and they’ll bury you. They gonna have someone new to replace your ass by the end of the week.”
Khalil nodded, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, bro. We’re just saying, be smart. You got too much on the line.”
Before Royce could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air. “Yo, Ju!”
The group turned to see Malcolm strolling through the courtyard, his bag slung over one shoulder. He was grinning, his steps easy and confident. Julian stood to dap him up, the two exchanging a quick handshake and a couple of friendly words.
“What’s good, my guy?” Julian asked, nodding toward the rest of the group.
“Same old,” Malcolm said. “When can I get that cut, though? I’m looking rough.”
Julian chuckled, brushing imaginary lint off his shirt. “Come through this weekend. I got you.”
“Bet,” Malcolm said, glancing briefly at Royce before turning to leave. As he walked away, he threw a casual comment over his shoulder. “Messing with them white girls done gone and gotten you in trouble, huh, young brother?”
The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy and sharp. Royce’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed. “Fuck off, nigga,” he said, his voice low but icy.
Malcolm didn’t stop, just lifted a hand in a mock wave as he continued down the path. The group watched him go in silence until Khalil broke it with a chuckle. “You know, that’s crazy as fuck coming from him.”
Marcus frowned, looking at Khalil. “What you mean?”
Khalil smirked, shaking his head. “That man fucking some Sue Young looking ass bitch. ‘Me love you long time’ type of bitch, so he ain’t got no room to talk about no one else not being with a Black chick. And he be kicking it with that nigga Emmett, ol’ boy in the college republicans or whatever that shit called.”
Julian shook his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Damn, y’all saying my guy is Clarence Thomas 2.0? About to be up there putting us back on the plantation?”
Royce sat back again, running a hand over his face. The frustration bubbling inside him was hard to contain, but he didn’t want to let Malcolm’s words stick. “Man, fuck all that shit. If I wasn’t dealing with this, I’d be ready to start fighting all these corny ass niggas on this campus that always got some shit to say because they feel bad about themselves.”
“Ignore that shit, man,” Marcus said firmly. “You gotta keep your cool, lil’ bro. Don’t let them clown ass niggas get under your skin.”
Royce nodded, though his jaw was still tight. He flipped his phone over on the table as it vibrated incessantly, ignoring the texts from Alix.
~~~~~~~~~~
Britni unlocked the door to her dorm room and pushed it open, the familiar scent of lavender air freshener wafting out to greet her. The room was dim, lit only by the glow of Leah’s desk lamp. Her roommate was hunched over a textbook, scribbling notes in the margins with the precision of someone who had perfected the art of late-night studying.
Britni shut the door behind her with a soft click and leaned against it, letting her bag slide off her shoulder and onto the floor. She exhaled deeply, her face a mixture of exhaustion and frustration.
Leah looked up, her pen pausing mid-sentence. “You’re back early.”
Britni shrugged, kicking off her shoes and trudging to her bed. “It wasn’t working.”
Leah tilted her head, her dark curls falling over one shoulder. “Rough night?”
Britni flopped onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Rough doesn’t even cover it. I just—” She cut herself off, pressing her palms against her face as if trying to rub away the lingering tension.
Leah set her pen down and swiveled in her chair to face Britni fully. “Want to talk about it?”
Britni groaned softly, her voice muffled by her hands. “It’s like every time I go out with someone, it just… feels wrong. Like I shouldn’t even be there.”
Leah’s expression softened as she pushed her chair closer to Britni’s bed. “You’re still thinking about Romeo, aren’t you?”
Britni’s hands fell away from her face, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She nodded. “How am I supposed to move on when it feels like I’m betraying him just by trying?”
Leah hesitated before sitting on the edge of Britni’s bed. “Girl, it’s been what? Two years? You’re not betraying him by trying to live your life. He’d want you to be happy.”
Britni sat up, her movements sharp with frustration. “How do you know what he’d want? You didn’t know him.”
Leah held up her hands defensively. “I’m not trying to overstep. I just mean… you’re allowed to move forward. It doesn’t mean you’re forgetting him.”
Britni’s voice cracked as she spoke, the tears she’d been holding back finally spilling over. “But I don’t know how to move forward. I don’t even know where to start.”
Leah reached out, resting a comforting hand on Britni’s shoulder. “Maybe that’s the problem. You’re trying to force something that doesn’t feel right. It’s okay to take a step back. Focus on yourself for a while. You don’t have to have it all figured out.”
Britni sniffed, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I just feel so stuck, Leah. Like no matter what I do, I’m not moving.”
“You’re not stuck,” Leah said gently. “You’re healing. And that takes time. It doesn’t have to look like going on dates or doing what everyone else is doing. You just need to figure out what feels good for you.”
For a moment, Britni sat silently, her gaze dropping to the floor. She fiddled with the edge of her blanket, her mind racing through Leah’s words. Finally, she let out a shaky breath and looked up. “Maybe you’re right. I just… I don’t want to feel like this forever.”
Leah smiled softly. “You won’t. You’re stronger than you think, Brit.”
Britni managed a weak smile in return, the knot in her chest loosening ever so slightly.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16919
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 8031
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
This dude just dont quit 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Ultimatums
The low hum of Royce’s car engine faded as he pulled into Rana and Tyrell’s driveway. The house was warm and inviting, light spilling from the windows onto the neatly trimmed lawn. Royce sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen of his phone.
A string of texts from Alix filled the notification bar, each one more urgent than the last.
"Royce, please call me."
"You can’t keep ignoring me."
"I need to talk to you, it’s important."
His phone buzzed again as he opened the car door, a new text lighting up the screen. "I’m begging you, just answer me."
Royce sighed, locking the phone and shoving it into his pocket as he stepped out of the car. The crisp evening air nipped at his face, but it wasn’t enough to shake the heaviness in his chest. Whatever Alix had to say, it could wait. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with her—anyone really, but especially her.
The muffled sounds of laughter and conversation greeted him as he walked up to the door. Inside, the warmth of the house was immediate, the aroma of baked chicken and cornbread wafting from the kitchen. Rana was moving between guests, her smile radiant as she welcomed everyone in. Tyrell stood by the dining table, already mid-conversation with a group of friends.
“Ro!” Rana’s voice cut through the room as she spotted him by the door. She crossed the space quickly, pulling him into a tight hug. “Glad you made it.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it,” Royce said, his tone neutral. He forced a small smile as she pulled back, her eyes scanning his face like she was trying to read him.
The evening moved quickly, with guests mingling and filling their plates. Royce kept to the edges of the room, nodding politely when spoken to but keeping his distance. He didn’t feel like celebrating, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.
Eventually, Tyrell called everyone’s attention. He stood beside Rana, his hand on her waist as she held a glass of water. “Alright, y’all, we’ve got something to share,” Tyrell announced, grinning wide. “Rana and I are expecting!”
The room erupted in applause and cheers. Royce clapped along with the others, though his mind felt distant from the celebration.
Rana’s beaming smile dimmed slightly as her gaze caught Royce’s. Once the commotion settled, she made her way over to him. “What’s going on with you?” she asked, her tone quieter but laced with concern.
Royce shrugged. “Ain’t nothing going on with me. I’m here, ain’t I?”
“Physically, yeah,” Rana said, crossing her arms. “But you look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders. Tell me what’s going on, Ro.”
“I don’t need this shit right now, Rana,” Royce said, his voice low but tense. “Just fucking drop it and enjoy your party.”
“No, we can’t just fucking drop it,” she shot back, her tone sharpening. “You’ve been getting into shit damn near everyday since the season ended. All the wrong headlines, Royce. You need to be more careful about who you’re hanging around with and what you’re doing.”
“I’m not a God damn kid, Rana,” Royce snapped, his jaw tightening. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Rana’s voice rose slightly, drawing the attention of a few nearby guests. “Because it doesn’t look like it. You’re acting like you’ve got nothing to lose, and it’s going to ruin you.”
“Ruin me?” Royce’s laugh was humorless, his frustration spilling out. “You think I don’t know how close I am to losing everything? I’ve been dealing with this shit my whole fucking life. No dad, no chance to just be a kid, and then getting shot. Now, I’m supposed to be a professional, worrying about this and that out of nowhere? You think I’ve had time to figure it all out? Just let me fucking breathe. God damn.”
Rana’s face hardened, though her eyes flickered with emotion. “You’re being immature, Royce. Everyone’s had struggles, all of us, but that doesn’t mean you get to act like this. You have the chance to be something, but you’re throwing it away.”
“How am I throwing it away? I didn’t fucking do anything!” Royce’s voice rose to match hers, his frustration boiling over. “That’s the whole fucking problem right now. I ain’t do shit and I’m the one that 12 waiting to put handcuffs on. I ain’t do shit and everyone blame me for Romeo. I ain’t do shit and motherfuckers want me to go fix shit with Ma when she’s the one that told me she ain’t want me there anymore. Everyone’s against me, Rana. It’d be nice to have someone in my motherfucking corner for once.”
The argument escalated, their voices drawing more attention from the guests. Tyrell stepped in, placing a firm hand on Royce’s shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. “Let’s not do this here.”
Royce shook his head, stepping back. “Fuck it. I don’t need this right now.”
“Ro—” Rana started, reaching for him.
“Let him go,” Tyrell said softly, holding her back. “Y’all can sort this out later. Not here.”
Rana hesitated, her eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sadness, but she nodded. Royce didn’t wait for her to say anything else. He turned and walked out the door, the cool night air hitting him like a slap to the face.
As he climbed into his car, his phone buzzed again. Alix’s name flashed on the screen, but Royce ignored it, gripping the steering wheel tightly. The glow of Rana and Tyrell’s house grew smaller in his rearview mirror as he drove off into the night, the weight on his shoulders heavier than ever.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alix sat cross-legged on her bed, her laptop perched on her thighs as she furiously typed notes for an upcoming midterm. Her headphones played soft music, but the melody did little to calm her swirling thoughts. Royce had been ignoring her calls and texts for weeks, and the radio silence was eating away at her. She’d left him message after message, each one more desperate than the last, but nothing. The void he left behind felt bigger every day, and it was starting to bleed into every corner of her life—including her relationship with Dominic.
Her phone buzzed beside her. She grabbed it instinctively, her heart racing. But it wasn’t Royce. It was Dominic.
She stared at the screen for a moment before declining the call. A knot twisted in her stomach. She knew she couldn’t keep avoiding him forever, but she wasn’t ready to face the questions she knew he’d ask.
A loud knock on her door broke her thoughts. Alix froze, her eyes darting to the door. Dominic didn’t usually come to her dorm unannounced. She hesitated, debating whether to pretend she wasn’t there, but the knock came again—louder this time.
“Alix, I know you’re in there. Ashlee let me in the elevator,” Dominic’s voice called through the door.
With a resigned sigh, she slid off the bed and opened the door. Dominic stood in the hallway, his face tense, his eyes searching hers for answers before she could even speak.
“Can we talk?” he asked, his tone clipped.
Alix stepped aside, allowing him to enter. He walked in, his hands shoved into his pockets as he scanned the room, his movements stiff.
“What’s up?” she asked, leaning against the wall, arms crossed defensively.
Dominic turned to face her, his expression sharp. “You tell me. You’ve been distant lately. You barely text me back, and when you do, it’s like I’m pulling teeth. What’s going on with you? Did I do something?”
Alix exhaled, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I’ve just been stressed. School’s a lot right now.”
“Don’t play in my face, Alix,” Dominic said, his voice rising. “This isn’t about school. It’s about Royce.”
Her head snapped up, her heart pounding. “What?”
“What? You fucking know what,” Dominic said, stepping closer. “I see it. Every time you look at your phone, every time you check the door like you’re expecting him to walk in. Everyone done seen the video. You were there at Fred’s.”
“I’m not—” she started, but Dominic cut her off.
“And now he’s not talking to you,” he said, his tone harsh. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
The words hit her like a slap. Alix opened her mouth to respond but found herself unable to speak. Was she in love with Royce? The question had haunted her for weeks, and she wasn’t sure if she could face the answer.
“I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Dominic’s laugh was bitter, his hands flying up in frustration. “You don’t know? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re stringing me along because you ‘don’t know’? I know I should’ve stopped fucking with your ass when he tried to check me at that party.”
“I’m trying to figure it out!” she snapped, her own frustration bubbling to the surface. “You don’t understand. It’s complicated between us.”
“It’s not complicated, though,” Dominic said. “Either you want the motherfucker or you don’t want the motherfucker. Clearly, you aren’t stupid enough to be with him since he’s probably fucking ten or fifteen other bitches here.”
“That’s not fair,” Alix said, shaking her head. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think,” Dominic shot back. “You don’t want to let me go because you’re scared of what it means if Royce doesn’t want your fucking ass either. But let me tell you something—no man is going to stick around for a woman who keeps running back to her high school fuck buddy.”
His words cut deep, and Alix flinched, her throat tightening. “You don’t get to talk to me like that,” she said, her voice trembling.
“You don’t want me to talk to you like that because you can’t handle the fucking truth. Tell me I’m wrong,” Dominic challenged, his eyes blazing. “All you gotta say is that you aren’t afraid that you’re going to end up alone because you put all your eggs in the basket of a motherfucker who is going to crash out sooner or later.”
Alix couldn’t. The silence that followed was deafening.
Dominic nodded, his expression hardening as he moved toward the door. “You need to figure out your shit out, Alix. But don’t expect me to stick around while you decide.”
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Alix alone in the echo of his words. She sank onto the bed, her hands shaking as she pressed them to her face. Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Instead, she stared at her phone, Royce’s name at the top of her messages. She wanted to text him, to call him, to beg him to fix the hole he’d left in her life.
But for the first time, she wondered if that hole was hers to fix alone.
The low hum of Royce’s car engine faded as he pulled into Rana and Tyrell’s driveway. The house was warm and inviting, light spilling from the windows onto the neatly trimmed lawn. Royce sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen of his phone.
A string of texts from Alix filled the notification bar, each one more urgent than the last.
"Royce, please call me."
"You can’t keep ignoring me."
"I need to talk to you, it’s important."
His phone buzzed again as he opened the car door, a new text lighting up the screen. "I’m begging you, just answer me."
Royce sighed, locking the phone and shoving it into his pocket as he stepped out of the car. The crisp evening air nipped at his face, but it wasn’t enough to shake the heaviness in his chest. Whatever Alix had to say, it could wait. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with her—anyone really, but especially her.
The muffled sounds of laughter and conversation greeted him as he walked up to the door. Inside, the warmth of the house was immediate, the aroma of baked chicken and cornbread wafting from the kitchen. Rana was moving between guests, her smile radiant as she welcomed everyone in. Tyrell stood by the dining table, already mid-conversation with a group of friends.
“Ro!” Rana’s voice cut through the room as she spotted him by the door. She crossed the space quickly, pulling him into a tight hug. “Glad you made it.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it,” Royce said, his tone neutral. He forced a small smile as she pulled back, her eyes scanning his face like she was trying to read him.
The evening moved quickly, with guests mingling and filling their plates. Royce kept to the edges of the room, nodding politely when spoken to but keeping his distance. He didn’t feel like celebrating, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.
Eventually, Tyrell called everyone’s attention. He stood beside Rana, his hand on her waist as she held a glass of water. “Alright, y’all, we’ve got something to share,” Tyrell announced, grinning wide. “Rana and I are expecting!”
The room erupted in applause and cheers. Royce clapped along with the others, though his mind felt distant from the celebration.
Rana’s beaming smile dimmed slightly as her gaze caught Royce’s. Once the commotion settled, she made her way over to him. “What’s going on with you?” she asked, her tone quieter but laced with concern.
Royce shrugged. “Ain’t nothing going on with me. I’m here, ain’t I?”
“Physically, yeah,” Rana said, crossing her arms. “But you look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders. Tell me what’s going on, Ro.”
“I don’t need this shit right now, Rana,” Royce said, his voice low but tense. “Just fucking drop it and enjoy your party.”
“No, we can’t just fucking drop it,” she shot back, her tone sharpening. “You’ve been getting into shit damn near everyday since the season ended. All the wrong headlines, Royce. You need to be more careful about who you’re hanging around with and what you’re doing.”
“I’m not a God damn kid, Rana,” Royce snapped, his jaw tightening. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Rana’s voice rose slightly, drawing the attention of a few nearby guests. “Because it doesn’t look like it. You’re acting like you’ve got nothing to lose, and it’s going to ruin you.”
“Ruin me?” Royce’s laugh was humorless, his frustration spilling out. “You think I don’t know how close I am to losing everything? I’ve been dealing with this shit my whole fucking life. No dad, no chance to just be a kid, and then getting shot. Now, I’m supposed to be a professional, worrying about this and that out of nowhere? You think I’ve had time to figure it all out? Just let me fucking breathe. God damn.”
Rana’s face hardened, though her eyes flickered with emotion. “You’re being immature, Royce. Everyone’s had struggles, all of us, but that doesn’t mean you get to act like this. You have the chance to be something, but you’re throwing it away.”
“How am I throwing it away? I didn’t fucking do anything!” Royce’s voice rose to match hers, his frustration boiling over. “That’s the whole fucking problem right now. I ain’t do shit and I’m the one that 12 waiting to put handcuffs on. I ain’t do shit and everyone blame me for Romeo. I ain’t do shit and motherfuckers want me to go fix shit with Ma when she’s the one that told me she ain’t want me there anymore. Everyone’s against me, Rana. It’d be nice to have someone in my motherfucking corner for once.”
The argument escalated, their voices drawing more attention from the guests. Tyrell stepped in, placing a firm hand on Royce’s shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. “Let’s not do this here.”
Royce shook his head, stepping back. “Fuck it. I don’t need this right now.”
“Ro—” Rana started, reaching for him.
“Let him go,” Tyrell said softly, holding her back. “Y’all can sort this out later. Not here.”
Rana hesitated, her eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sadness, but she nodded. Royce didn’t wait for her to say anything else. He turned and walked out the door, the cool night air hitting him like a slap to the face.
As he climbed into his car, his phone buzzed again. Alix’s name flashed on the screen, but Royce ignored it, gripping the steering wheel tightly. The glow of Rana and Tyrell’s house grew smaller in his rearview mirror as he drove off into the night, the weight on his shoulders heavier than ever.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alix sat cross-legged on her bed, her laptop perched on her thighs as she furiously typed notes for an upcoming midterm. Her headphones played soft music, but the melody did little to calm her swirling thoughts. Royce had been ignoring her calls and texts for weeks, and the radio silence was eating away at her. She’d left him message after message, each one more desperate than the last, but nothing. The void he left behind felt bigger every day, and it was starting to bleed into every corner of her life—including her relationship with Dominic.
Her phone buzzed beside her. She grabbed it instinctively, her heart racing. But it wasn’t Royce. It was Dominic.
She stared at the screen for a moment before declining the call. A knot twisted in her stomach. She knew she couldn’t keep avoiding him forever, but she wasn’t ready to face the questions she knew he’d ask.
A loud knock on her door broke her thoughts. Alix froze, her eyes darting to the door. Dominic didn’t usually come to her dorm unannounced. She hesitated, debating whether to pretend she wasn’t there, but the knock came again—louder this time.
“Alix, I know you’re in there. Ashlee let me in the elevator,” Dominic’s voice called through the door.
With a resigned sigh, she slid off the bed and opened the door. Dominic stood in the hallway, his face tense, his eyes searching hers for answers before she could even speak.
“Can we talk?” he asked, his tone clipped.
Alix stepped aside, allowing him to enter. He walked in, his hands shoved into his pockets as he scanned the room, his movements stiff.
“What’s up?” she asked, leaning against the wall, arms crossed defensively.
Dominic turned to face her, his expression sharp. “You tell me. You’ve been distant lately. You barely text me back, and when you do, it’s like I’m pulling teeth. What’s going on with you? Did I do something?”
Alix exhaled, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I’ve just been stressed. School’s a lot right now.”
“Don’t play in my face, Alix,” Dominic said, his voice rising. “This isn’t about school. It’s about Royce.”
Her head snapped up, her heart pounding. “What?”
“What? You fucking know what,” Dominic said, stepping closer. “I see it. Every time you look at your phone, every time you check the door like you’re expecting him to walk in. Everyone done seen the video. You were there at Fred’s.”
“I’m not—” she started, but Dominic cut her off.
“And now he’s not talking to you,” he said, his tone harsh. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
The words hit her like a slap. Alix opened her mouth to respond but found herself unable to speak. Was she in love with Royce? The question had haunted her for weeks, and she wasn’t sure if she could face the answer.
“I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Dominic’s laugh was bitter, his hands flying up in frustration. “You don’t know? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re stringing me along because you ‘don’t know’? I know I should’ve stopped fucking with your ass when he tried to check me at that party.”
“I’m trying to figure it out!” she snapped, her own frustration bubbling to the surface. “You don’t understand. It’s complicated between us.”
“It’s not complicated, though,” Dominic said. “Either you want the motherfucker or you don’t want the motherfucker. Clearly, you aren’t stupid enough to be with him since he’s probably fucking ten or fifteen other bitches here.”
“That’s not fair,” Alix said, shaking her head. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think,” Dominic shot back. “You don’t want to let me go because you’re scared of what it means if Royce doesn’t want your fucking ass either. But let me tell you something—no man is going to stick around for a woman who keeps running back to her high school fuck buddy.”
His words cut deep, and Alix flinched, her throat tightening. “You don’t get to talk to me like that,” she said, her voice trembling.
“You don’t want me to talk to you like that because you can’t handle the fucking truth. Tell me I’m wrong,” Dominic challenged, his eyes blazing. “All you gotta say is that you aren’t afraid that you’re going to end up alone because you put all your eggs in the basket of a motherfucker who is going to crash out sooner or later.”
Alix couldn’t. The silence that followed was deafening.
Dominic nodded, his expression hardening as he moved toward the door. “You need to figure out your shit out, Alix. But don’t expect me to stick around while you decide.”
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Alix alone in the echo of his words. She sank onto the bed, her hands shaking as she pressed them to her face. Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Instead, she stared at her phone, Royce’s name at the top of her messages. She wanted to text him, to call him, to beg him to fix the hole he’d left in her life.
But for the first time, she wondered if that hole was hers to fix alone.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 8031
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Shordy really aint got no self respect huh.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Back to Work
The afternoon sun bore down on the LSU practice fields, casting long shadows over the team as they ran through defensive schemes. Royce stood in the middle of the field, his hands on his hips and his jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack. Every movement was sharp, calculated, and filled with an energy that teetered on the edge of anger.
He wasn’t just there to practice. He was there to prove something—to the new coaching staff, to his teammates, and most of all, to himself. The noise in his head never stopped. Every step he took felt like a response to the whispers about his off-field issues, about whether he could handle the spotlight or if he’d throw it all away.
“Again!” shouted defensive coordinator Tosh Lupoi from the sideline, his voice cutting through the humid air.
Royce barely waited for the offensive players to reset before snapping back into position. The play wasn’t even live, just a walkthrough of coverage adjustments, but Royce’s intensity didn’t waver. His calls were sharp, his corrections to teammates quick and unforgiving.
“Shift left!” he barked, waving his hand and glaring at a freshman defensive back who hesitated too long. “Come the fuck on! If you don’t understand this, go sit your fucking ass down.”
The freshman scrambled into position, his eyes cast toward the ground as he avoided Royce’s gaze.
On the sideline, Coach Dan Lanning stood with Lupoi, arms crossed as they watched Royce command the field.
“He’s playing pissed off,” Lanning remarked, his tone neutral but observant.
“Good,” Lupoi replied. “Let him use it. Better here than anywhere else.”
The team ran through the play, and Royce adjusted seamlessly, moving like a chess master who already knew the outcome. When the offense jogged back to the huddle, Royce stayed where he was, his hands on his knees, his chest heaving. He wasn’t even winded—just furious. Furious that he had to keep proving himself. Furious that people doubted him. Furious that, deep down, part of him wondered if they were right.
As the walkthrough ended, Royce grabbed a bottle of water and stood off to the side, his shoulders tense as he watched his teammates laugh and joke. Marcus and Khalil wandered over, their faces slick with sweat.
“Man, you about to rip one of these motherfuckers’ heads off,” Marcus said, taking a swig from his bottle. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Royce muttered, staring out at the field. “I’m straight.”
Khalil raised an eyebrow, glancing at Marcus before trying again. “It’s just spring practice, my nigga. You don’t gotta kill yourself out here.”
Royce turned to him, his eyes hard. “Fuck outta here with that shit. Y’all the same niggas that were telling me I gotta make sure these motherfuckers don’t get rid of me.”
Marcus held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. We get it. Chill.”
Royce shook his head, taking another long drink of water before tossing the bottle aside. “Ain’t no motherfucking chill,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
The coaches gathered the team for a final breakdown, and Royce stood silently near the back of the huddle, his jaw still tight. He barely registered Lanning’s words, his mind racing with everything he still needed to fix, to prove, to overcome.
As practice ended, Royce trudged back to the locker room, his cleats grinding against the pavement. Inside, he sat on the chair in front of his locker, staring blankly at the floor as the noise of his teammates swirled around him. For the first time, someone clapped him on the shoulder—Khalil, offering a small gesture of camaraderie.
“Good shit today, bro,” Khalil said simply.
Royce nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t feel like he’d killed it. He felt like he was barely holding it together. But if the coaches saw otherwise, if his teammates believed otherwise, maybe that was enough for now.
…
The music pulsed through the walls of Royce’s apartment, the kind of deep bass that rattled through your chest and made conversation feel secondary. The party was a scene of organized chaos: people packed the dimly lit rooms, their laughter and chatter mingling with the clinking of bottles and the faint scent of smoke wafting in from the balcony. Outside, a few stragglers leaned over the railing, shouting to people on the street below, their voices swallowed by the noise inside.
Royce stood near the kitchen, leaning casually against the counter with a red Solo cup in hand. The drink was mostly untouched, his focus darting around the room as if he were both host and observer. His only demand for the night had been non-negotiable: everyone’s phones stayed at the door. A table near the entrance was piled high with devices, a chaotic assortment of cases and screens that had been surrendered upon arrival. Marcus, playing enforcer for the evening, had made sure no one dared argue.
“Bro, you good?” Khalil asked, slipping next to him with a grin and a fresh beer.
“Yeah,” Royce said, forcing a smirk. “Just chilling.”
Khalil chuckled, nudging him playfully. “Man, you the one that set this shit up. Relax a little. You’re acting like the cops about to kick in the motherfucking door.”
Royce shrugged, his eyes scanning the crowd. He was supposed to be letting loose, but his mind was tangled in too many threads: practice, the new coaching staff, Billy’s frantic calls about his legal mess. It was like trying to ignore an itch that only grew worse when he tried to distract himself.
That’s when he saw them. The blonde and the brunette hovered near the makeshift bar, heads tilted toward each other in quiet conversation. Both of them exuded the kind of confidence that turned heads without effort. The blonde, tall and statuesque, leaned in to say something that made the brunette laugh, her dark curls bouncing as she tossed a glance in Royce’s direction. He met her gaze and smirked, the faint tension in his chest loosening slightly.
Setting his cup on the counter, Royce crossed the room with the kind of measured swagger that demanded attention. As he approached, the blonde turned first, her lips curling into a sly smile as she nudged her friend.
“Y’all enjoying yourselves?” Royce asked, his voice smooth and casual.
The blonde tilted her head, her smile widening. “We were starting to wonder when you were going to come over here. Thought you might’ve not noticed us.”
“Yeah,” the brunette chimed in, her tone teasing. “You were standing over there all lonely for a good while.”
Royce chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the bar. “Figured I’d give y’all a chance to warm up.”
“Oh, so you think we need warming up?” the blonde asked, raising an eyebrow as her smile took on an edge.
“I do,” Royce replied, his smirk unwavering. “Wouldn’t want you to pull anything.”
The brunette laughed softly, shifting a little closer. “Fair enough. But if we’re being honest, it’s your party, and you’re the one missing out. We’ve been holding it down over here.”
Royce’s gaze flicked between them, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “That right? Guess I need to catch up, then.”
“You do,” the blonde said, brushing her hair over her shoulder in a practiced motion. “So, what’s the host got planned for his VIP guests?”
Royce leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to add weight to his words. “Maybe I can show you around. Give you the exclusive tour.”
The brunette’s grin widened, and she exchanged a glance with her friend. “We’re in.”
Royce gestured for them to follow, leading the way through the crowded apartment with the two girls trailing behind. He could hear their quiet laughter as they whispered to each other, but his mind had already begun to pull at the edges of his anger and frustration, threatening to claw its way back into focus.
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, Royce let the outside world fade. For the first time in weeks, he let himself give in to the moment, the tension in his chest dulling as the chaos outside the door became a distant hum.
Hours later, Royce emerged from the room, his shirt slightly wrinkled. The party was still in full swing, the energy undiminished. He made his way to the kitchen, pouring himself another drink and leaning against the counter to survey the scene.
Marcus caught his eye from across the room, raising an eyebrow as if to ask how things were going. Royce responded with a faint shrug and a smirk, raising his cup.
Khalil stepped up alongside him again, nudging him with his elbow. “You good, man?.”
Royce nodded, taking a long sip from his drink. “I’m straight. Stop asking me that shit.”
“Alright. Those chicks were good?” Khalil asked, nodding toward his bedroom.
Royce nodded again, his smirk returning, but it felt heavier now, more like a mask than anything real.
The afternoon sun bore down on the LSU practice fields, casting long shadows over the team as they ran through defensive schemes. Royce stood in the middle of the field, his hands on his hips and his jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack. Every movement was sharp, calculated, and filled with an energy that teetered on the edge of anger.
He wasn’t just there to practice. He was there to prove something—to the new coaching staff, to his teammates, and most of all, to himself. The noise in his head never stopped. Every step he took felt like a response to the whispers about his off-field issues, about whether he could handle the spotlight or if he’d throw it all away.
“Again!” shouted defensive coordinator Tosh Lupoi from the sideline, his voice cutting through the humid air.
Royce barely waited for the offensive players to reset before snapping back into position. The play wasn’t even live, just a walkthrough of coverage adjustments, but Royce’s intensity didn’t waver. His calls were sharp, his corrections to teammates quick and unforgiving.
“Shift left!” he barked, waving his hand and glaring at a freshman defensive back who hesitated too long. “Come the fuck on! If you don’t understand this, go sit your fucking ass down.”
The freshman scrambled into position, his eyes cast toward the ground as he avoided Royce’s gaze.
On the sideline, Coach Dan Lanning stood with Lupoi, arms crossed as they watched Royce command the field.
“He’s playing pissed off,” Lanning remarked, his tone neutral but observant.
“Good,” Lupoi replied. “Let him use it. Better here than anywhere else.”
The team ran through the play, and Royce adjusted seamlessly, moving like a chess master who already knew the outcome. When the offense jogged back to the huddle, Royce stayed where he was, his hands on his knees, his chest heaving. He wasn’t even winded—just furious. Furious that he had to keep proving himself. Furious that people doubted him. Furious that, deep down, part of him wondered if they were right.
As the walkthrough ended, Royce grabbed a bottle of water and stood off to the side, his shoulders tense as he watched his teammates laugh and joke. Marcus and Khalil wandered over, their faces slick with sweat.
“Man, you about to rip one of these motherfuckers’ heads off,” Marcus said, taking a swig from his bottle. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Royce muttered, staring out at the field. “I’m straight.”
Khalil raised an eyebrow, glancing at Marcus before trying again. “It’s just spring practice, my nigga. You don’t gotta kill yourself out here.”
Royce turned to him, his eyes hard. “Fuck outta here with that shit. Y’all the same niggas that were telling me I gotta make sure these motherfuckers don’t get rid of me.”
Marcus held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. We get it. Chill.”
Royce shook his head, taking another long drink of water before tossing the bottle aside. “Ain’t no motherfucking chill,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
The coaches gathered the team for a final breakdown, and Royce stood silently near the back of the huddle, his jaw still tight. He barely registered Lanning’s words, his mind racing with everything he still needed to fix, to prove, to overcome.
As practice ended, Royce trudged back to the locker room, his cleats grinding against the pavement. Inside, he sat on the chair in front of his locker, staring blankly at the floor as the noise of his teammates swirled around him. For the first time, someone clapped him on the shoulder—Khalil, offering a small gesture of camaraderie.
“Good shit today, bro,” Khalil said simply.
Royce nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t feel like he’d killed it. He felt like he was barely holding it together. But if the coaches saw otherwise, if his teammates believed otherwise, maybe that was enough for now.
…
The music pulsed through the walls of Royce’s apartment, the kind of deep bass that rattled through your chest and made conversation feel secondary. The party was a scene of organized chaos: people packed the dimly lit rooms, their laughter and chatter mingling with the clinking of bottles and the faint scent of smoke wafting in from the balcony. Outside, a few stragglers leaned over the railing, shouting to people on the street below, their voices swallowed by the noise inside.
Royce stood near the kitchen, leaning casually against the counter with a red Solo cup in hand. The drink was mostly untouched, his focus darting around the room as if he were both host and observer. His only demand for the night had been non-negotiable: everyone’s phones stayed at the door. A table near the entrance was piled high with devices, a chaotic assortment of cases and screens that had been surrendered upon arrival. Marcus, playing enforcer for the evening, had made sure no one dared argue.
“Bro, you good?” Khalil asked, slipping next to him with a grin and a fresh beer.
“Yeah,” Royce said, forcing a smirk. “Just chilling.”
Khalil chuckled, nudging him playfully. “Man, you the one that set this shit up. Relax a little. You’re acting like the cops about to kick in the motherfucking door.”
Royce shrugged, his eyes scanning the crowd. He was supposed to be letting loose, but his mind was tangled in too many threads: practice, the new coaching staff, Billy’s frantic calls about his legal mess. It was like trying to ignore an itch that only grew worse when he tried to distract himself.
That’s when he saw them. The blonde and the brunette hovered near the makeshift bar, heads tilted toward each other in quiet conversation. Both of them exuded the kind of confidence that turned heads without effort. The blonde, tall and statuesque, leaned in to say something that made the brunette laugh, her dark curls bouncing as she tossed a glance in Royce’s direction. He met her gaze and smirked, the faint tension in his chest loosening slightly.
Setting his cup on the counter, Royce crossed the room with the kind of measured swagger that demanded attention. As he approached, the blonde turned first, her lips curling into a sly smile as she nudged her friend.
“Y’all enjoying yourselves?” Royce asked, his voice smooth and casual.
The blonde tilted her head, her smile widening. “We were starting to wonder when you were going to come over here. Thought you might’ve not noticed us.”
“Yeah,” the brunette chimed in, her tone teasing. “You were standing over there all lonely for a good while.”
Royce chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the bar. “Figured I’d give y’all a chance to warm up.”
“Oh, so you think we need warming up?” the blonde asked, raising an eyebrow as her smile took on an edge.
“I do,” Royce replied, his smirk unwavering. “Wouldn’t want you to pull anything.”
The brunette laughed softly, shifting a little closer. “Fair enough. But if we’re being honest, it’s your party, and you’re the one missing out. We’ve been holding it down over here.”
Royce’s gaze flicked between them, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “That right? Guess I need to catch up, then.”
“You do,” the blonde said, brushing her hair over her shoulder in a practiced motion. “So, what’s the host got planned for his VIP guests?”
Royce leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to add weight to his words. “Maybe I can show you around. Give you the exclusive tour.”
The brunette’s grin widened, and she exchanged a glance with her friend. “We’re in.”
Royce gestured for them to follow, leading the way through the crowded apartment with the two girls trailing behind. He could hear their quiet laughter as they whispered to each other, but his mind had already begun to pull at the edges of his anger and frustration, threatening to claw its way back into focus.
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, Royce let the outside world fade. For the first time in weeks, he let himself give in to the moment, the tension in his chest dulling as the chaos outside the door became a distant hum.
Hours later, Royce emerged from the room, his shirt slightly wrinkled. The party was still in full swing, the energy undiminished. He made his way to the kitchen, pouring himself another drink and leaning against the counter to survey the scene.
Marcus caught his eye from across the room, raising an eyebrow as if to ask how things were going. Royce responded with a faint shrug and a smirk, raising his cup.
Khalil stepped up alongside him again, nudging him with his elbow. “You good, man?.”
Royce nodded, taking a long sip from his drink. “I’m straight. Stop asking me that shit.”
“Alright. Those chicks were good?” Khalil asked, nodding toward his bedroom.
Royce nodded again, his smirk returning, but it felt heavier now, more like a mask than anything real.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16919
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
bottom bitch (not in the pimp way) for a bottom tier nigga
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 8031
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
If self-sabotage was a character 