Dying to Live

[Caesar]

Sonned

Royce planted his foot and burst forward as UL-Lafayette’s quarterback released the ball. He had a target in mind, and he wasn’t making any attempt to try to knock the ball down or pick it off. He only had one thing on his mind.

A crushing hit.

Deshawn had settled down on a curl route and never saw him coming. Lowering his shoulder, Royce laid a brutal hit on Deshawn, jarring the ball loose and sending a wave of ohs and ahs rippling through the crowd.

“Talk that shit now, bitch!” Royce shouted as he stepped over Deshawn.

…

“Another big hit by LSU’s Royce Lafitte to force a fourth down there.”

…

“Dre’lyn Washington gains five, but he pays for it with a crushing hit by Weeks.”

…

“Collier’s picked off! And he’s absolutely decleated by an LSU defender!”

…

“There goes that man again. Huge hit by Lafitte and Johnson is down on the field clutching his ribs.”

“This has definitely been a little brother-big brother type of game and the Tigers are out there reminding Louisiana that they’re the big dogs in the state.”

“There was a lot of trash talk from the Cajuns coming into this game, and it seems like Dan Lanning put that up on the bulletin board because this is a much more intense LSU defense than what we saw two weeks ago against Louisiana Tech.”

…

The final whistle blew, but Royce barely heard it. The roar of the LSU fans who’d made the trip to Lafayette faded into the background, the scoreboard flashing LSU 38, ULL 14, a win that should’ve felt good—should’ve felt like enough.

But it wasn’t.

The postgame ritual had already begun, players from both teams jogging toward midfield for the usual half-hearted handshakes and dap-ups, but Royce wasn’t interested in that. His eyes locked onto Deshawn, who was standing near the back of the pile of players.

He cut across the field, moving through the crowd of bodies, ignoring the pats on the back from teammates and coaches.

Deshawn turned, wiping sweat from his forehead with his hand.

“Talk that shit now, nigga,” Royce said, shoving Deshawn. “Don’t think I won’t beat your ass again out here in front all these motherfuckers.”

Deshawn shoved him back. “Better watch who you playing with before you end up in the ground next to your bitch ass brother.”

“Nigga, watch your fucking mouth,” Royce snapped, jabbing his finger at Deshawn’s forehead which he smacked away.

“Do something then, ho ass nigga!”

Royce rolled his lips into his mouth, nodding as he tossed his helmet aside and squared up.

His teammates grabbed him before he could even throw a punch, arms locking around his shoulders, dragging him back as his cleats dug into the turf.

“Chill, man,” Jyaire said, shoving Royce away from Deshawn.

Across from him, Deshawn was already being pulled back by ULL players, but Royce could see the way his confidence had disappeared, the way his eyes darted around like he knew he had pressed just a little too hard.

Royce’s chest heaved, his breathing ragged, his pule hammering in his ears. He lunged forward before Whit and Caden jumped in the way. “I know where you be, bitch. I’ll see you. It ain’t but an hour to Lafayette.”

Deshawn took a step back, adjusting his pads. He waved off the comment, turning toward the tunnel.

Spitting on the turf, Royce picked up his helmet. One of ULL’s players stepped in his direction.

“What, bitch? You can get these hands, too, nigga,” Royce snapped as he was pulled away from the crowd by his teammates.

As he walked toward the locker room, his fists clenched, shaking with a rage he couldn’t let go.

[Captain Canada]

Needed that win bad. Doesn't look like Royce is handling anything well at the moment

[Caesar]

Never Let ‘Em See You Sweat

The late afternoon sun pressed heavy against Royce’s skin as he stepped out of class, turning the walk across campus into something more suffocating than it should have been.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Royce pulled the phone out, squinting at the screen as he slowed his steps.

’Where you at?, the text from Meech read.

Lately, Meech had been hitting him up more—always with the same energy, like they were boys, like he had some kind of claim to him.

Royce wasn’t stupid. He knew how this worked. He knew there was an ask somewhere. A favor that was around the corner.

But still.

He was already on edge, his mood never recovering from Saturday’s game against the Cajuns.

He was walking back to his place, feeling too keyed up, too restless, too pissed off to just go home and sit with it.

He typed back:

’In class.’

The reply came quick.

’Skip that shit. Come roll with me.’

Royce exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He knew what he should do. But part of him wanted to get away from being him for a little while.

Wanted to get off campus, get away from all the fake smiles, the professors, the media, the pressure.

Maybe just for a bit.

’Bet.
…

The ride through the Sherwood Forest area of Baton Rouge was quiet at first, the car rolling through streets lined with old houses, chain-link fences curling at the edges, and cars parked haphazardly on patches of dry grass. It was one of those neighborhoods where time had pressed down hard, leaving cracks in the pavement and boarded-up windows, but people still held on, refusing to be pushed out, still keeping their porches swept and their lawns edged even if the world outside was crumbling.

Meech drove one-handed, the other drumming against the console, his pinky ring catching the dim glow of the streetlights. The smell of weed clung to him, mixing with the faint cologne that Royce recognized as something expensive, something flashy.

He glanced over. “You actin’ all quiet, like you nervous or some shit.”

Royce shook his head. “A nigga just tired. Ain’t shit to be nervous about”

Meech chuckled, gripping the wheel as he took a slow turn. “That’s what I like about you.” He tapped a cigarette from behind his ear, sticking it between his lips without lighting it. “Ain’t nothin’ worse than a shaky nigga. Them the ones that fold when it count.”

Royce didn’t respond. He just watched the houses pass by, windows glowing faintly behind worn curtains, kids riding bikes even though the sun had long since set.

They pulled up to a small brick house, the front steps sagging slightly under the weight of time. The porch light flickered, barely holding on. Next door, a couple of kids shot hoops at a leaning basketball goal, the net long gone, leaving just a rusted rim.

Meech killed the engine, let the silence stretch for a moment. Then he nodded toward the house. “Come on.”

Royce hesitated for half a second before pushing the car door open.

Inside, the air was thick with fried food, baby powder, and weed, the familiar mix of a house that’s been lived in hard. The TV flickered low in the background, some cartoon playing for nobody in particular.

On the couch, a young woman sat with a baby in her lap, bouncing them gently, her eyes heavy with the exhaustion of someone who doesn’t get breaks.

The moment Meech stepped inside, she handed him the baby without a word, like this was routine.

Meech adjusted the kid in his arms, the baby letting out a soft whimper before settling against him. The sight caught Royce off guard. He had seen Meech handle a lot of things—money, business, beef—but never a baby.

“This my baby mama,” Meech said, barely looking at Royce, his voice casual like he was introducing him to a pet instead of a mother and child. The kid blinked up at him, chubby-cheeked and confused, little hands gripping the fabric of Meech’s hoodie.

Royce nodded, unsure of what to say. “That’s what’s up.”

Before he could say more, Shayla stepped out from the kitchen, a smirk playing on her lips as she wiped her hands on a towel.

“You know you ain’t gotta do all that,” she teased, walking over to take the baby from Meech. “You act like you a hands-on daddy or somethin’.”

Meech laughed, reaching out to lightly smack the back of her head. “Watch ya mouth.”

Shayla snorted but didn’t argue, her grip on the baby easy, familiar. Royce watched the way her expression softened just slightly when she looked down at the kid.

Then her gaze lifted, settling on him, her eyes sharp and slow, scanning like she was sizing him up.

“Hey, Royce.”

Royce nodded. “What’s good?”

Meech’s grin widened as he looked between them, something knowing in his expression. “You see they got good genes, right?” He gestured toward the baby, then flicked his chin toward Shayla before his eyes landed on Royce. “You could make some pretty kids. I know Shayla ain’t against havin’ one or two.”

Royce exhaled slowly, forcing a smirk, but his jaw tightened beneath it. He didn’t like the way Meech said it, like he was making a business deal instead of a joke.

Shayla just laughed, shifting the baby in her arms, but she didn’t deny it.

“Nigga, shut up.”

Meech clapped Royce on the shoulder, his grin sharp, watching for Royce’s reaction. “Ain’t no point in letting all that talent go to waste, right?”

Royce let out a short laugh, but it was hollow, humorless.

He wasn’t sure why he had come.

But he was starting to realize he shouldn’t have.

Meech turned back toward the couch, his smile gone now, his voice shifting into something harder, more familiar.

“Man, get your ass up and go get a nigga something to drink,” he said, looking down at his baby mama.

She barely reacted, just blinked up at him like she had expected it, like this wasn’t even close to the worst thing he’d said to her today. She shifted the baby to her hip, moving slow, like she was too tired to do anything but obey.

Royce watched the whole exchange, something cold twisting in his stomach.

She didn’t say a word before she grabbed her purse and walked out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~

Britni sat stiffly on the couch, her arms crossed over her chest like a barrier, her legs pressed tightly together. She hated this room—the soft beige walls, the way the dim light made everything feel too exposed, the tissues placed conveniently on the table like they were waiting for her to break down.

She wasn’t crying. Not today.

Dr. Langston sat across from her, calm as always, pen resting on her notepad. She was older, probably in her mid-fifties, with short gray-streaked hair and sharp brown eyes that saw too much.

“So,” Dr. Langston said, leaning back in her chair. “You had another episode in class.”

Britni sucked her teeth, looking away. “It wasn’t an episode.”

Dr. Langston lifted a brow. “Your professor said you had to leave in the middle of a lecture.”

Britni clenched her jaw. She could still hear the whispers, the way everyone had stared when she slammed her notebook shut and stormed out.

“I just—” She exhaled sharply, tapping her fingers against her thigh. “It was stupid. We were talking about crime statistics or some shit, and someone started saying how gang violence is mostly ‘them killing each other’ like we just run around looking for an excuse to die. And I just…”

She trailed off, throat tight.

The room had started spinning. Her heart had been pounding too hard, too fast, her hands shaking, breath caught in her chest. Before she knew it, she was out of her seat, pushing past people, desperate to escape.

Dr. Langston nodded. “And that made you think about Romeo.”

Britni’s jaw locked. “Everything makes me think about Romeo.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

Dr. Langston scribbled something on her notepad, then looked up. “Britni, we’ve been coming back to the same thing for a long time. You say you want to take control of your life again, but you’re still holding on to so much anger.”

Britni scoffed, shaking her head. “And why wouldn’t I be angry?”

Dr. Langston folded her hands in her lap. “Who are you really angry at?”

Britni let out a short, humorless laugh. “Royce.”

The name came out before she even had to think about it.

Dr. Langston nodded, her expression unreadable. “Tell me why.”

Britni’s fingers curled against her arm, nails pressing into her skin. “Because it’s his fault.”

“Romeo’s death?”

“Yes.” The answer was sharp, immediate, cutting through the air like a blade. “I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care that nobody else sees it. Royce made that happen. He put Romeo in that situation, and now he’s just—”

She gestured vaguely, her breath coming harder.

“He’s just living his life, like nothing happened. Like Romeo wasn’t real. Like he didn’t matter.”

Dr. Langston tilted her head slightly. “You think Royce doesn’t grieve?”

Britni’s nostrils flared. “He doesn’t act like it. He doesn’t even act like he remembers Romeo existed.”

“And that makes you angrier?”

Britni’s throat tightened. She hated how close to the truth that was.

“He took his spot,” she said, voice quieter now, but no less bitter. “That’s what he wanted, right? He wanted to be the one that people looked at. The one people cared about. And now he’s got it. Romeo’s gone, and Royce—”

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

“He’s just… there. Like nothing happened.”

Dr. Langston watched her for a long moment before speaking again, her voice calm but firm.

“If Royce didn’t grieve the way you think he should have, does that mean he didn’t grieve at all?”

Britni didn’t answer.

She didn’t want to.

Because if Royce was grieving, if he was in pain, if he was suffering just as much as she was—then what was left for her to hold onto?

[Captain Canada]

Finally, a voice of reason.

[Caesar]

It Be Your Own

Royce leaned back against the metal bench, stretching his legs out in front of him as he stared across the quad. The sun was starting to dip low, throwing long shadows across the pavement. Campus was still buzzing, students cutting across the sidewalks, some heading to their next class, others just lingering.

Billy sat across from him, sipping a venti Starbucks something, his shirt crisp and tucked, like he wasn’t even capable of looking unprepared. Royce had learned quickly that Billy didn’t show up to these meetings without already knowing the answers to the questions he was about to be asked.

Royce wasn’t in the mood for the bullshit today.

“So?” Royce said, exhaling through his nose. “When am I going to get my money, Billy?”

Billy glanced at him over the rim of his cup, taking his time before answering. “You have to keep going to the meetings.”

Royce’s jaw flexed. “That’s it?”

Billy sighed, setting his drink down beside him. “Royce, you were never going to get this deal done just for showing up to a couple of meetings. He needs to see commitment.”

Royce let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. Commitment. That was rich, coming from people who could turn around and snatch the offer back the second it wasn’t convenient for them.

“I been going,” Royce said, rubbing a hand down his face. “I been sitting in those meetings, saying what I’m supposed to say, playing the damn game. How much longer am I supposed to keep this up? I don’t even know this motherfucker’s name.”

Billy tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to figure out how to say something without making Royce flip. “Carl Delpit. Look, if you want to speed things along, you can do more.”

Royce frowned. “More?”

Billy shrugged, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle in his slacks. “Public appearances. Social media engagement. Make a real push for the cause.”

Royce let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, nah. I ain’t doing all that shit.”

Billy exhaled through his nose, like he had already expected that answer.

Royce sat forward now, elbows resting on his knees. The frustration that had been sitting heavy on his chest for weeks was starting to boil over.

“I think you need to start looking for something else, Billy,” Royce said, voice firm. “I don’t know how much longer I wanna keep doing this whole image reconstruction thing.”

Billy’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted. “That would be a bad idea.”

Royce raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? And why is that?”

Billy sat up straighter, his voice even, smooth. Like he was explaining something that should be obvious.

“They’re going to see you as someone who doesn’t follow through on contracts. I wouldn’t recommend that.”

Royce stilled, fingers lacing together as he processed the weight of those words.

It wasn’t a threat. Not exactly.

It was just a reminder—a cold, calculated warning wrapped up in business-speak. A reminder that this world didn’t move on talent alone, that these people had receipts, and that everything he did—every move he made—was being watched.

Royce exhaled sharply, pushing off his knees as he stood up. “Man, whatever. Just keep me posted.”

Billy nodded, picking up his cup again. “Will do.”

Royce turned and walked off, his stomach twisting in a way that told him he wasn’t going to like how this all played out.

He cut through the quad, hands stuffed in his pockets, jaw clenched. He needed air.

Needed to be somewhere that didn’t feel like he was being handled.

The whole thing felt like it was getting away from him—like the walls were closing in. He had played the game, done what they asked, but now it felt like he was in too deep, and they weren’t about to let him walk away clean.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out, glancing at the screen.

Bree.

Royce exhaled through his nose, his thumb hovering over the screen.

For a split second, his mind flickered to Alix—her voice, her sharp looks, the way she always knew when something was off with him, even when he didn’t say it.

She wouldn’t like this.

Wouldn’t like Bree.

Wouldn’t like him answering.

He swiped open the message.

’Come see me, her text read.

Royce hesitated for half a second before typing back.

’Give me five minutes.

~~~~~~~~~~

The tension in the apartment was thick enough to choke on.

Arianna stood in the small kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles had gone white. The smell of burnt toast still lingered in the air from earlier, mixing with the sharp scent of bleach from when she scrubbed down the sink—anything to keep her hands busy, to stop herself from swinging on something.

Toni sat on the arm of the couch, arms crossed, her face set in that familiar look of stubborn defiance. She had always been hard-headed, always had something to prove, but this? This was different.

“I’m getting tired of this shit, Toni.” Arianna’s voice was low, steady, the kind of quiet that came before a storm.

Toni rolled her eyes. “Tired of what?”

Arianna let out a sharp breath, her jaw clenching. She didn’t want to have this fight again.

“Of having that nigga in our apartment.”

Toni scoffed, shifting her weight. “Here we go—”

“Nah, don’t ‘here we go’ me, Toni.” Arianna pushed off the counter, stepping forward. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. You keep bringing him around, acting like it’s cool when it’s not. That nigga beats women, and you think I’m supposed to just sit here and act like I don’t know that?”

Toni’s lip curled. “Ain’t nobody telling you to do shit. You don’t like him, don’t talk to him.”

Arianna let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “You really that damn dense?”

Toni stood up, arms still crossed. “Nah, I just don’t see why you so damn pressed. I didn’t ask you to be his friend. I didn’t ask you to like him. All I said was mind your own damn business.”

Arianna’s jaw tightened, her fists balling at her sides. “You think I’m gonna just sit here while you play house with a nigga like that?”

Toni rolled her eyes. “He has never ever done shit to you.”

“That don’t mean he won’t,” Arianna snapped. “He never did shit to you until he did. And I’m not about to sit here walking on eggshells to make sure I don’t have to fight his bitch ass.”

Toni’s nostrils flared. “You swear you so damn tough.”

“And you swear like this nigga ain’t the same piece of shit he’s always been,” Arianna shot back. “Like everybody don’t already know who he is, what he does. You act like it’s different ‘cause it’s you, but it ain’t.”

Toni’s arms dropped, her fingers twitching at her sides. “You don’t know shit.”

Arianna took another step forward. She could feel her heartbeat in her ears now, that dangerous mix of anger and frustration and the deep, gnawing ache of disappointment.

“You know what really kills me?” Arianna asked, voice tight. “That you still acting like you don’t care about nothing but yourself. Like it’s just you and him in the world and nobody else matters. But guess what, Toni? He was talking real slick about Romeo during that game.”

Toni flinched. It was slight, barely there, but Arianna caught it.

Still, Toni squared her shoulders, her lips pressing together in a thin, angry line. “What the fuck that got to do with me?”

Arianna stared at her, disbelieving. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘What’s that got to do with you?’”

Toni looked away, exhaling sharply. “I don’t have control over what come out his mouth.”

Arianna took another step forward, voice laced with venom. “But you got control over whether you let him in this house. And you keep doing it.”

Toni shook her head, her face twisting. “I ain’t gotta explain myself to you.”

“You ain’t gotta, but you know you dead wrong,” Arianna shot back. “And deep down, you know it.”

Toni sucked her teeth, grabbing her purse off the couch, her movements stiff, jerky, her frustration clear. “Man, fuck this. I’m not about to sit here and let you talk to me like I’m some dumb ass little girl.”

Arianna let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then stop fucking acting like one.”

Toni’s eyes flashed as she turned back toward her, and for a second, Arianna thought she was about to swing.

But she didn’t.

She just yanked the front door open, her breath ragged.

“Nothing else to say,” Toni muttered before slamming the door behind her.

Arianna stood there, breathing hard, the tension still thick in the air, pressing down on her like a weight.

She should have felt relieved, getting all that out. But all she felt was tired.

[Captain Canada]

Letting dude slug you in the face and talk about your murdered cousin is nasty work

[Caesar]

Hold That Fucking Tiger

The roar of Tiger Stadium was deafening, a sea of purple and gold erupting in chaos as the final seconds ticked away. LSU 29, Texas A&M 28. It had taken everything they had, every ounce of fight, every clutch play to come out on top.

And Royce?

He had left it all on the field.

…

The energy was electric from the first snap. LSU punched Texas A&M in the mouth early, forcing three-and-outs, capitalizing on field position, and setting the tone with a statement drive.

With third and goal on the 2-yard line, Kaleb Jackson powered through the defensive line, legs churning, pushing the pile into the end zone for the first touchdown of the game. The crowd erupted, LSU up 7-0 early, and the defense fed off that energy.

…

Royce crept toward the line, fingers twitching, his pulse hammering his ears. He glanced to his left and right, checking the offense’s alignment one last time.

Connor Weigman had put together a few good passes to move the ball, but they were facing a third and six now.

The center snapped the ball.

Royce took a step forward then dropped back into a zone. Weigman dropped back and flicked out a pass to a receiver in the flat.

Javian got there first, wrapping the A&M player up. Royce finished the tackle, crashing into both of them, full force.

The collision was violent, the breath leaving both Javian and the receiver’s lungs in choked gasps as Royce drove them all into the turf.

Royce pushed himself up, holding a hand out to Javian as the two of them celebrated making the stop.

…

“The Tigers punch it into the endzone and they’re going to make it 14-0 here in the first quarter!”

…

Royce stood in his stance, eyes locked on Weigman, watching the quarterback’s every move. The Aggies needed a miracle, and everyone in the stadium knew it.

The ball was snapped.

Weigman dropped back, scanning the field, but there was nothing downfield. LSU’s secondary had everything locked up tight, and the pressure was coming.

Then, just before the pocket collapsed, Weigman dumped it off.

A quick checkdown to Noah Thomas, who caught it near the sideline, feet already moving.

Royce had seen it coming before the ball even left Weigman’s hand.

He closed the distance in an instant, long strides eating up the space between them. Thomas tried to plant and turn upfield, but Royce was there first.

The hit was clean, but violent, shoulder driving into Thomas’s midsection, arms wrapping around him like a vise. The receiver barely had time to react before Royce drove him backward, feet churning, burying him into the turf.

No gain.

The stadium erupted, the energy rolling through Tiger Stadium like a damn earthquake.

Royce didn’t say a word as he pushed himself up, just gave Thomas a quick pat on the helmet before walking back to the huddle, adjusting his gloves.

…

“Touchdown Tigers! LSU is going to go into halftime with a big lead, up 21-0 on the Aggies here in Baton Rouge!”

…

Royce jogged back onto the field, jaw tight, hands flexing in and out of fists. LSU had owned Texas A&M for two quarters, shutting down their run game, forcing Weigman into bad throws, making them look like they didn’t belong on the same field.

But something felt different now.

He could see it in the way A&M’s linemen set their feet, in the way Weigman moved in the pocket—more confident, more controlled. Whatever halftime adjustments they made, they were working.

And now, LSU was on their heels.

The drive felt like it lasted forever. Every time they should’ve had the Aggies dead to rights, somehow they found a way out. A quick dump-off. A broken tackle. A questionable flag.

Royce gritted his teeth, setting himself for another snap.

Second and six.

Weigman dropped back, surveying the field, calm like he had all the time in the world. Royce pushed through the line, but the pocket held just long enough for Weigman to see it—Rueben Owens breaking toward the sideline.

The ball was already in the air before Jyaire could close in.

He turned, saw Owens twisting his body mid-air, snagging the pass just inside the corner of the end zone.

Feet down.

Touchdown.

The crowd groaned, a low rumble of frustration rolling through Tiger Stadium.

Royce exhaled sharply, his stomach knotting as he looked up at the scoreboard.

21-7.

Not panic mode yet, but the cracks were showing.

…

“First and goal on the LSU 1 here. Texas A&M comes out in their heavy set, no receivers are out there. Owens is in the backfield as Weigman surveys the defense. Weigman hands it off to Owens and he leaps over the line for the touchdown! The Aggies are coming back! LSU 21, Texas A&M 13!”

…

“Owens takes the handoff and bounces it outside. Richard whiffs on that tackle and Owens is off to the races! Touchdown Aggies! We have a tie ball game here in Baton Rouge!”

…

The kind of silence that wasn't really silence at all—it was the sound of thousands of people holding their breath, feeling the momentum shift, feeling the game slip through their fingers in real-time.

Royce could hear it in the uneasy murmurs rolling through the crowd, in the way his teammates barked out adjustments at the line, in the way the A&M offensive line carried themselves now—more confident, like they smelled blood.

Second and 7.

Texas A&M lined up at their own 23, and LSU’s defense was scrambling.

"Watch the motion!" someone yelled.

"Check to Cover Two!"

"Nah, stay in single high!"

The calls were coming in too fast, too jumbled, and Royce could feel it—the confusion, the hesitation.

They had been rock solid for two quarters, but now? Now they looked like they were trying to hold sand in their hands.

Royce’s eyes flicked to Weigman. The quarterback was calm, feet planted, taking his time.

Too much time.

The ball was snapped.

Royce took off, pushing through the line, his eyes locked on the backfield. The pocket was holding, but he was closing fast.

Just a half second more, and—

Weigman launched it.

Royce’s head snapped around, following the ball’s trajectory, watching it soar downfield like a missile—a perfect spiral, cutting through the night air, heading straight for Thomas.

Royce knew before Thomas even caught it. Knew it was over.

Thomas never broke stride, the ball landing in his hands like it had been placed there by a damn machine.

No safety in sight. No corner close enough to make a play.

And just like that—he was gone.

The sideline erupted. The LSU secondary turned, giving chase, but it didn’t matter.

77 yards.

Royce could only watch as Thomas crossed the goal line, the A&M players storming toward the end zone in celebration.

He gritted his teeth, his pulse hammering in his ears.

28-21.

The scoreboard glowed like a punch to the chest.

Royce had been here before. Watching a lead slip away. Watching momentum turn. Watching everything crumble.

…

“That’s a huge punt from Peyton Todd here in the fourth quarter to pin the Aggies deep. LSU is going to need to get the ball back without giving up anything if they have any hopes of getting out of this one with a win.”

…

“Owens is hauled down at the three yard line by Weeks. It’ll be second and nine in the shadow of the goalposts for A&M.”

…

Texas A&M was pinned deep, backed up on their own three-yard line with the game on the line. They weren’t trying to score. They were trying to survive.

Royce stood just outside the tackle box, his body coiled tight, heart pounding like a war drum. He could hear the crowd stirring, growing restless, their nervous energy pressing in from all sides.

He wasn’t thinking about the crowd, though.

His eyes were locked on Owens in the backfield.

The Aggies were going to run this ball. They had no choice. Play it safe. Try to buy breathing room. Burn clock.

Royce licked his lips, flexing his hands. He knew it. They knew it. Now, it was just a matter of who was faster.

The center snapped the ball.

Everything slowed.

Owens took the handoff—and Royce moved.

Shot through the gap like a missile, cutting through the line before the right guard could even step down. Owens barely had time to turn his shoulders before Royce was on him.

Full speed. Full force. No hesitation.

The hit landed clean and violent, shoulder crashing into Owens’ ribs, the kind of tackle that knocked the air straight out of a man’s lungs.

The collision sent both of them to the turf, but Royce already knew—they were in the end zone.

Then, the ref’s arms shot up, clapping over his head.

Safety.

A beat of silence.

Then—Tiger Stadium exploded.

The sound hit like a tidal wave, shaking the ground beneath Royce’s cleats, rattling in his chest.

His teammates swarmed him, slapping his helmet, yanking at his jersey, screaming in his face.

28-23.

A five-point game.

Time left on the clock.

Royce pushed off Owens, flexing as he stood, staring down at the running back still gasping on the ground.

…

“That’s going to be incomplete and LSU is going to have to punt it away. Time is running out for the Tigers!”

…

Texas A&M needed one more play—just one more first down to put the game away.

Royce stood a few yards off the line, knees bent, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his breath steady despite the storm raging inside of him.

Weigman was in shotgun, his eyes scanning the field, calculating. Royce saw it—the flicker of hesitation, the uncertainty.

The quarterback didn’t trust this situation. Didn’t trust himself.

Royce did.

The ball was snapped.

The pocket held, but Weigman wasn’t looking deep. He wanted something quick. Safe.

His eyes flicked left.

Noah Thomas.

Royce saw it a second before it happened—the drop of Weigman’s shoulders, the quick flick of his wrist.

Dump-off.

Royce was already moving.

Thomas snatched the ball, turned upfield—and ran straight into a brick wall.

Royce hit him square in the chest, wrapping him up, driving him into the turf so hard the breath left his body in a choked gasp.

No fight. No yards after catch. No shot at breaking free.

Just the cold, hard ground and the roar of Tiger Stadium swallowing them both whole.

Royce pushed himself up, staring down at Thomas, his chest heaving.

Two yards. That’s all he got.

He barely heard the crowd at first, but then it swelled, growing louder, louder, until it shook the damn stadium.

…

“This is for the ball game, ladies and gentlemen. LSU has one shot and a dream. Fourth and goal on the A&M 7 yard line. Texas A&M 28, LSU 23. Nussmeier is in the shotgun, five wide. Here’s the snap. The Aggies are bringing pressure!”

“Nussmeier rolls to his right to buy time and rifles it toward the endzon--- THOMAS HAS IT! ZAVION THOMAS HAS IT! TOUCHDOWN LSU! TOUCHDOWN LSU! TOUCHDOWN LSU! LISTEN TO THE ROAR OF THIS STADIUM, FOLKS!”

“This has been one for the history books, but it isn’t over yet! The Tigers need to convert the two-point conversion to make it a three point game!”

…

“Of course, this game comes down to one final play for Texas A&M. Fourth and five from the 50. The Aggies are only down one, so if they can move the ball another 20 or so yard, they’ll have a chance to win it.”

“You couldn’t have scripted a better game than this!”

…

Royce crouched just behind the line, fingers twitching, chest rising and falling in controlled breaths. His ears were ringing—not from the noise, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of the moment pressing down on his shoulders.

One play.

One stop, and it was over.

If they failed? A&M had life.

If they held? Tiger Stadium would explode.

The Aggies broke the huddle, lining up fast. Weigman was locked in, his stance tighter, his shoulders squared—but Royce could see the hesitation in his eyes. The quarterback had been running for his life all night.

He didn’t want this.

Royce did.

The ball was snapped.

Everything slowed.

Weigman dropped back, scanning, but nothing was there. The pocket started to break, the O-line folding under the pressure, LSU’s front surging forward. Royce saw it—Weigman’s eyes darting, his feet stuttering, the split-second of doubt creeping in.

He hesitated.

The pocket collapsed.

Too late.

Weigman let it go, a rushed, desperate throw, and the ball sailed—high, off-target, dead on arrival.

Incomplete.

Game over.

For half a second, there was silence. A breath.

Then Tiger Stadium erupted.

The sideline exploded, bodies surging forward in waves. Royce ripped off his helmet, tilting his head back, screaming into the Louisiana night.

[Caesar]

Lights Too Bright

The party was loud—too loud.

Bass thumped through the walls, shaking the floor beneath Royce’s feet. The smell of cheap beer, sweat, and something burning in the backyard clung to the air, mixing with the scent of too much perfume and cologne.

People were everywhere, bodies packed into the house like they had nowhere else to be, and maybe they didn’t. Maybe this was what mattered to them. The win. The celebration. The chance to be close to the moment, close to the people who made it happen.

Close to him.

Royce sat in the corner of the living room, a red cup resting in his hand, untouched. He had barely taken a sip since he got here, but it didn’t matter. Someone had shoved it in his hand like a ticket to blend in, a prop to look like he was enjoying himself.

He wasn’t.

All around him, the night spun on.

"Bruh, you really won that game for us," someone said, slapping his shoulder.

"You balled out, man! That safety? Crazy!" another voice chimed in.

Royce nodded, giving the same small smirk he had been passing out all night, the same half-assed "appreciate it" he had used at least a dozen times since walking through the door.

He could feel them watching him, even when they weren’t talking to him. The eyes. The stares. The whispers.

That’s him. That’s Royce Lafitte. That’s the dude who’s gonna be playing on Sundays.

It was suffocating.

He had wanted this, right? The offers, the respect, the big moments. This was what he had fought for, clawed his way to, bled for.

So why did it feel like he was drowning in it?

He took a sip of his drink, barely tasting it, his jaw tightening as another group of people drifted closer.

"Yo, Royce!"

Dewon. Already tipsy, already grinning, already trying to pull him into the chaos.

"You in here acting like somebody stole your dog, man. Come take a shot with us!"

Royce shook his head. "I'm straight."

"Nah, fuck that," Dewon slurred, waving someone over. A girl Royce didn’t recognize shoved a shot glass in his direction.

Royce looked at it. Looked at her.

She was smiling—a little too eager, a little too familiar.

Not because she knew him.

Because she knew what he could be.

His stomach twisted.

Before he could respond, a familiar hand slid around his arm.

Alix.

"Leave him alone, Dewon," she said smoothly, leaning against him like it was effortless. Like she could tell Royce was ready to snap and needed a reason not to.

Dewon rolled his eyes but backed off, laughing as he turned toward the kitchen.

Alix didn’t move right away. Just stood there, watching him.

"You good?" she finally asked.

Royce exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah."

"You don’t look it."

"I’m fine, Alix," he said, sharper than he meant to.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t press, just held his gaze for a second before nodding.

"Cool," she said, stepping back. "Then at least try to act like it. Or, I don’t know, we can leave."

He knew she meant it. She didn’t give a damn about this party, about these people. She wasn’t here for them.

She was here for him.

But Royce didn’t move.

Didn’t take her offer.

Because leaving wouldn’t change anything.

He could walk out that door and the eyes would still be on him. The expectations, the pressure, the weight of what he was supposed to be—that didn’t disappear just because he stepped outside.

So he stayed.

And he smiled.

And he let them keep talking.

All while wishing he could be anywhere else but here.
…

The apartment was quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavier than noise.

It was late—or early, depending on how you looked at it. The party had ended hours ago, the last of the hangers-on finally disappearing into the night, leaving nothing behind but the dull throb of bass still humming in Royce’s skull and the taste of whiskey on his tongue.

He sat at the kitchen counter, hunched over his glass, rolling it between his fingers, watching the amber liquid swirl in the dim light of the stove. His head felt light, but his thoughts were heavy.

The game. The cameras. The interviews. The way everyone had been looking at him like he was already something he wasn’t.

He could still hear them.

"First-round talent."

"A generational linebacker."

"The next great one."

They said it like it was a certainty. Like there was no doubt, no question about who he was supposed to be.

But the real Royce? The one who had spent his whole life fighting for scraps, who had to prove he even belonged, who wasn’t sure he could keep up the act for another season?

That Royce felt like a fraud.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face before picking up his phone.

Unlocked it.

Scrolled.

Bree.

His thumb hovered over her name.

She’d pick up. She always did.

No pressure. No conversation about why he was awake at 3 a.m. drinking alone, no questions he didn’t want to answer.

Just a way to feel like something other than this.

A distraction.

He exhaled, staring at the screen, his thumb barely brushing the edge of the keyboard.

Then—a shift in the bedroom.

Soft. Barely audible.

The sheets rustled. Alix stirred, rolling over, her silhouette shifting in the dim light spilling in from the hallway.

Royce froze, phone still in his hand, breath caught somewhere between frustration and guilt.

His grip on the phone tightened for half a second.

Then he locked it, setting it down with more force than necessary.

The weight in his chest didn’t ease, but the thought of answering Bree didn’t feel right anymore.

Instead, he reached for his glass, throwing back the rest of the whiskey in one rough swallow, letting it burn all the way down.

Didn’t help.

Nothing did.

With a sigh, he stood, pushing away from the counter and heading back toward the bedroom.

The door was still slightly open, the soft glow of moonlight stretching across the sheets where Alix lay, unmoving now.

For a second, he just stood there, watching her.

She hadn’t asked him any questions when they left the party. Hadn’t pressed when he was quiet, distant, lost in his head.

She had just been there.

And for some reason, that unsettled him more than anything else.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair before slipping into bed beside her.

She didn’t move, but her breathing shifted, a slow inhale, a pause, then a quiet exhale.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, wide awake.

The whiskey, the exhaustion, the weight of the night—it should have been enough to pull him under.

But his mind wouldn’t stop.

Because it wasn’t just the game.

It wasn’t just the cameras.

It was the fact that no matter how many times he told himself he had won, it never felt like it.

[Caesar]

Unhealthy Coping

The room was small but warm, the kind of place where the beige walls felt like a safe cocoon, but Britni felt anything but safe in her seat on the couch. Her legs were crossed tightly, her fingers clutching the fabric of her jeans as if they could anchor her in this moment. The soft hum of the air conditioner and the tick of the clock on the wall filled the silence between her and Dr. Langston, her therapist.

She hadn’t expected to feel this raw after so many sessions. It had been months, but there was something about today—the way she couldn’t shake the images of Romeo’s death and everything she had buried for so long—that had finally cracked her open.

“I’ve been thinking about why this has been so hard,” Britni said, her voice soft but steady, though the words felt like they might crumble in her chest. “Why I can’t seem to let it go. I thought it was just about losing him, but… it’s more than that.”

Dr. Langston nodded, waiting, her eyes calm but intent, letting Britni guide the conversation at her own pace.

“I didn’t just lose him,” Britni continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “I lost the chance to… to apologize.”

Dr. Langston leaned forward slightly. “What do you mean by that?”

Britni swallowed, her throat tight, and for the first time, the words felt like they were coming from a deeper place. “I didn’t know how to love him the right way.”

Dr. Langston’s expression didn’t change, but Britni could see the understanding in her eyes. “How do you mean?”

She hesitated, unsure of how to begin. The truth had been buried so deep for so long, but now it had the power to break her open. She pressed her lips together, then spoke again, her voice quieter but sharper this time. “I was embarrassed by him. Not by who he was as a person, but by where he came from.”

There was a slight pause, the air between them feeling thicker than before. Britni’s chest tightened, but it was already too late to pull the words back.

“I spent so much time hiding it. Hiding him.” She shook her head. “I didn’t want people to know he was from the same place I was. I was ashamed of his background—his family, his struggles. I thought if people knew where he came from, they’d think less of him. Less of me.”

Her voice wavered slightly, and she looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting around each other as if they could somehow tie the loose threads of her past together.

"I wanted to believe that I was above it, that I deserved more—better. I wanted to hold him up, but at the same time, I was pushing him down, making him feel small without even meaning to." Her words were barely above a whisper now, the weight of them pressing down harder than she expected.

Dr. Langston was quiet for a moment, watching Britni closely, before she spoke softly, but with care. “I think, deep down, you were afraid of what people would think of you, too. You didn’t want to be judged for where you came from or who you were with, right?”

Britni nodded, her eyes stinging. “Yeah. I didn’t want to look like I was settling. I didn’t want to be just like everyone else, you know? It felt like if I could hide that part of him, if I could make it disappear, then maybe I could just… pretend it wasn’t there. Like it didn’t matter.”

“But it did matter, didn’t it?” Dr. Langston asked gently, her voice soft but insistent.

Britni exhaled sharply. The truth was suddenly unbearable, the weight of it almost too much to carry. “Yeah. It mattered more than I ever let on.”

She paused for a moment, the words weighing heavy in the silence. Then, she continued, the regret creeping in with every word. “And now… now I’ll never get the chance to tell him I’m sorry. Never get the chance to tell him that I was wrong. That I was ashamed of him in a way that I never should’ve been.”

Dr. Langston gave a small, knowing nod. “That’s a lot of guilt to carry, Britni.”

Britni sniffed, wiping at her eyes quickly. “I know. I just…” She trailed off, trying to gather her thoughts, but the weight of them pressed down harder now, suffocating her. “I never gave him the chance to be who he really was with me. I was too focused on what people would think, on what I thought he should be. And now he’s gone, and I’ll never get the chance to fix that. To apologize.”

The silence in the room felt suffocating now, as if the space was closing in on her. But for the first time, it also felt like she was beginning to break free.

Dr. Langston’s voice was gentle, but steady. “You’re holding onto a lot of grief, Britni. Not just from losing Romeo, but from how you couldn’t be fully yourself with him. You didn’t get to say the things you needed to say, and now you’re carrying that.”

Britni’s breath hitched, and she nodded again, this time with a small, broken sob escaping her chest. “I didn’t even realize how much it was still eating at me.”

Dr. Langston gave a small, understanding smile. “It’s common. When we suppress feelings like that, when we don’t process them properly, they stick with us—and often, they get worse. But you’re starting to see it now. You’re starting to realize what you really need to work through.”

Britni wiped her eyes, nodding again. It felt like a crack had formed in the dam, and she was terrified of what would happen if it all came rushing out. But maybe, just maybe, this was the only way to begin healing.

“I wish I could tell him,” she whispered.

Dr. Langston’s voice softened even more, full of compassion. “I know. But now, it’s about learning to forgive yourself. You can’t change the past, but you can start to make peace with it, one step at a time.”

Britni sat there, feeling the weight of everything pressing on her chest, but for the first time, she didn’t feel quite as alone in it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The bottle sat between them on the coffee table, already half-empty, its amber contents catching the dim light from the TV.

Royce leaned back into the couch, swirling the liquor in his glass, not really tasting it anymore. The burn in his chest was just background noise now, blending in with the low hum of conversation between Khalil and Marcus, both stretched out across the living room.

The three of them had been drinking for a while, not to celebrate anything—just to drink.

Khalil was mid-story about some wild night he had at a club, arms moving as he animatedly acted out some girl throwing a drink at him, while Marcus laughed, shaking his head.

Royce wasn’t really listening.

He was nodding when he needed to, smirking when Khalil said something stupid, but his mind was somewhere else, already pulling away from the night.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced down at the screen, and just like that, the warmth in his chest turned cold.

The caller ID showed the number for Dixon.

His jaw tightened.

He let it buzz a few times, debating, his fingers tightening around the glass in his other hand.

He could ignore it.

Let it go to voicemail. Act like he didn’t see it.

But his father would just call back. And keep calling. And keep calling.

Royce exhaled sharply, grabbing the phone and standing up.

“Yo, I gotta take this,” he muttered, already stepping away.

Khalil and Marcus barely glanced up, both too into their conversation to care.

Royce walked to the balcony, sliding the door shut behind him before finally pressing accept.

“Yeah.”

His father’s voice came through the line, gravelly, irritated, already carrying the weight Royce had been trying to avoid.

“Boy, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Royce rolled his shoulders, staring out over the city lights, feeling the burn of the liquor settle deep in his chest.

He knew what this was about. He always knew.

But tonight?

Tonight, he wasn’t in the mood to play along.

“I don’t know what you talking about,” he said, feeling the alcohol causing him to slur his words, knowing damn well he did.

Kevon scoffed, unimpressed. “Don’t play stupid with me, Royce. I’m really starting to get pissed off with your shit.”

That did it.

Royce felt something snap in his chest, something that had been tugged at, pulled, stretched too thin for too damn long.

Kevon kept talking, like he was laying down a sentence Royce couldn’t escape.

“You the only one that can fix this. And you ain’t doing a damn thing about it.”

Royce let out a bitter laugh. “Fix what, exactly?”

The weight in his chest pressed harder.

Kevon sighed like Royce was being difficult on purpose. “You know what. It’s time to let all that petty shit go. You and your mama—”

Royce cut him off before he could finish. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, huh?” His voice was sharp, clipped in a way he had never let it be when talking to his father before.

Kevon went silent for a beat, but Royce wasn’t done.

“I’m twenty years old. Twenty. And I gotta be the one to fix things with a woman who thinks I killed my own brother? My motherfucking twin?”

His father sucked his teeth. “Ain’t about what she thinks, it’s about what’s right. And she your mother, Royce.”

Royce’s grip on the phone tightened. “Yeah? Well, I been her son my whole damn life, and that ain’t seem to matter much.”

Kevon’s voice hardened. “I ain’t asking you to do anything. I’m telling you to.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, thick, charged.

Royce felt his breath slow, steady.

Then he let out a low chuckle, the sound flat, humorless.

“Yeah, let me know how you gonna make sure this happens from behind them fucking walls.”

The line went dead quiet.

For a second, Royce thought Kevon had hung up.

Then his father exhaled sharply. “You think you a man now, huh, lil’ nigga?”

Royce didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Kevon let out a low laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You forget who you talking to.”

Royce clenched his jaw. “Nah. I know.”

Another pause.

Then Kevon’s tone dropped, colder now. “Don’t make me have to remind you where you come from, boy.”

Royce gritted his teeth, his whole body tight.

“Yeah, alright,” he said, shaking his head.

Then he hung up.

The phone sat heavy in his hand, the words still sitting heavy in his chest.

He stared at the screen for a long time, waiting for it to light up again, for another call, another demand, another reminder that no matter how far he ran, this shit would always pull him back.

But it didn’t.

And for the first time, Royce didn’t feel like he had lost something in hanging up first.

[Captain Canada]

Only you would wear a story where the father might whack his son