Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
****Character List: https://dynastysports.net/viewtopic.php?p=69562#p69562****
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
No Comment
The sun hung low over LSU’s practice fields, casting long shadows across the turf as the Tigers pushed through another grueling spring practice. Whistles pierced the air, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of pads colliding and the shouts of coaches barking instructions. Royce stood in his usual spot in the defensive huddle, sweat dripping down his temple as he adjusted his helmet. He focused on the play call, blocking out the noise, but the whispers were harder to ignore.
From the sideline, reporters clustered together, their eyes darting between their notepads, the players, and the coaches. Royce felt their gazes like heat on his back, and he knew what they were murmuring about. His name had been swirling in headlines for weeks, the bar fight incident refusing to fade quietly into the background. He clenched his fists inside his gloves, channeling his frustration into the next rep.
“Let’s go, Lafitte! Focus up!” Defensive coordinator Tosh Lupoi’s voice snapped Royce back to the moment.
He barked an acknowledgment, dropping into position and readying for the snap. The play unfolded quickly—a screen pass to the running back—and Royce read it perfectly, breaking on the ball with speed and precision. He collided with the back just as the ball reached him, the pop of pads echoing across the field.
“Nice hit!” Lupoi shouted. “That’s how you finish!”
Royce jogged back to the huddle, his teammates slapping his helmet in approval, but the satisfaction was fleeting. The pressure outside the lines loomed too large.
…
As practice wrapped up, reporters filed into their designated area, cameras ready and microphones raised. Coach Dan Lanning approached the podium, his expression calm but guarded. The media had been waiting for this moment, and the questions started almost immediately.
“Coach, with Royce Lafitte still technically under investigation for allegedly striking a woman during a bar fight, what’s the rationale behind allowing him to continue practicing?”
Lanning’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t flinch. “We’re aware of the situation involving Royce,” he said evenly. “As a program, we operate under the principle of innocent until proven guilty. Right now, Royce is an active member of this team, and he’s fulfilling his responsibilities as such.”
The reporter pressed further. “Doesn’t allowing him to practice send the wrong message, especially when these allegations are so serious?”
Lanning’s tone didn’t waver. “We take all allegations seriously, but we also believe in due process. Until there’s a resolution, we’re not going to make assumptions or decisions based solely on public perception.”
Another reporter chimed in. “Coach, is there a timeline for when a decision about Royce’s status will be made?”
Lanning raised a hand, his patience thinning. “I’ve said all I’m going to say about this matter. Our focus is on preparing for the season, and I won’t be answering any more questions about Royce or the incident. Those conversations are going to be held in-house when they need to be held.”
The room buzzed with murmurs as Lanning stepped away from the podium, signaling an end to that line of questioning. Royce, who had lingered at the edge of the field to hear what would be said, felt a knot in his stomach loosen slightly. But the relief was temporary. The scrutiny wasn’t going away, and he knew it.
~~~~~~~~~~
The dinnertime rush at The 5 was in full swing, the chatter of students and the clatter of trays filling the air as Royce, J.J., and Dewon slid into a booth near the window. The smell of fried food and freshly grilled burgers was thick, a comforting if slightly overwhelming reminder of how often they frequented the place. Royce leaned back against the booth, his LSU hoodie pulled low over his head, trying to keep a low profile in the crowded room.
J.J. tore into his chicken sandwich, glancing up at Royce. “Alright, bro,” he said, his mouth half-full, “what’s the plan?”
Royce’s jaw tightened, his fork hovering over a plate of fries. “What plan?” he muttered, not bothering to look up.
Dewon, always the quieter of the two, took a sip of his soda before chiming in. “You know what we’re talking about. The whole… situation. This shit been going on for months. What are you gonna do?”
Royce dropped the fork onto his plate with a clatter, fixing them both with a glare. “Man. Stop fucking asking me about that shit. There ain’t nothing I can do about it at this point. I already told the cops what happened. Billy’s handling the rest.”
“Yeah, but—” J.J. started, but Royce cut him off.
“But nothing,” Royce snapped, his voice low but firm. “You think I don’t know they got this shit dangling over my head like a fucking noose? Every time I see a couple pigs outside my apartment, I’m thinking they about to come kick in my fucking door? Haul me out in front some fucking TV cameras?”
The tension hung in the air for a beat before J.J. raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. My bad, my guy. Just trying to look out.”
Royce sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know. Just… let it the fuck alone.”
The booth fell into an uneasy silence, the clamor of the restaurant filling the void. Royce stared out the window, trying to focus on anything but the weight pressing down on him. He was just starting to relax when a voice cut through the noise.
“Surprised they let you out in the public considering you’re a danger to society.”
Royce’s head snapped around to see Britni standing a few feet away, a tray in her hands and a sharp edge to her smirk. Her hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her expression was the same mix of disdain and curiosity he’d grown used to.
“Fuck you want, bitch,” Royce said flatly, his posture stiffening.
She stepped closer, setting her tray on a nearby table. “Didn’t think I’d see you out in public, what with all the bullshit you’ve got going on. Real bold.”
Royce narrowed his eyes. “You ain’t got some shit to do? Go cry into your pillow or something?”
Britni crossed her arms, tilting her head. “I just think it’s funny, that’s all. Always knew you’d fuck up eventually. Guess it was only a matter of time.”
J.J. and Dewon exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unsure of whether to intervene. Royce leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re gonna have to stop obsessing over me, Britni,” he said, his tone mocking. “It’s starting to get real fucking weird. You’re saying I’m the one that dangerous, but you over here stalking my ass. I should be filing a restraining order against you.”
Her face flushed with anger, but Royce wasn’t finished. “What you need to do is carry your ass to Nicholls. It would do some good for your mental health to not be around here. Because this shit? This shit is getting old.”
Britni’s eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You’re so full of yourself, Royce. I’m gonna love watching you lose everything.”
Royce stood, towering over her as he grabbed his tray. “Get some fucking help, Britni. Therapy free at this motherfucker,” he said, his voice calm but cutting. He brushed past her, heading for the trash cans near the exit.
J.J. and Dewon scrambled to follow, leaving Britni standing there, her fists clenched at her sides as she watched them go. Royce didn’t look back, but his mind raced with a cocktail of anger and frustration. He was tired of the accusations, tired of the judgment, and most of all, tired of people like Britni, who seemed to revel in his struggles.
As the trio stepped outside into the crisp Louisiana air, Dewon finally broke the silence. “Man, you gotta stop fucking the crazy ones, bro.”
Royce shrugged, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. “I ain’t fuck that uppity ass bitch. That’s some shit go way back, though.”
J.J. glanced at him, his brow furrowed. “You good?”
Royce exhaled sharply, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Yeah. I’m just over this shit, that’s all.”
The sun hung low over LSU’s practice fields, casting long shadows across the turf as the Tigers pushed through another grueling spring practice. Whistles pierced the air, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of pads colliding and the shouts of coaches barking instructions. Royce stood in his usual spot in the defensive huddle, sweat dripping down his temple as he adjusted his helmet. He focused on the play call, blocking out the noise, but the whispers were harder to ignore.
From the sideline, reporters clustered together, their eyes darting between their notepads, the players, and the coaches. Royce felt their gazes like heat on his back, and he knew what they were murmuring about. His name had been swirling in headlines for weeks, the bar fight incident refusing to fade quietly into the background. He clenched his fists inside his gloves, channeling his frustration into the next rep.
“Let’s go, Lafitte! Focus up!” Defensive coordinator Tosh Lupoi’s voice snapped Royce back to the moment.
He barked an acknowledgment, dropping into position and readying for the snap. The play unfolded quickly—a screen pass to the running back—and Royce read it perfectly, breaking on the ball with speed and precision. He collided with the back just as the ball reached him, the pop of pads echoing across the field.
“Nice hit!” Lupoi shouted. “That’s how you finish!”
Royce jogged back to the huddle, his teammates slapping his helmet in approval, but the satisfaction was fleeting. The pressure outside the lines loomed too large.
…
As practice wrapped up, reporters filed into their designated area, cameras ready and microphones raised. Coach Dan Lanning approached the podium, his expression calm but guarded. The media had been waiting for this moment, and the questions started almost immediately.
“Coach, with Royce Lafitte still technically under investigation for allegedly striking a woman during a bar fight, what’s the rationale behind allowing him to continue practicing?”
Lanning’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t flinch. “We’re aware of the situation involving Royce,” he said evenly. “As a program, we operate under the principle of innocent until proven guilty. Right now, Royce is an active member of this team, and he’s fulfilling his responsibilities as such.”
The reporter pressed further. “Doesn’t allowing him to practice send the wrong message, especially when these allegations are so serious?”
Lanning’s tone didn’t waver. “We take all allegations seriously, but we also believe in due process. Until there’s a resolution, we’re not going to make assumptions or decisions based solely on public perception.”
Another reporter chimed in. “Coach, is there a timeline for when a decision about Royce’s status will be made?”
Lanning raised a hand, his patience thinning. “I’ve said all I’m going to say about this matter. Our focus is on preparing for the season, and I won’t be answering any more questions about Royce or the incident. Those conversations are going to be held in-house when they need to be held.”
The room buzzed with murmurs as Lanning stepped away from the podium, signaling an end to that line of questioning. Royce, who had lingered at the edge of the field to hear what would be said, felt a knot in his stomach loosen slightly. But the relief was temporary. The scrutiny wasn’t going away, and he knew it.
~~~~~~~~~~
The dinnertime rush at The 5 was in full swing, the chatter of students and the clatter of trays filling the air as Royce, J.J., and Dewon slid into a booth near the window. The smell of fried food and freshly grilled burgers was thick, a comforting if slightly overwhelming reminder of how often they frequented the place. Royce leaned back against the booth, his LSU hoodie pulled low over his head, trying to keep a low profile in the crowded room.
J.J. tore into his chicken sandwich, glancing up at Royce. “Alright, bro,” he said, his mouth half-full, “what’s the plan?”
Royce’s jaw tightened, his fork hovering over a plate of fries. “What plan?” he muttered, not bothering to look up.
Dewon, always the quieter of the two, took a sip of his soda before chiming in. “You know what we’re talking about. The whole… situation. This shit been going on for months. What are you gonna do?”
Royce dropped the fork onto his plate with a clatter, fixing them both with a glare. “Man. Stop fucking asking me about that shit. There ain’t nothing I can do about it at this point. I already told the cops what happened. Billy’s handling the rest.”
“Yeah, but—” J.J. started, but Royce cut him off.
“But nothing,” Royce snapped, his voice low but firm. “You think I don’t know they got this shit dangling over my head like a fucking noose? Every time I see a couple pigs outside my apartment, I’m thinking they about to come kick in my fucking door? Haul me out in front some fucking TV cameras?”
The tension hung in the air for a beat before J.J. raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. My bad, my guy. Just trying to look out.”
Royce sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know. Just… let it the fuck alone.”
The booth fell into an uneasy silence, the clamor of the restaurant filling the void. Royce stared out the window, trying to focus on anything but the weight pressing down on him. He was just starting to relax when a voice cut through the noise.
“Surprised they let you out in the public considering you’re a danger to society.”
Royce’s head snapped around to see Britni standing a few feet away, a tray in her hands and a sharp edge to her smirk. Her hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her expression was the same mix of disdain and curiosity he’d grown used to.
“Fuck you want, bitch,” Royce said flatly, his posture stiffening.
She stepped closer, setting her tray on a nearby table. “Didn’t think I’d see you out in public, what with all the bullshit you’ve got going on. Real bold.”
Royce narrowed his eyes. “You ain’t got some shit to do? Go cry into your pillow or something?”
Britni crossed her arms, tilting her head. “I just think it’s funny, that’s all. Always knew you’d fuck up eventually. Guess it was only a matter of time.”
J.J. and Dewon exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unsure of whether to intervene. Royce leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re gonna have to stop obsessing over me, Britni,” he said, his tone mocking. “It’s starting to get real fucking weird. You’re saying I’m the one that dangerous, but you over here stalking my ass. I should be filing a restraining order against you.”
Her face flushed with anger, but Royce wasn’t finished. “What you need to do is carry your ass to Nicholls. It would do some good for your mental health to not be around here. Because this shit? This shit is getting old.”
Britni’s eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You’re so full of yourself, Royce. I’m gonna love watching you lose everything.”
Royce stood, towering over her as he grabbed his tray. “Get some fucking help, Britni. Therapy free at this motherfucker,” he said, his voice calm but cutting. He brushed past her, heading for the trash cans near the exit.
J.J. and Dewon scrambled to follow, leaving Britni standing there, her fists clenched at her sides as she watched them go. Royce didn’t look back, but his mind raced with a cocktail of anger and frustration. He was tired of the accusations, tired of the judgment, and most of all, tired of people like Britni, who seemed to revel in his struggles.
As the trio stepped outside into the crisp Louisiana air, Dewon finally broke the silence. “Man, you gotta stop fucking the crazy ones, bro.”
Royce shrugged, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. “I ain’t fuck that uppity ass bitch. That’s some shit go way back, though.”
J.J. glanced at him, his brow furrowed. “You good?”
Royce exhaled sharply, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Yeah. I’m just over this shit, that’s all.”
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Sands of Erosion
The hum of chatter echoed through the student union, a midday rush of students filling the space with a steady buzz of life. Royce sauntered in, his backpack slung over one shoulder, scanning the tables for a familiar face. His eyes landed on Effie, sitting near a window with her laptop open, a half-eaten sandwich on the tray beside her.
A grin spread across his face as he adjusted his path, weaving through the tables until he stood in front of her. “You’re one hard to find woman” Royce said, setting his backpack down on the chair opposite her. “You trying to ghost me now that I’m off campus?”
Effie glanced up, her lips quirking into a smirk as she closed her laptop halfway. “Maybe you shouldn’t have moved if you wanted to see me so bad,” she teased, her tone light and easy.
Royce chuckled, dropping into the seat across from her. “So, you admit you’ve been missing me?”
Effie rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as she looked down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He leaned back, his arms draped over the sides of the chair. “I’m just saying, it’s been quiet without you seeing you around.”
“Yeah, well,” Effie replied, sitting back and crossing her arms, her lips pressing into a playful pout. “Seems like you’ve been keeping yourself busy. Heard about that little bar incident. You really leaning into this bad boy image, huh?”
Her tone was teasing, but Royce caught the undercurrent of curiosity in her voice. He raised an eyebrow, his grin growing wider. “You keeping tabs on me now?”
“It’s hard not to when everyone’s talking about it,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s LSU and you play football. There aren’t many people on this campus people are going to talk about more often.”
Royce shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “If that’s the case then I guess I gotta give them something to talk about, then.”
Effie laughed, shaking her head, but her gaze lingered on him longer than usual. “Or you could not and just fly under the radar. Life would be a lot easier like that.”
“I could, but then I would be boring,” Royce said smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “And you wouldn’t be feeling me as much as you do.”
Her smile faltered, and Royce noticed the way she dropped her eyes, her hand moving to toy with the edge of her tray. She was quiet for a beat too long before forcing a laugh and shaking her head again. “You’re not as charming as you think you are.”
“Maybe,” Royce said, his tone dropping a little, becoming more sincere. “But I think I’m making progress.”
Effie picked up her cup, sipping her drink to avoid answering. Her hand trembled slightly when she set it back down, and Royce didn’t miss the way she pressed her lips together, as if holding back a smile. She finally met his gaze again, her cheeks flushed, but there was something hesitant in her expression.
Royce seized the moment. “You know,” he began, rolling a bottle of water between his hands on the table, “I’m starting to feel like we’re just pen pals.”
Effie arched an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Pen pals? You do know texting doesn’t count as that, right?”
“You know what I mean,” he replied, leaning forward slightly. “It’s all back-and-forth messages. No face-to-face, no going out. That sounds like some pen pal, texting buddy shit to me..”
Effie chuckled, sitting back in her seat. “Well, no one’s forcing you to keep texting me. You’re welcome to stop anytime you want.”
Royce tilted his head, his smirk deepening as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, so that’s how it is? You know your days wouldn’t be as good without me in ‘em.”
She shrugged, but her smile widened. “I’m sure I’d find a way to survive.”
“Cold,” Royce said with mock offense, placing a hand over his chest. “Here I am, trying to upgrade from being your texting buddy, and you shutting me down like that?”
“Upgrade?” Effie repeated, laughing now. “And what exactly are you proposing? Dinner and a movie? A candlelit walk on the levee?”
“Hey, if that’s what you’re into, I can make it happen,” Royce quipped, leaning closer. “But I was thinking more along the lines of taking you somewhere nice.”
Effie shook her head, still laughing. “You’ve got a one-track mind, don’t you?”
“Only when it comes to you,” Royce replied smoothly, his voice dipping into something softer but no less confident.
Effie’s laughter faltered for a moment, her eyes meeting his. She hesitated, the teasing edge to her demeanor slipping just slightly. Then she shook her head again, sitting forward and resting her elbows on the table.
“You really don’t quit, do you?” she asked, but there was no malice in her tone—only curiosity.
“Fuck no. Quitters never win or something like that,” Royce said, meeting her gaze head-on. “So, what you say? Let me take you out. Tonight. Something better than texting.”
Effie paused, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her tray. She opened her mouth as if to respond, but then her lips pressed together into a faint, thoughtful smile. Finally, she let out a light laugh and leaned back in her seat.
“Nice try, Royce,” she said, shaking her head. “But like I said, I’ve got a boyfriend. You should appreciate that.”
Royce chuckled, leaning back and holding up his hands. “I do. For now.”
Effie smirked, picking up her bag. “You’ll give up sooner or later.”
As she stood to leave, Royce watched her carefully, catching the slight hesitation in her movements. Her words might have been firm, but there was something in the way her eyes lingered on him before she turned to go. It was enough to keep his confidence steady.
“See you around, Effie,” he called after her, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of certainty.
“Don’t count on it,” she tossed over her shoulder, though the faint smile she wore told a different story entirely.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Mississippi River shimmered in the fading sunlight, casting long, golden reflections across its surface. Royce leaned on the cool metal railing of the levee, the hum of distant traffic mixing with the soft ripple of the water. Meech and his crew lounged nearby, sprawled on the worn concrete benches with their usual easy confidence. One passed a half-empty bottle, another lit a cigarette, and their conversation drifted in lazy circles, full of half-jokes and empty plans. Royce stood a few feet apart, listening but not engaging, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if it held answers he couldn’t find here.
Meech squinted at him through the smoke, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Yo, my nigga, you getting on this drink?”
Royce shrugged, his fingers tapping idly on the railing. “Nah, bruh. Leaving that shit to y’all tonight.”
Meech chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Man, you an ol’ lame ass nigga sometimes. You my guy, but you know what I’m saying.”
Royce’s phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting off whatever response might have come next. He stepped away without a word, pulling the phone out as he moved closer to the edge of the levee. Billy’s name flashed across the screen. Royce glanced back at the group—Meech’s curious gaze followed him—and turned his back on them before answering.
“Yeah?” Royce kept his voice low, his tone more tense than he intended.
Billy’s voice came through steady and sharp. “Good news. BRPD’s closing the investigation. You’re clear.”
Relief washed over Royce, but he didn’t let it show. “This shit been following me for months and they just deciding to close it? What the fuck were they waiting for?”
“Now, I’m saying this as an old white man,” Billy replied. “But you know exactly what they were waiting for, my man. For you to admit you did it so they could parade you in front some cameras. They finally realized they didn’t have a case. That video made it hard for them to push anything. All that noise? It’s over.”
Royce pressed his free hand against the railing, gripping it tightly. “So, that’s it? My name gets dragged through the mud and then poof nothing? Can I file charges against those girls for making this shit up?”
Billy paused, the sound of a pen tapping faintly in the background. “You could. But my advice? Don’t. It’s not worth it.”
Royce frowned, his jaw tightening. “Not worth it? Billy, I ain’t never going to live this shit down.”
“And dragging it back through court will just keep the story alive,” Billy countered, his tone firm. “Let it go. In a few months, no one is going to be worried about this except Ole Miss fans. I’ve got something big in the works for you, but I need a clear runway. No distractions. Trust me on this.”
Royce sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly but not disappearing. “I’m low on trust right now. I need to know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Just give me a few weeks. I’ve never led you wrong yet,” Billy said. “Just keep your head down and focus. You’ve got bigger things ahead.”
The call ended, and Royce slid his phone back into his pocket, turning to find Meech watching him from the bench, his expression unreadable. Royce walked back toward the group, his movements deliberate, keeping his expression neutral.
“That was your bitch?” Meech asked, flicking the ash from his cigarette.
“Nah. School stuff,” Royce said casually, his tone flat. “Nothing important.”
Meech leaned back, his grin sharp and teasing. “Man, you football niggas always got some shit going on. Big moves, huh?”
Royce shrugged, brushing past him without answering. “Y’all hungry? I’m thinking Downtown Seafood right up the block..”
Meech smirked, standing and dusting off his pants. “You buying?”
Royce grinned faintly, tilting his head toward the street. “Fuck no. Y’all niggas getting money.”
As they started walking, Royce stayed a step ahead, his hands tucked into his pockets. Meech and his boys followed, their laughter and banter filling the quiet between Royce’s silences. When they passed the entrance to his apartment complex, Royce didn’t glance at it, leading the group further down the street without pause. It wasn’t intentional, not entirely. But something in him felt the need to keep them guessing. There were lines he didn’t cross, spaces they didn’t need to see.
The hum of chatter echoed through the student union, a midday rush of students filling the space with a steady buzz of life. Royce sauntered in, his backpack slung over one shoulder, scanning the tables for a familiar face. His eyes landed on Effie, sitting near a window with her laptop open, a half-eaten sandwich on the tray beside her.
A grin spread across his face as he adjusted his path, weaving through the tables until he stood in front of her. “You’re one hard to find woman” Royce said, setting his backpack down on the chair opposite her. “You trying to ghost me now that I’m off campus?”
Effie glanced up, her lips quirking into a smirk as she closed her laptop halfway. “Maybe you shouldn’t have moved if you wanted to see me so bad,” she teased, her tone light and easy.
Royce chuckled, dropping into the seat across from her. “So, you admit you’ve been missing me?”
Effie rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as she looked down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He leaned back, his arms draped over the sides of the chair. “I’m just saying, it’s been quiet without you seeing you around.”
“Yeah, well,” Effie replied, sitting back and crossing her arms, her lips pressing into a playful pout. “Seems like you’ve been keeping yourself busy. Heard about that little bar incident. You really leaning into this bad boy image, huh?”
Her tone was teasing, but Royce caught the undercurrent of curiosity in her voice. He raised an eyebrow, his grin growing wider. “You keeping tabs on me now?”
“It’s hard not to when everyone’s talking about it,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s LSU and you play football. There aren’t many people on this campus people are going to talk about more often.”
Royce shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “If that’s the case then I guess I gotta give them something to talk about, then.”
Effie laughed, shaking her head, but her gaze lingered on him longer than usual. “Or you could not and just fly under the radar. Life would be a lot easier like that.”
“I could, but then I would be boring,” Royce said smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “And you wouldn’t be feeling me as much as you do.”
Her smile faltered, and Royce noticed the way she dropped her eyes, her hand moving to toy with the edge of her tray. She was quiet for a beat too long before forcing a laugh and shaking her head again. “You’re not as charming as you think you are.”
“Maybe,” Royce said, his tone dropping a little, becoming more sincere. “But I think I’m making progress.”
Effie picked up her cup, sipping her drink to avoid answering. Her hand trembled slightly when she set it back down, and Royce didn’t miss the way she pressed her lips together, as if holding back a smile. She finally met his gaze again, her cheeks flushed, but there was something hesitant in her expression.
Royce seized the moment. “You know,” he began, rolling a bottle of water between his hands on the table, “I’m starting to feel like we’re just pen pals.”
Effie arched an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Pen pals? You do know texting doesn’t count as that, right?”
“You know what I mean,” he replied, leaning forward slightly. “It’s all back-and-forth messages. No face-to-face, no going out. That sounds like some pen pal, texting buddy shit to me..”
Effie chuckled, sitting back in her seat. “Well, no one’s forcing you to keep texting me. You’re welcome to stop anytime you want.”
Royce tilted his head, his smirk deepening as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, so that’s how it is? You know your days wouldn’t be as good without me in ‘em.”
She shrugged, but her smile widened. “I’m sure I’d find a way to survive.”
“Cold,” Royce said with mock offense, placing a hand over his chest. “Here I am, trying to upgrade from being your texting buddy, and you shutting me down like that?”
“Upgrade?” Effie repeated, laughing now. “And what exactly are you proposing? Dinner and a movie? A candlelit walk on the levee?”
“Hey, if that’s what you’re into, I can make it happen,” Royce quipped, leaning closer. “But I was thinking more along the lines of taking you somewhere nice.”
Effie shook her head, still laughing. “You’ve got a one-track mind, don’t you?”
“Only when it comes to you,” Royce replied smoothly, his voice dipping into something softer but no less confident.
Effie’s laughter faltered for a moment, her eyes meeting his. She hesitated, the teasing edge to her demeanor slipping just slightly. Then she shook her head again, sitting forward and resting her elbows on the table.
“You really don’t quit, do you?” she asked, but there was no malice in her tone—only curiosity.
“Fuck no. Quitters never win or something like that,” Royce said, meeting her gaze head-on. “So, what you say? Let me take you out. Tonight. Something better than texting.”
Effie paused, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her tray. She opened her mouth as if to respond, but then her lips pressed together into a faint, thoughtful smile. Finally, she let out a light laugh and leaned back in her seat.
“Nice try, Royce,” she said, shaking her head. “But like I said, I’ve got a boyfriend. You should appreciate that.”
Royce chuckled, leaning back and holding up his hands. “I do. For now.”
Effie smirked, picking up her bag. “You’ll give up sooner or later.”
As she stood to leave, Royce watched her carefully, catching the slight hesitation in her movements. Her words might have been firm, but there was something in the way her eyes lingered on him before she turned to go. It was enough to keep his confidence steady.
“See you around, Effie,” he called after her, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of certainty.
“Don’t count on it,” she tossed over her shoulder, though the faint smile she wore told a different story entirely.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Mississippi River shimmered in the fading sunlight, casting long, golden reflections across its surface. Royce leaned on the cool metal railing of the levee, the hum of distant traffic mixing with the soft ripple of the water. Meech and his crew lounged nearby, sprawled on the worn concrete benches with their usual easy confidence. One passed a half-empty bottle, another lit a cigarette, and their conversation drifted in lazy circles, full of half-jokes and empty plans. Royce stood a few feet apart, listening but not engaging, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if it held answers he couldn’t find here.
Meech squinted at him through the smoke, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Yo, my nigga, you getting on this drink?”
Royce shrugged, his fingers tapping idly on the railing. “Nah, bruh. Leaving that shit to y’all tonight.”
Meech chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Man, you an ol’ lame ass nigga sometimes. You my guy, but you know what I’m saying.”
Royce’s phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting off whatever response might have come next. He stepped away without a word, pulling the phone out as he moved closer to the edge of the levee. Billy’s name flashed across the screen. Royce glanced back at the group—Meech’s curious gaze followed him—and turned his back on them before answering.
“Yeah?” Royce kept his voice low, his tone more tense than he intended.
Billy’s voice came through steady and sharp. “Good news. BRPD’s closing the investigation. You’re clear.”
Relief washed over Royce, but he didn’t let it show. “This shit been following me for months and they just deciding to close it? What the fuck were they waiting for?”
“Now, I’m saying this as an old white man,” Billy replied. “But you know exactly what they were waiting for, my man. For you to admit you did it so they could parade you in front some cameras. They finally realized they didn’t have a case. That video made it hard for them to push anything. All that noise? It’s over.”
Royce pressed his free hand against the railing, gripping it tightly. “So, that’s it? My name gets dragged through the mud and then poof nothing? Can I file charges against those girls for making this shit up?”
Billy paused, the sound of a pen tapping faintly in the background. “You could. But my advice? Don’t. It’s not worth it.”
Royce frowned, his jaw tightening. “Not worth it? Billy, I ain’t never going to live this shit down.”
“And dragging it back through court will just keep the story alive,” Billy countered, his tone firm. “Let it go. In a few months, no one is going to be worried about this except Ole Miss fans. I’ve got something big in the works for you, but I need a clear runway. No distractions. Trust me on this.”
Royce sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly but not disappearing. “I’m low on trust right now. I need to know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Just give me a few weeks. I’ve never led you wrong yet,” Billy said. “Just keep your head down and focus. You’ve got bigger things ahead.”
The call ended, and Royce slid his phone back into his pocket, turning to find Meech watching him from the bench, his expression unreadable. Royce walked back toward the group, his movements deliberate, keeping his expression neutral.
“That was your bitch?” Meech asked, flicking the ash from his cigarette.
“Nah. School stuff,” Royce said casually, his tone flat. “Nothing important.”
Meech leaned back, his grin sharp and teasing. “Man, you football niggas always got some shit going on. Big moves, huh?”
Royce shrugged, brushing past him without answering. “Y’all hungry? I’m thinking Downtown Seafood right up the block..”
Meech smirked, standing and dusting off his pants. “You buying?”
Royce grinned faintly, tilting his head toward the street. “Fuck no. Y’all niggas getting money.”
As they started walking, Royce stayed a step ahead, his hands tucked into his pockets. Meech and his boys followed, their laughter and banter filling the quiet between Royce’s silences. When they passed the entrance to his apartment complex, Royce didn’t glance at it, leading the group further down the street without pause. It wasn’t intentional, not entirely. But something in him felt the need to keep them guessing. There were lines he didn’t cross, spaces they didn’t need to see.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16919
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Still Haunted
The sky had turned deep purple by the time Royce pulled into the parking garage of his apartment complex. He killed the engine, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion settling in his bones. Practice had been brutal, his mind weighed down by the constant need to prove himself to the new coaching staff. But as he stepped out of his car, rolling his shoulders, he barely had a second to exhale before a figure emerged from the shadows near the stairwell.
Alix.
He slowed his steps but didn’t stop, barely sparing her a glance. “You gotta be fucking kidding me, man.”
She stepped forward, arms crossed, her stance firm despite the way she shifted on her feet. “Three months, Royce,” she said, her voice clipped but laced with something raw. “You’ve gone three months without saying a word to me.”
Royce let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he started toward the elevator. “This is some stalker ass shit, Alix. How long you been sitting out here?”
Alix followed, her steps quick to keep up. “I wouldn’t have to be out here like this if you just answered your damn phone.”
Royce didn’t slow down. “Clearly because I ain’t fucking want to.”
“Bullshit,” she shot back, stepping in front of him, forcing him to stop. Her eyes were sharp, searching his face. “Why, Royce? Why are you acting like I don’t exist?”
His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the strap of his duffel. “You almost ruined my fucking life, Alix. And for what? Because you wanted to fight over me when you don’t even want me?”
Alix’s lips parted, but nothing came out at first. She swallowed, shifting her weight. “That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Royce cut her off, his voice low, controlled, but the anger simmered just beneath the surface. “You wanted to swing on some bitch in a bar over me, and I was the one that spent months with cops, reporters, and my agent breathing down my neck. Meanwhile, you’re still out here playing games.”
“I’m not playing games,” she snapped, eyes flashing. “I’m scared.”
Royce scoffed, shaking his head as he pushed past her toward the elevator. “Miss me with that shit.”
“It’s not—” she started, then stopped abruptly, running a hand through her hair. “It’s different with you.”
Royce pressed the button for the elevator, jaw clenched. “Right. But it ain’t different with Dominic. Or Vic. Or any other square ass nigga you fucking with.”
“That’s not fair,” Alix said, stepping closer, her voice dropping. “I wasn’t as close to them as I am with you. You know that.”
Royce finally turned to her then, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Oh, I know. I know that you like hanging around niggas like me. Alright getting fucked by niggas like me. Motherfuckers that would have your people clutching they pearls, who make you feel like you’re really ‘bout it.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “But that’s all it is for you, Alix. Playing like you down. You’ll keep messing with niggas like me until it gets too real, then you’ll run back to some clean-cut, safe-ass, family approved dude and pretend none of this ever happened. I can already see the wedding invite for you and a motherfucker named Brayden in 10 years.”
Alix’s face twisted in frustration. “You really think that little of me?”
“I think I know you,” Royce shot back. “And I think you need to go find somebody else to go get your hood card with.”
Alix shook her head, stepping even closer now, anger flaring in her expression. “You don’t know a damn thing about me if that’s what you think.”
“I know you like the thrill,” Royce countered. “You like that wild shit, but only when it’s convenient for you. When it gets messy, you shut down. You freeze. You get scared.”
Alix clenched her jaw, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I told you, I’m not scared of you, Royce.”
“Not scared of me,” Royce repeated with a scoff. “But you can’t even admit what this is.”
Alix inhaled sharply, her gaze locked onto his. “Because it’s not that simple.”
The elevator dinged. Royce stepped inside without looking back.
Alix hesitated for only a second before slipping in beside him. The doors slid shut, enclosing them in thick, suffocating silence. Royce didn’t acknowledge her. He stared at the numbers as they climbed, his expression blank, his body rigid.
Alix, however, fidgeted. She shifted on her feet, let out a slow breath, then finally broke the silence. “Royce, please,” she murmured, voice softer now, all the fight drained from it. “I don’t want to lose you.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at her.
“I just—” she tried again, taking a hesitant step closer. “I don’t know what to do.”
Still, nothing.
By the time the elevator reached his floor, Alix was near breaking. As soon as the doors opened, Royce stepped out, walking toward his apartment with a heavy stride. But she wasn’t done. She followed him down the hall, continuing to plead her case, the words spilling out.
“I don’t want this to be over,” she said, trailing behind him as he reached his door. “I don’t know what to do, Royce. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before, and it scares me. You know I don’t want to feel trapped.”
Royce finally stopped, turning his head just slightly. His voice was low, almost tired. “I’m not gonna keep doing this fucking dance with you, Alix.”
She swallowed hard. “What does that mean?”
“It means pick a lane and fucking stay in it,” he said, eyes dark, heavy with frustration and something deeper—something raw. “If you want some Carlton ass nigga, go fuck with them Carlton ass niggas and leave me the fuck alone.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, Alix closed the space between them and kissed him.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate, a collision of frustration and need, of unsaid words and unresolved tension. Royce stiffened for half a second, then his hands found her waist, gripping tightly as he kissed her back, every ounce of anger and restraint melting into the heat of the moment.
The elevator dinged.
They barely made it inside his apartment before clothes were tugged, hands roamed, and the space between them disappeared entirely.
…
The room was dimly lit by the city glow filtering through the blinds, the occasional flicker of passing headlights casting shifting shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the warmth of bodies, the scent of Alix’s perfume still lingering in the sheets. She lay curled up beneath the covers, her bare shoulder exposed, her breathing slow and steady. Peaceful.
Royce sat at the foot of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely together. His head hung low, beads of sweat cooling along the nape of his neck. The remnants of the nightmare clung to him like smoke, suffocating, inescapable.
He could still hear the gunshots—sharp cracks that split the humid night air. He could feel the pavement beneath him, the sticky warmth of his own blood soaking into his clothes. The pain wasn’t as sharp in the memory as it had been in reality, but it was still there, dull and heavy, like a bruise that refused to fade. And then, Romeo’s voice—taunting, cutting through the haze.
"Look at you, man. Got the world at your feet, and you still find a way to fuck it all up."
Royce exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. His fingers curled into fists against his thighs. He hadn’t seen Romeo’s face in months—not like this. Not in this version of the nightmare, where his brother wasn’t just a ghost but something worse. A specter of disappointment.
"You had a chance to make this shit mean something. To make it count. And what do you do? Go and almost fuck it up like you always do."
Royce shut his eyes, pressing his palms into his temples, as if he could block out the voice, push it back into the depths of his subconscious where it belonged. But it stayed. It always stayed.
"I died for nothing, huh?" Romeo continued, his voice laced with something that sounded too much like bitterness. "All that pain, all that loss, and you’re out here throwing hands like some frat boy who got daddy money to bail you. I don't know if you know this, nigga, but you don't."
“I ain’t throwing shit away,” Royce muttered under his breath, barely realizing he was speaking out loud. His voice was hoarse, like it had been dragged through gravel.
But the dream—no, the hallucination—Romeo wasn’t finished.
"Tell yourself that if it helps your bitch ass sleep. Oh wait—you ain’t sleeping, are you?"
Royce’s fingers dug into his scalp. His breath came uneven, shoulders rising and falling with the effort to steady himself. He told himself it wasn’t real. That Romeo wasn’t standing there in the room, just out of reach. That he wasn’t watching with that same lopsided smirk that Royce used to think was cool when they were kids.
"You keep acting like this just a little bump in the road, Ro," Romeo continued, his voice softer now, more like how it used to be when they were younger, back when he was still alive. "Like everything’s gonna work itself out because it always has. But that luck runs out, man. One day, you ain’t gonna be able to fix it. And then what? Your ass gonna be a has-been out there smoking that rock like Reg."
A deep, shuddering breath rattled through Royce’s chest. He opened his eyes, staring down at the floor, at the shadows stretching across the hardwood. His hands unclenched, slowly, his knuckles aching from the pressure.
Behind him, Alix stirred, shifting in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible before settling again. The sound of her breathing was a tether, something to keep him grounded, to remind him that he wasn’t back in that street, bleeding out, watching his brother’s body go still.
Romeo was gone. The voice in his head wasn’t real.
But the guilt was.
And it always would be.
The sky had turned deep purple by the time Royce pulled into the parking garage of his apartment complex. He killed the engine, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion settling in his bones. Practice had been brutal, his mind weighed down by the constant need to prove himself to the new coaching staff. But as he stepped out of his car, rolling his shoulders, he barely had a second to exhale before a figure emerged from the shadows near the stairwell.
Alix.
He slowed his steps but didn’t stop, barely sparing her a glance. “You gotta be fucking kidding me, man.”
She stepped forward, arms crossed, her stance firm despite the way she shifted on her feet. “Three months, Royce,” she said, her voice clipped but laced with something raw. “You’ve gone three months without saying a word to me.”
Royce let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he started toward the elevator. “This is some stalker ass shit, Alix. How long you been sitting out here?”
Alix followed, her steps quick to keep up. “I wouldn’t have to be out here like this if you just answered your damn phone.”
Royce didn’t slow down. “Clearly because I ain’t fucking want to.”
“Bullshit,” she shot back, stepping in front of him, forcing him to stop. Her eyes were sharp, searching his face. “Why, Royce? Why are you acting like I don’t exist?”
His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the strap of his duffel. “You almost ruined my fucking life, Alix. And for what? Because you wanted to fight over me when you don’t even want me?”
Alix’s lips parted, but nothing came out at first. She swallowed, shifting her weight. “That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Royce cut her off, his voice low, controlled, but the anger simmered just beneath the surface. “You wanted to swing on some bitch in a bar over me, and I was the one that spent months with cops, reporters, and my agent breathing down my neck. Meanwhile, you’re still out here playing games.”
“I’m not playing games,” she snapped, eyes flashing. “I’m scared.”
Royce scoffed, shaking his head as he pushed past her toward the elevator. “Miss me with that shit.”
“It’s not—” she started, then stopped abruptly, running a hand through her hair. “It’s different with you.”
Royce pressed the button for the elevator, jaw clenched. “Right. But it ain’t different with Dominic. Or Vic. Or any other square ass nigga you fucking with.”
“That’s not fair,” Alix said, stepping closer, her voice dropping. “I wasn’t as close to them as I am with you. You know that.”
Royce finally turned to her then, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Oh, I know. I know that you like hanging around niggas like me. Alright getting fucked by niggas like me. Motherfuckers that would have your people clutching they pearls, who make you feel like you’re really ‘bout it.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “But that’s all it is for you, Alix. Playing like you down. You’ll keep messing with niggas like me until it gets too real, then you’ll run back to some clean-cut, safe-ass, family approved dude and pretend none of this ever happened. I can already see the wedding invite for you and a motherfucker named Brayden in 10 years.”
Alix’s face twisted in frustration. “You really think that little of me?”
“I think I know you,” Royce shot back. “And I think you need to go find somebody else to go get your hood card with.”
Alix shook her head, stepping even closer now, anger flaring in her expression. “You don’t know a damn thing about me if that’s what you think.”
“I know you like the thrill,” Royce countered. “You like that wild shit, but only when it’s convenient for you. When it gets messy, you shut down. You freeze. You get scared.”
Alix clenched her jaw, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I told you, I’m not scared of you, Royce.”
“Not scared of me,” Royce repeated with a scoff. “But you can’t even admit what this is.”
Alix inhaled sharply, her gaze locked onto his. “Because it’s not that simple.”
The elevator dinged. Royce stepped inside without looking back.
Alix hesitated for only a second before slipping in beside him. The doors slid shut, enclosing them in thick, suffocating silence. Royce didn’t acknowledge her. He stared at the numbers as they climbed, his expression blank, his body rigid.
Alix, however, fidgeted. She shifted on her feet, let out a slow breath, then finally broke the silence. “Royce, please,” she murmured, voice softer now, all the fight drained from it. “I don’t want to lose you.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at her.
“I just—” she tried again, taking a hesitant step closer. “I don’t know what to do.”
Still, nothing.
By the time the elevator reached his floor, Alix was near breaking. As soon as the doors opened, Royce stepped out, walking toward his apartment with a heavy stride. But she wasn’t done. She followed him down the hall, continuing to plead her case, the words spilling out.
“I don’t want this to be over,” she said, trailing behind him as he reached his door. “I don’t know what to do, Royce. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before, and it scares me. You know I don’t want to feel trapped.”
Royce finally stopped, turning his head just slightly. His voice was low, almost tired. “I’m not gonna keep doing this fucking dance with you, Alix.”
She swallowed hard. “What does that mean?”
“It means pick a lane and fucking stay in it,” he said, eyes dark, heavy with frustration and something deeper—something raw. “If you want some Carlton ass nigga, go fuck with them Carlton ass niggas and leave me the fuck alone.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, Alix closed the space between them and kissed him.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate, a collision of frustration and need, of unsaid words and unresolved tension. Royce stiffened for half a second, then his hands found her waist, gripping tightly as he kissed her back, every ounce of anger and restraint melting into the heat of the moment.
The elevator dinged.
They barely made it inside his apartment before clothes were tugged, hands roamed, and the space between them disappeared entirely.
…
The room was dimly lit by the city glow filtering through the blinds, the occasional flicker of passing headlights casting shifting shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the warmth of bodies, the scent of Alix’s perfume still lingering in the sheets. She lay curled up beneath the covers, her bare shoulder exposed, her breathing slow and steady. Peaceful.
Royce sat at the foot of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely together. His head hung low, beads of sweat cooling along the nape of his neck. The remnants of the nightmare clung to him like smoke, suffocating, inescapable.
He could still hear the gunshots—sharp cracks that split the humid night air. He could feel the pavement beneath him, the sticky warmth of his own blood soaking into his clothes. The pain wasn’t as sharp in the memory as it had been in reality, but it was still there, dull and heavy, like a bruise that refused to fade. And then, Romeo’s voice—taunting, cutting through the haze.
"Look at you, man. Got the world at your feet, and you still find a way to fuck it all up."
Royce exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. His fingers curled into fists against his thighs. He hadn’t seen Romeo’s face in months—not like this. Not in this version of the nightmare, where his brother wasn’t just a ghost but something worse. A specter of disappointment.
"You had a chance to make this shit mean something. To make it count. And what do you do? Go and almost fuck it up like you always do."
Royce shut his eyes, pressing his palms into his temples, as if he could block out the voice, push it back into the depths of his subconscious where it belonged. But it stayed. It always stayed.
"I died for nothing, huh?" Romeo continued, his voice laced with something that sounded too much like bitterness. "All that pain, all that loss, and you’re out here throwing hands like some frat boy who got daddy money to bail you. I don't know if you know this, nigga, but you don't."
“I ain’t throwing shit away,” Royce muttered under his breath, barely realizing he was speaking out loud. His voice was hoarse, like it had been dragged through gravel.
But the dream—no, the hallucination—Romeo wasn’t finished.
"Tell yourself that if it helps your bitch ass sleep. Oh wait—you ain’t sleeping, are you?"
Royce’s fingers dug into his scalp. His breath came uneven, shoulders rising and falling with the effort to steady himself. He told himself it wasn’t real. That Romeo wasn’t standing there in the room, just out of reach. That he wasn’t watching with that same lopsided smirk that Royce used to think was cool when they were kids.
"You keep acting like this just a little bump in the road, Ro," Romeo continued, his voice softer now, more like how it used to be when they were younger, back when he was still alive. "Like everything’s gonna work itself out because it always has. But that luck runs out, man. One day, you ain’t gonna be able to fix it. And then what? Your ass gonna be a has-been out there smoking that rock like Reg."
A deep, shuddering breath rattled through Royce’s chest. He opened his eyes, staring down at the floor, at the shadows stretching across the hardwood. His hands unclenched, slowly, his knuckles aching from the pressure.
Behind him, Alix stirred, shifting in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible before settling again. The sound of her breathing was a tether, something to keep him grounded, to remind him that he wasn’t back in that street, bleeding out, watching his brother’s body go still.
Romeo was gone. The voice in his head wasn’t real.
But the guilt was.
And it always would be.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16919
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
boohoo nigga
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Almost Saturday Night
The cameras clicked in rapid succession, the soft hum of murmured conversations filling the press conference room as reporters adjusted their recorders and notepads, preparing for their questions. Bright overhead lights shined down on Royce, making the room feel warmer than it should have. Dressed in LSU gear, he sat behind the podium, his expression even, his posture relaxed—but not too relaxed. He knew the game, knew exactly how to present himself in these settings.
This wasn’t his first media session, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be his last.
LSU’s logo was plastered across the backdrop behind him, a visual reminder of the expectations on his shoulders. It was officially football season now. The past year—the bar incident, the investigation, the doubts that had followed—was behind him. That’s what he told himself, at least.
A veteran reporter in a crisp button-up leaned forward, raising his hand before speaking. “Royce, coming into your sophomore year, what are your personal expectations for the season? What are you hoping to prove?”
Royce leaned into the mic, flashing a slight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just want to help my team win football games and championships. That’s the only goal,” he said smoothly, keeping his tone controlled, professional just as he’d been trained to do.
No extra fluff. No promises. Just football.
The reporters scribbled their notes, cameras continuing to flicker as the next question came from the middle of the crowd.
“Your first game is against Clemson in primetime. How do you feel about opening the season against a team that’s been a perennial powerhouse?”
Royce exhaled slightly, nodding. “Clemson is a great team. They’ve got talent across the board, but so do we. We’re preparing the same way we always do—focusing on what we can control, sticking to our assignments, playing our brand of football. At the end of the day, it’s just about execution.”
Another click of pens, another murmuring ripple through the room.
Then came the question he knew was coming, the one that made his shoulders stiffen just a fraction.
A younger reporter, probably new to the LSU beat, leaned forward. “Royce, you had a lot of off-field distractions last season, from the bar incident to all the speculation about your future at LSU. Do you feel like those things are behind you? Are there still any distractions that could take focus away from the team this year?”
Royce met the reporter’s gaze evenly, his jaw tightening for only a split second before he forced himself to ease into a calm expression.
“No distractions,” he said simply, his voice unwavering. “My focus is on winning. That’s it.”
The silence that followed was thick, the reporters waiting to see if he’d say more. Royce didn’t. He held the moment, letting it settle, letting them write down whatever interpretation they wanted.
Next question.
…
The office smelled of leather and polished wood, the scent mixing with the faint aroma of coffee lingering from an unfinished cup on Billy’s desk. Royce sat in the plush chair across from him, arms crossed, waiting for whatever business his agent had dragged him here for.
Billy leaned back, smirking as he laced his fingers together. “Alright, let’s get straight to it. I got a deal lined up for you, something that could net you at least fifty grand.”
Royce arched an eyebrow. “Well, you know I ain’t turning down nothing but my collar. Who’s putting that much money up? McKernan?”
Billy grinned. “No, another prominent businessman in here in the city. Deep pockets, big name, wants to align with local talent.”
Royce nodded slowly. “Alright, so where’s the contract? Just tell me where to sign.”
Billy sighed, rubbing his chin. “He thinks you’re the typical athlete.”
Royce’s eyes narrowed before he laughed. “The fuck that’s supposed to mean? I am the typical athlete, man.”
Billy raised his hands as if to say, don’t shoot the messenger. “He feels like you’re out of tune with your culture, disconnected. Says you’re all football, fame, and trouble, and not enough… community.”
Royce scoffed. “I ain’t got no time for no fucking community. Tell him that shit. Tell him to just fake it like everyone else do. Throw a couple posts on Twitter.”
Billy grinned. “I knew you were gonna say that.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Look, I don’t make the rules, I just make the deals. And this guy? He wants to see you do some ‘penance.’ Show some effort. Make a little goodwill tour.”
Royce exhaled sharply. “Man, I ain’t about to put on a damn performance for somebody just so they can feel better about cutting a check.”
Billy tilted his head. “It’s not a performance, Royce. It’s an opportunity. You show up, you talk to people, shake a few hands, do what you do best—make people believe in you. You do that, and you walk away with fifty grand.”
Royce shook his head, his jaw tightening. “And where exactly am I supposed to be doing this shit?”
Billy pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times before looking back up. “Black Student Union at LSU. They’re going take it from there.”
Royce let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Man, come on. This over the top, Billy. I’m about ready to turn this shit down. This motherfucker really going to make me do this corny ass shit? That ain’t me.”
Billy shrugged. “Maybe. But you got fifty thousand reasons to figure out a way to make it work.”
Royce leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way this guy—this random businessman—felt entitled to judge who he was or wasn’t. He didn’t like that Billy was just rolling with it, acting like it was some minor inconvenience instead of an insult.
But fifty grand was fifty grand.
Billy watched him carefully, waiting for his answer.
After a long moment, Royce exhaled through his nose and muttered, “When’s the meeting?”
~~~~~~~~~~
The late afternoon sun hung low over Terrebonne High School’s parking lot, casting long shadows between the rows of cars. Sweat still clung to Mike’s skin from practice, but he barely noticed. His focus was on the two juniors leaning against a beat-up sedan near the back of the lot, waiting for him.
He walked toward them, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, posture casual but calculated. As he approached, one of them—Javon—pushed himself off the car and offered a chin nod. The other, Trey, glanced around the lot nervously.
“You got it?” Javon asked, his voice low.
Mike didn’t say anything. He unzipped the side pocket of his bag and pulled out a small plastic baggie. The faint scent of weed leaked from it as he held it up just enough for them to see before quickly tucking it back into his palm.
Javon grinned and fished out some crumpled bills from his hoodie pocket, slapping them into Mike’s hand. Mike didn’t bother counting. He already knew the deal was clean—Javon had been buying from him for weeks.
“Man, I swear, at this rate I’m gonna have to get some extra shifts at the Rouse to cover this shit,” Trey muttered, still glancing over his shoulder.
Mike smirked, shoving the cash into his pocket. “Or you could just stop smoking bud.”
Javon dapped him up, still grinning. “Yeah right, motherfucker. Ain’t nobody doing that. Let me know when you get some whippets.”
Mike tensed slightly but masked it with a shrug. “We’ll see.”
He turned away before the conversation could stretch too long, heading toward his car parked on the opposite side of the lot. On the way, he passed a few of his teammates still lingering after practice. One of them, DeAndre, waved him over.
“Aye, Mike, we hitting up Cane’s. You sliding?”
“Nah,” Mike shook his head, forcing a grin. “Got somewhere to be.”
DeAndre raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “A’ight, man. Don’t start acting all Hollywood until you get that D1 call.”
Mike only laughed, but the sound was hollow. He knew there wasn’t a D1 call coming.
As he slid into his car and started the engine, he exhaled, gripping the steering wheel tight for a moment before shifting into drive. Just a few more months. He only had to make it through the school year.
Then, maybe, he’d figure out a way out of all this.
…
Laila’s house was quiet when Mike arrived, the kind of quiet that made it clear no one else was home. She answered the door with a wary expression, stepping aside to let him in without a word.
Mike tossed his bag onto the couch and stretched, rolling his shoulders. “You good?” he asked.
Laila folded her arms, leaning against the wall. “I don’t know, Mike. Are you good?”
He frowned, not in the mood for whatever conversation she was trying to have. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She sighed, rubbing her temples. “It means I don’t think you’ve been thinking straight for months.”
Mike scoffed, shaking his head. “Chill out with that.”
“I’m serious,” Laila pressed, her voice rising slightly. “You’re out here doing God knows what, barely paying attention to school, always looking over your shoulder like you expect something to go wrong.”
“I only gotta make it to the end of the school year,” Mike muttered, not looking at her. “Then I’ll figure it out.”
Laila stared at him for a long moment, frustration and something softer—something sadder—playing across her face. “And then what? You think all of this just disappears? That the choices you’re making now don’t matter once you cross some imaginary finish line?”
Mike didn’t have an answer for that. Instead, he sat down on the couch, staring at the floor.
Laila watched him, exhaling sharply before sitting beside him. “I don’t want to lose you, Mike,” she said quietly.
He finally looked at her, the weight of everything pressing heavy on his chest. “You won’t,” he said, but the words felt like a lie.
~~~~~~~~~~
Toni sat curled up on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her as Deshawn stretched out beside her, draping his arm along the back of the sofa like he owned the space. The television played some reality show neither of them was paying much attention to, its background noise filling the silence between their conversations.
Deshawn smirked as he scrolled through his phone, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest. “You know, I might have to get my get back on your bitch ass cousin when we play LSU,” he said, the grin widening on his face.
Toni tensed, barely perceptible, but forced a small, tight-lipped laugh, more out of habit than amusement. “Oh yeah?” she murmured, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
Deshawn leaned back, stretching his arms. “Yeah. Everyone talking about that nigga like he going to the league. Someone gonna expose his ass eventually. It might as well be me.”
Toni bit the inside of her cheek, nodding along even though she wasn’t sure she liked where the conversation was heading. She knew Deshawn well enough by now—if she didn’t at least acknowledge his joke, if she let any hint of disapproval show, it would turn into something else. Something worse.
She managed a small chuckle, shifting in her seat. “Guess we’ll see,” she said, her voice deliberately neutral.
Deshawn gave her a sideways glance, his smirk lingering before he refocused on his phone. Toni exhaled slowly, trying not to let her thoughts spiral. She was tired. Tired of walking on eggshells. Tired of pretending like things were normal when they weren’t.
But for now, she kept up the act.
Because she didn’t know how to do anything else.
…
Arianna sat in a small café with a few of her friends, the buzz of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine filling the space around them. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the tall windows, casting a golden hue over their table.
“Girl, you still looking for a place?” Michelle, one of her closest friends, asked, taking a slow sip of her iced coffee.
Arianna let out a long sigh, swirling her straw around the melting ice in her drink. “Yeah. But apartments ain’t cheap, and I ain’t exactly swimming in cash.”
“I keep telling you,” Kayla chimed in, flipping her braids over her shoulder. “You need to just move in with me. We’d have fun.”
Arianna laughed lightly, shaking her head. “Girl, with all them random ass niggas you be around? I’m not trying to play wingwoman all the fucking time to keep some dude ugly homeboy occupied.”
Kayla smirked. “Fair.”
Michelle leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “You could always just get you a sugar daddy.”
Arianna snorted mid-sip, nearly choking on her drink. “Bitch, what?”
“You heard me,” Michelle said, laughing. “There are some rich, lonely old men in Lafayette who would gladly help you out.”
Kayla nodded, playing along. “All you gotta do is smile, laugh at their dumb jokes, and pretend you care about their golf game.”
Arianna rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. “And let their old asses fuck you.”
Michelle shrugged. “Hey, desperate times.”
“Shit I ain’t that desperate,” Arianna shot back, but her smile faded slightly as she stirred her drink. She knew they were joking, but the reality was, she was desperate—just not desperate enough for that. Not yet anyway.
Kayla studied her for a moment before nudging her foot under the table. “You’ll figure it out, girl. You always do.”
Arianna nodded, exhaling slowly. “Yeah,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure she believed it. “I will.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The late afternoon heat hung thick in the air as Royce and Alix made their way across the courtyard outside Julian’s dorm. The sun cast long shadows across the pavement, but the air was still warm enough that the faint hum of cicadas filled the background. A few students loitered around, sitting on the low brick walls that lined the walkways, chatting, scrolling through their phones, or watching a small pickup basketball game happening near the dorm’s entrance.
Julian had set up shop outside, a simple fold-out chair positioned in front of his dorm building with a portable mirror propped up on a bench nearby. His clippers, brush, and alcohol were arranged neatly on a small table. A small speaker sat beside them, playing an old-school R&B playlist loud enough to set the mood but not drown out conversation.
Royce barely had a chance to sit down before Khalil, Marcus, and a couple of other guys lounging nearby started in on him.
“Damn, my guy,” Khalil said, tilting his head. “You getting married or something?”
Marcus smirked, leaning against the brick wall. “Ain’t never seen that boy have a chick following him around. You good, big dog?”
Julian chuckled as he snapped the cape around Royce’s shoulders. “Man, I always knew your ass was tricking on these females but this confirm it. You worst than them niggas working in them plants”
Royce smirked, tilting his head back to let Julian go to work. “Sound like all y’all mad that you gotta break out that Jergens at night.”
Alix barely looked up from her phone, legs crossed as she scrolled. “Y’all are so loud,” she muttered, shaking her head.
That only made the guys laugh harder.
“Oh, she got you trained and all, bro,” Marcus teased. “That’s crazy.”
Royce chuckled, shaking his head. “Shut you goofy ass up, nigga.”
Julian switched on the clippers, the familiar hum filling the space as he got to work lining Royce up. “So what’s the move? Look good, play good?”
“Yeah,” Royce said, adjusting in his seat. “Gotta be fresh when they have our asses out there in BFE South carolina.”
The conversation moved on naturally, shifting between football, campus gossip, and debates over who was the best artist to come out of Louisiana. Royce leaned into the comfort of the moment, the normalcy of it all. For the first time in a while, things felt steady—no reporters breathing down his neck, no legal issues looming over him. Just a haircut, some jokes, and the start of the season ahead.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement.
Dominic.
The moment was brief, but Royce caught it—the instant Dominic stepped into the courtyard, gym bag slung over his shoulder, clearly headed toward Julian for a cut. His steps slowed the second he saw Alix sitting there, still immersed in her phone, and Royce in the chair, a smirk spreading across his face.
For a split second, Royce thought Dominic might say something, might make a scene. But instead, Dominic exhaled sharply, shook his head, and turned on his heel, walking right back the way he came.
Royce bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. The whole thing was almost too easy.
Julian must have noticed something because he tapped Royce on the shoulder. “Something funny?”
“Nah,” Royce said, the smirk still tugging at his lips. “Just thinking about God being good.”
Marcus, who had clocked the moment as well, let out a low whistle. “Boy, you messy. That nigga gonna beat your ass you keep fucking with him.”
Royce shrugged, still grinning. “Man, I ain’t even do nothing.”
Alix, still looking down at her screen, hadn’t noticed a thing.
Royce leaned back in the chair, letting Julian finish up his cut.
The cameras clicked in rapid succession, the soft hum of murmured conversations filling the press conference room as reporters adjusted their recorders and notepads, preparing for their questions. Bright overhead lights shined down on Royce, making the room feel warmer than it should have. Dressed in LSU gear, he sat behind the podium, his expression even, his posture relaxed—but not too relaxed. He knew the game, knew exactly how to present himself in these settings.
This wasn’t his first media session, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be his last.
LSU’s logo was plastered across the backdrop behind him, a visual reminder of the expectations on his shoulders. It was officially football season now. The past year—the bar incident, the investigation, the doubts that had followed—was behind him. That’s what he told himself, at least.
A veteran reporter in a crisp button-up leaned forward, raising his hand before speaking. “Royce, coming into your sophomore year, what are your personal expectations for the season? What are you hoping to prove?”
Royce leaned into the mic, flashing a slight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just want to help my team win football games and championships. That’s the only goal,” he said smoothly, keeping his tone controlled, professional just as he’d been trained to do.
No extra fluff. No promises. Just football.
The reporters scribbled their notes, cameras continuing to flicker as the next question came from the middle of the crowd.
“Your first game is against Clemson in primetime. How do you feel about opening the season against a team that’s been a perennial powerhouse?”
Royce exhaled slightly, nodding. “Clemson is a great team. They’ve got talent across the board, but so do we. We’re preparing the same way we always do—focusing on what we can control, sticking to our assignments, playing our brand of football. At the end of the day, it’s just about execution.”
Another click of pens, another murmuring ripple through the room.
Then came the question he knew was coming, the one that made his shoulders stiffen just a fraction.
A younger reporter, probably new to the LSU beat, leaned forward. “Royce, you had a lot of off-field distractions last season, from the bar incident to all the speculation about your future at LSU. Do you feel like those things are behind you? Are there still any distractions that could take focus away from the team this year?”
Royce met the reporter’s gaze evenly, his jaw tightening for only a split second before he forced himself to ease into a calm expression.
“No distractions,” he said simply, his voice unwavering. “My focus is on winning. That’s it.”
The silence that followed was thick, the reporters waiting to see if he’d say more. Royce didn’t. He held the moment, letting it settle, letting them write down whatever interpretation they wanted.
Next question.
…
The office smelled of leather and polished wood, the scent mixing with the faint aroma of coffee lingering from an unfinished cup on Billy’s desk. Royce sat in the plush chair across from him, arms crossed, waiting for whatever business his agent had dragged him here for.
Billy leaned back, smirking as he laced his fingers together. “Alright, let’s get straight to it. I got a deal lined up for you, something that could net you at least fifty grand.”
Royce arched an eyebrow. “Well, you know I ain’t turning down nothing but my collar. Who’s putting that much money up? McKernan?”
Billy grinned. “No, another prominent businessman in here in the city. Deep pockets, big name, wants to align with local talent.”
Royce nodded slowly. “Alright, so where’s the contract? Just tell me where to sign.”
Billy sighed, rubbing his chin. “He thinks you’re the typical athlete.”
Royce’s eyes narrowed before he laughed. “The fuck that’s supposed to mean? I am the typical athlete, man.”
Billy raised his hands as if to say, don’t shoot the messenger. “He feels like you’re out of tune with your culture, disconnected. Says you’re all football, fame, and trouble, and not enough… community.”
Royce scoffed. “I ain’t got no time for no fucking community. Tell him that shit. Tell him to just fake it like everyone else do. Throw a couple posts on Twitter.”
Billy grinned. “I knew you were gonna say that.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Look, I don’t make the rules, I just make the deals. And this guy? He wants to see you do some ‘penance.’ Show some effort. Make a little goodwill tour.”
Royce exhaled sharply. “Man, I ain’t about to put on a damn performance for somebody just so they can feel better about cutting a check.”
Billy tilted his head. “It’s not a performance, Royce. It’s an opportunity. You show up, you talk to people, shake a few hands, do what you do best—make people believe in you. You do that, and you walk away with fifty grand.”
Royce shook his head, his jaw tightening. “And where exactly am I supposed to be doing this shit?”
Billy pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times before looking back up. “Black Student Union at LSU. They’re going take it from there.”
Royce let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Man, come on. This over the top, Billy. I’m about ready to turn this shit down. This motherfucker really going to make me do this corny ass shit? That ain’t me.”
Billy shrugged. “Maybe. But you got fifty thousand reasons to figure out a way to make it work.”
Royce leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way this guy—this random businessman—felt entitled to judge who he was or wasn’t. He didn’t like that Billy was just rolling with it, acting like it was some minor inconvenience instead of an insult.
But fifty grand was fifty grand.
Billy watched him carefully, waiting for his answer.
After a long moment, Royce exhaled through his nose and muttered, “When’s the meeting?”
~~~~~~~~~~
The late afternoon sun hung low over Terrebonne High School’s parking lot, casting long shadows between the rows of cars. Sweat still clung to Mike’s skin from practice, but he barely noticed. His focus was on the two juniors leaning against a beat-up sedan near the back of the lot, waiting for him.
He walked toward them, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, posture casual but calculated. As he approached, one of them—Javon—pushed himself off the car and offered a chin nod. The other, Trey, glanced around the lot nervously.
“You got it?” Javon asked, his voice low.
Mike didn’t say anything. He unzipped the side pocket of his bag and pulled out a small plastic baggie. The faint scent of weed leaked from it as he held it up just enough for them to see before quickly tucking it back into his palm.
Javon grinned and fished out some crumpled bills from his hoodie pocket, slapping them into Mike’s hand. Mike didn’t bother counting. He already knew the deal was clean—Javon had been buying from him for weeks.
“Man, I swear, at this rate I’m gonna have to get some extra shifts at the Rouse to cover this shit,” Trey muttered, still glancing over his shoulder.
Mike smirked, shoving the cash into his pocket. “Or you could just stop smoking bud.”
Javon dapped him up, still grinning. “Yeah right, motherfucker. Ain’t nobody doing that. Let me know when you get some whippets.”
Mike tensed slightly but masked it with a shrug. “We’ll see.”
He turned away before the conversation could stretch too long, heading toward his car parked on the opposite side of the lot. On the way, he passed a few of his teammates still lingering after practice. One of them, DeAndre, waved him over.
“Aye, Mike, we hitting up Cane’s. You sliding?”
“Nah,” Mike shook his head, forcing a grin. “Got somewhere to be.”
DeAndre raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “A’ight, man. Don’t start acting all Hollywood until you get that D1 call.”
Mike only laughed, but the sound was hollow. He knew there wasn’t a D1 call coming.
As he slid into his car and started the engine, he exhaled, gripping the steering wheel tight for a moment before shifting into drive. Just a few more months. He only had to make it through the school year.
Then, maybe, he’d figure out a way out of all this.
…
Laila’s house was quiet when Mike arrived, the kind of quiet that made it clear no one else was home. She answered the door with a wary expression, stepping aside to let him in without a word.
Mike tossed his bag onto the couch and stretched, rolling his shoulders. “You good?” he asked.
Laila folded her arms, leaning against the wall. “I don’t know, Mike. Are you good?”
He frowned, not in the mood for whatever conversation she was trying to have. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She sighed, rubbing her temples. “It means I don’t think you’ve been thinking straight for months.”
Mike scoffed, shaking his head. “Chill out with that.”
“I’m serious,” Laila pressed, her voice rising slightly. “You’re out here doing God knows what, barely paying attention to school, always looking over your shoulder like you expect something to go wrong.”
“I only gotta make it to the end of the school year,” Mike muttered, not looking at her. “Then I’ll figure it out.”
Laila stared at him for a long moment, frustration and something softer—something sadder—playing across her face. “And then what? You think all of this just disappears? That the choices you’re making now don’t matter once you cross some imaginary finish line?”
Mike didn’t have an answer for that. Instead, he sat down on the couch, staring at the floor.
Laila watched him, exhaling sharply before sitting beside him. “I don’t want to lose you, Mike,” she said quietly.
He finally looked at her, the weight of everything pressing heavy on his chest. “You won’t,” he said, but the words felt like a lie.
~~~~~~~~~~
Toni sat curled up on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her as Deshawn stretched out beside her, draping his arm along the back of the sofa like he owned the space. The television played some reality show neither of them was paying much attention to, its background noise filling the silence between their conversations.
Deshawn smirked as he scrolled through his phone, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest. “You know, I might have to get my get back on your bitch ass cousin when we play LSU,” he said, the grin widening on his face.
Toni tensed, barely perceptible, but forced a small, tight-lipped laugh, more out of habit than amusement. “Oh yeah?” she murmured, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
Deshawn leaned back, stretching his arms. “Yeah. Everyone talking about that nigga like he going to the league. Someone gonna expose his ass eventually. It might as well be me.”
Toni bit the inside of her cheek, nodding along even though she wasn’t sure she liked where the conversation was heading. She knew Deshawn well enough by now—if she didn’t at least acknowledge his joke, if she let any hint of disapproval show, it would turn into something else. Something worse.
She managed a small chuckle, shifting in her seat. “Guess we’ll see,” she said, her voice deliberately neutral.
Deshawn gave her a sideways glance, his smirk lingering before he refocused on his phone. Toni exhaled slowly, trying not to let her thoughts spiral. She was tired. Tired of walking on eggshells. Tired of pretending like things were normal when they weren’t.
But for now, she kept up the act.
Because she didn’t know how to do anything else.
…
Arianna sat in a small café with a few of her friends, the buzz of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine filling the space around them. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the tall windows, casting a golden hue over their table.
“Girl, you still looking for a place?” Michelle, one of her closest friends, asked, taking a slow sip of her iced coffee.
Arianna let out a long sigh, swirling her straw around the melting ice in her drink. “Yeah. But apartments ain’t cheap, and I ain’t exactly swimming in cash.”
“I keep telling you,” Kayla chimed in, flipping her braids over her shoulder. “You need to just move in with me. We’d have fun.”
Arianna laughed lightly, shaking her head. “Girl, with all them random ass niggas you be around? I’m not trying to play wingwoman all the fucking time to keep some dude ugly homeboy occupied.”
Kayla smirked. “Fair.”
Michelle leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “You could always just get you a sugar daddy.”
Arianna snorted mid-sip, nearly choking on her drink. “Bitch, what?”
“You heard me,” Michelle said, laughing. “There are some rich, lonely old men in Lafayette who would gladly help you out.”
Kayla nodded, playing along. “All you gotta do is smile, laugh at their dumb jokes, and pretend you care about their golf game.”
Arianna rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. “And let their old asses fuck you.”
Michelle shrugged. “Hey, desperate times.”
“Shit I ain’t that desperate,” Arianna shot back, but her smile faded slightly as she stirred her drink. She knew they were joking, but the reality was, she was desperate—just not desperate enough for that. Not yet anyway.
Kayla studied her for a moment before nudging her foot under the table. “You’ll figure it out, girl. You always do.”
Arianna nodded, exhaling slowly. “Yeah,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure she believed it. “I will.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The late afternoon heat hung thick in the air as Royce and Alix made their way across the courtyard outside Julian’s dorm. The sun cast long shadows across the pavement, but the air was still warm enough that the faint hum of cicadas filled the background. A few students loitered around, sitting on the low brick walls that lined the walkways, chatting, scrolling through their phones, or watching a small pickup basketball game happening near the dorm’s entrance.
Julian had set up shop outside, a simple fold-out chair positioned in front of his dorm building with a portable mirror propped up on a bench nearby. His clippers, brush, and alcohol were arranged neatly on a small table. A small speaker sat beside them, playing an old-school R&B playlist loud enough to set the mood but not drown out conversation.
Royce barely had a chance to sit down before Khalil, Marcus, and a couple of other guys lounging nearby started in on him.
“Damn, my guy,” Khalil said, tilting his head. “You getting married or something?”
Marcus smirked, leaning against the brick wall. “Ain’t never seen that boy have a chick following him around. You good, big dog?”
Julian chuckled as he snapped the cape around Royce’s shoulders. “Man, I always knew your ass was tricking on these females but this confirm it. You worst than them niggas working in them plants”
Royce smirked, tilting his head back to let Julian go to work. “Sound like all y’all mad that you gotta break out that Jergens at night.”
Alix barely looked up from her phone, legs crossed as she scrolled. “Y’all are so loud,” she muttered, shaking her head.
That only made the guys laugh harder.
“Oh, she got you trained and all, bro,” Marcus teased. “That’s crazy.”
Royce chuckled, shaking his head. “Shut you goofy ass up, nigga.”
Julian switched on the clippers, the familiar hum filling the space as he got to work lining Royce up. “So what’s the move? Look good, play good?”
“Yeah,” Royce said, adjusting in his seat. “Gotta be fresh when they have our asses out there in BFE South carolina.”
The conversation moved on naturally, shifting between football, campus gossip, and debates over who was the best artist to come out of Louisiana. Royce leaned into the comfort of the moment, the normalcy of it all. For the first time in a while, things felt steady—no reporters breathing down his neck, no legal issues looming over him. Just a haircut, some jokes, and the start of the season ahead.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement.
Dominic.
The moment was brief, but Royce caught it—the instant Dominic stepped into the courtyard, gym bag slung over his shoulder, clearly headed toward Julian for a cut. His steps slowed the second he saw Alix sitting there, still immersed in her phone, and Royce in the chair, a smirk spreading across his face.
For a split second, Royce thought Dominic might say something, might make a scene. But instead, Dominic exhaled sharply, shook his head, and turned on his heel, walking right back the way he came.
Royce bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. The whole thing was almost too easy.
Julian must have noticed something because he tapped Royce on the shoulder. “Something funny?”
“Nah,” Royce said, the smirk still tugging at his lips. “Just thinking about God being good.”
Marcus, who had clocked the moment as well, let out a low whistle. “Boy, you messy. That nigga gonna beat your ass you keep fucking with him.”
Royce shrugged, still grinning. “Man, I ain’t even do nothing.”
Alix, still looking down at her screen, hadn’t noticed a thing.
Royce leaned back in the chair, letting Julian finish up his cut.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Imposter Valley
Royce shot out of his stance as Clemson’s running back received the handoff and looked to bounce it to the outside. The offensive line crumbled as LSU helmets swarmed toward the ball carrier, stuffing him for a short gain.
“This ain’t no Death Valley, bitch!” Koljah shouted at the running back.
“It’s gonna be all night for you pussy ass niggas!” Jyaire added.
Royce shoved one of Clemson’s receivers away, making his best effort to combat some of the early trash talk, and clapped in his face as the defense jogged off the field with their first drive of the season resulting in a three and out.
…
Second and five on Clemson’s 30-yard line. The roar of Clemson’s Memorial Stadium echoed in Royce’s helmet, a relentless wall of sound as Clemson’s offense lined up. The energy in the stadium was thick, charged with expectation. The home crowd believed their Tigers were about to take the lead.
Royce crouched slightly, his eyes locked onto the tight end lined up just inside the right hash. Man coverage. No help. Just him and his assignment. Cade Klubnik stood in the shotgun, surveying the defense, his body language calm—too calm. Royce had seen this look before. Klubnik knew where he was going with the ball.
Good. So did Royce.
The tight end gave a hard jab step outside before breaking inside on a quick seam route, trying to slip into the soft zone between the linebackers and safeties. Royce didn’t bite on the fake, staying right on his hip, mirroring every movement.
The ball was coming.
Klubnik’s eyes flicked toward them, his feet shifting as he stepped into his throw. Royce saw it happen in slow motion—the quarterback’s front foot planting, his arm cocking back.
Timing. Read. Jump.
Royce exploded forward, cutting underneath the tight end just as the ball left Klubnik’s hand. The pass came fast, spiraling toward its intended target. But Royce wasn’t the intended target anymore.
The ball hit his hands like a bullet. Interception.
A collective gasp ripped through the crowd, followed by an eruption of frustration as Royce secured the ball and dropped to the turf. No risk. No unnecessary heroics. Just a clean, cold-blooded theft deep in enemy territory.
LSU’s sideline exploded, coaches pumping their fists, defenders rushing onto the field to celebrate. Royce popped up from the ground, flipping the ball to the referee as his teammates swarmed him, slapping his helmet, grabbing his jersey.
On the other side of the field, Klubnik stood frozen, hands on his hips, staring at the spot where his drive had just died.
…
Royce tapped the top of his helmet and pointed toward the receiver motioning across Clemson’s formation, Clemson’s fans doing their best to will their team into the endzone with LSU already up 14-3 in the second quarter.
Klubnik stood in the shotgun, his fingers twitched in the air as he barked out his cadence before calling for the snap.
The receiver in the slot burst off the line and planted his foot in the turf, turning back toward the line of scrimmage on a short curl. Klubnik went through his progressions, patting the ball as he turned toward the receiver and threw the ball.
Zackary, lurking behind the receiver, jumped the route, hands snatching the pass out of the air.
The stadium groaned in unison as he tucked the ball and turned upfield. Royce pivoted immediately sprinting to get ahead of the play. Zackary darted past the first wave of tacklers before finally being taken down near midfield.
The air around them shifted.
Royce jogged back toward the sideline, joining in the celebrations, his blood hot, his adrenaline humming.
…
Klubnik stepped up under the center, the ball placed deep in their own territory midway through the third quarter. The game was teetering on becoming a blowout and Clemson needed to do something to get the momentum back.
Royce shifted to his left, his hands on his hips for a momentum before he settled into his stance. It was second and eight in the shadow of Clemson’s goalposts. You didn’t need to be a football savant to know that they were going to run the ball.
And that’s exactly what happened.
The quarterback called for the snap, turning to his right and holding the ball out for David Eziomume coming out of the backfield.
The running back took his first step wide, but Royce knifed through the offensive line, firing through the seam between the left tackle and tight end, getting through untouched. Eziomume didn’t have time to react before Royce met him in the backfield.
A violent pop of pads, followed by the unmistakable grunt of air leaving lungs. Royce wrapped up, driving the back down for a loss.
Royce popped up first as his teammates swarmed him.
“Better not run up on me if you do then I’ma trip out!” Royce shouted, pointing at Eziomume before breaking out one of Louisiana’s signature dances in celebration, a couple of the other defenders joining in.
…
The fourth quarter had just begun, and Clemson was growing desperate. Down 37-20, they needed a spark to claw back into the game. The crowd was restless, trying to will their team into life, but LSU’s defense had stepped up in all the big moments so far.
Klubnik had been trying to pick at the soft spots in LSU’s zone, testing the middle of the field when he wasn’t under fire from the Tigers’ pass rush.
Royce read his eyes, seeing the quick drop. The receiver settled down between two of the zones, looking to give Klubnik somewhere to throw the ball.
Royce planted and exploded toward the throwing lane just as the quarterback let it fly. The pass was sharp, but not fast enough. Royce was already there, his fingertips grazing the ball.
It bounced off his hands, tumbling harmlessly to the turf. Royce clenched his jaw, knowing he should’ve had it. He threw his arms up in frustration, shaking his head as he jogged back to position.
…
Royce pumped his hand over his head, everyone dropping deeper into coverage. Clemson was facing a third and 17 on their own 33 and desperation had set in as the time ticked away late in the fourth quarter.
The Tigers had to go deep. There was no other option. He knew it. The entire stadium knew it. Klubnik had been forcing throws the entire second half as Clemson started to chase ghosts to try to get back into the game.
Snap. Drop back.
Royce kept everything in front of him as he dropped closer to the first down marker. The quarterback’s eyes flicked left and he pump faked in that direction. Royce kept his eyes on the two receivers coming across the middle of the field.
One of them arced his route behind Royce as the other slowed to a stop well short of the first down.
Klubnik drew his arm back and released the ball.
Royce turned and ran, glancing over his shoulder to see the ball headed for the receiver. He closed the distance quickly, the receiver’s eyes on the ball, knowing he had to make the catch to keep Clemson in the game.
Boom.
The collision sent the ball flying and the receiving crumpling to the turf as the stadium let out a collective gasp.
Royce stood over the receiver for a half-second, staring down at him before turning and jogging to the sideline. No celebration. No talking.
Just business.
Royce shot out of his stance as Clemson’s running back received the handoff and looked to bounce it to the outside. The offensive line crumbled as LSU helmets swarmed toward the ball carrier, stuffing him for a short gain.
“This ain’t no Death Valley, bitch!” Koljah shouted at the running back.
“It’s gonna be all night for you pussy ass niggas!” Jyaire added.
Royce shoved one of Clemson’s receivers away, making his best effort to combat some of the early trash talk, and clapped in his face as the defense jogged off the field with their first drive of the season resulting in a three and out.
…
Second and five on Clemson’s 30-yard line. The roar of Clemson’s Memorial Stadium echoed in Royce’s helmet, a relentless wall of sound as Clemson’s offense lined up. The energy in the stadium was thick, charged with expectation. The home crowd believed their Tigers were about to take the lead.
Royce crouched slightly, his eyes locked onto the tight end lined up just inside the right hash. Man coverage. No help. Just him and his assignment. Cade Klubnik stood in the shotgun, surveying the defense, his body language calm—too calm. Royce had seen this look before. Klubnik knew where he was going with the ball.
Good. So did Royce.
The tight end gave a hard jab step outside before breaking inside on a quick seam route, trying to slip into the soft zone between the linebackers and safeties. Royce didn’t bite on the fake, staying right on his hip, mirroring every movement.
The ball was coming.
Klubnik’s eyes flicked toward them, his feet shifting as he stepped into his throw. Royce saw it happen in slow motion—the quarterback’s front foot planting, his arm cocking back.
Timing. Read. Jump.
Royce exploded forward, cutting underneath the tight end just as the ball left Klubnik’s hand. The pass came fast, spiraling toward its intended target. But Royce wasn’t the intended target anymore.
The ball hit his hands like a bullet. Interception.
A collective gasp ripped through the crowd, followed by an eruption of frustration as Royce secured the ball and dropped to the turf. No risk. No unnecessary heroics. Just a clean, cold-blooded theft deep in enemy territory.
LSU’s sideline exploded, coaches pumping their fists, defenders rushing onto the field to celebrate. Royce popped up from the ground, flipping the ball to the referee as his teammates swarmed him, slapping his helmet, grabbing his jersey.
On the other side of the field, Klubnik stood frozen, hands on his hips, staring at the spot where his drive had just died.
…
Royce tapped the top of his helmet and pointed toward the receiver motioning across Clemson’s formation, Clemson’s fans doing their best to will their team into the endzone with LSU already up 14-3 in the second quarter.
Klubnik stood in the shotgun, his fingers twitched in the air as he barked out his cadence before calling for the snap.
The receiver in the slot burst off the line and planted his foot in the turf, turning back toward the line of scrimmage on a short curl. Klubnik went through his progressions, patting the ball as he turned toward the receiver and threw the ball.
Zackary, lurking behind the receiver, jumped the route, hands snatching the pass out of the air.
The stadium groaned in unison as he tucked the ball and turned upfield. Royce pivoted immediately sprinting to get ahead of the play. Zackary darted past the first wave of tacklers before finally being taken down near midfield.
The air around them shifted.
Royce jogged back toward the sideline, joining in the celebrations, his blood hot, his adrenaline humming.
…
Klubnik stepped up under the center, the ball placed deep in their own territory midway through the third quarter. The game was teetering on becoming a blowout and Clemson needed to do something to get the momentum back.
Royce shifted to his left, his hands on his hips for a momentum before he settled into his stance. It was second and eight in the shadow of Clemson’s goalposts. You didn’t need to be a football savant to know that they were going to run the ball.
And that’s exactly what happened.
The quarterback called for the snap, turning to his right and holding the ball out for David Eziomume coming out of the backfield.
The running back took his first step wide, but Royce knifed through the offensive line, firing through the seam between the left tackle and tight end, getting through untouched. Eziomume didn’t have time to react before Royce met him in the backfield.
A violent pop of pads, followed by the unmistakable grunt of air leaving lungs. Royce wrapped up, driving the back down for a loss.
Royce popped up first as his teammates swarmed him.
“Better not run up on me if you do then I’ma trip out!” Royce shouted, pointing at Eziomume before breaking out one of Louisiana’s signature dances in celebration, a couple of the other defenders joining in.
…
The fourth quarter had just begun, and Clemson was growing desperate. Down 37-20, they needed a spark to claw back into the game. The crowd was restless, trying to will their team into life, but LSU’s defense had stepped up in all the big moments so far.
Klubnik had been trying to pick at the soft spots in LSU’s zone, testing the middle of the field when he wasn’t under fire from the Tigers’ pass rush.
Royce read his eyes, seeing the quick drop. The receiver settled down between two of the zones, looking to give Klubnik somewhere to throw the ball.
Royce planted and exploded toward the throwing lane just as the quarterback let it fly. The pass was sharp, but not fast enough. Royce was already there, his fingertips grazing the ball.
It bounced off his hands, tumbling harmlessly to the turf. Royce clenched his jaw, knowing he should’ve had it. He threw his arms up in frustration, shaking his head as he jogged back to position.
…
Royce pumped his hand over his head, everyone dropping deeper into coverage. Clemson was facing a third and 17 on their own 33 and desperation had set in as the time ticked away late in the fourth quarter.
The Tigers had to go deep. There was no other option. He knew it. The entire stadium knew it. Klubnik had been forcing throws the entire second half as Clemson started to chase ghosts to try to get back into the game.
Snap. Drop back.
Royce kept everything in front of him as he dropped closer to the first down marker. The quarterback’s eyes flicked left and he pump faked in that direction. Royce kept his eyes on the two receivers coming across the middle of the field.
One of them arced his route behind Royce as the other slowed to a stop well short of the first down.
Klubnik drew his arm back and released the ball.
Royce turned and ran, glancing over his shoulder to see the ball headed for the receiver. He closed the distance quickly, the receiver’s eyes on the ball, knowing he had to make the catch to keep Clemson in the game.
Boom.
The collision sent the ball flying and the receiving crumpling to the turf as the stadium let out a collective gasp.
Royce stood over the receiver for a half-second, staring down at him before turning and jogging to the sideline. No celebration. No talking.
Just business.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16919
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
threw that shit right to him