Dying to Live

[Caesar]

Season Definer

The low hum of static faded as the Monday night radio show returned from commercial break.

"Alright, Tiger fans, we’re back with The Dan Lanning Radio Show, and I know y’all have been waiting for this one. The big question on everyone’s mind—Coach, what’s the status of Garrett Nussmeier after Saturday’s game?"

The radio host’s voice was measured but eager, the kind of forced calm that meant he already knew the answer wasn’t going to be good.

Coach Lanning exhaled sharply into the mic before speaking. The usual confidence in his voice was still there, but tonight, there was something underneath it—something heavier.

"Yeah, uh…" He cleared his throat. "First off, I just wanna say how much respect I got for that kid. Garrett played his heart out against Ole Miss, left everything on that field, and unfortunately, we got the news today that he’s gonna be out for the rest of the regular season with a torn labrum."

Silence.

Then, a low murmur rippled through the live audience at the restaurant in Baton Rouge, a few gasps cutting through the noise.

"Man…" The host dragged the word out, as if he was still processing what he just heard.

"Yeah," Lanning said with a short chuckle, but there was no humor in it.

The radio host shifted in his seat. "Coach, that’s a huge blow. We’re looking at Alabama coming up next, and now we’re going in without our starting quarterback. How’s the team reacting to the news?"

Lanning didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was steadier. More resolute.

"I’ll be honest with you—it ain’t easy. These kids, they rally behind each other, and Garrett’s been our leader. But that’s the game. Injuries happen, adversity happens, and we got a next-man-up mentality around here. We still got a lot of ball left to play, and I believe in this team."

The host nodded. "So what’s the plan at quarterback?"

Lanning’s response came quicker this time. "Collins’ up next. It’s his time to step in, run this offense, and we got full confidence in him to do the job."

The host’s voice dipped slightly, still hesitant. "That’s a lot to ask of a freshman, though, especially with Alabama looming next week. What do you say to people who think that this changes the entire outlook on the game?"

Lanning chuckled again, but this time, it was a little sharper. A little more defiant.

"I say we don’t play this game on paper," he said simply. "We still got a damn good football team. We still got playmakers, we still got a defense, and we’re gonna go into Tuscaloosa ready to fight. Ain’t nobody rolling over."

The host let out a small breath. "Well, Coach, I know the fans appreciate that mindset, but no Nussmeier? That’s a tough pill to swallow."

Lanning sighed. "Yeah. It is."

The rest of the show carried on, but the energy had shifted.

Everyone listening—whether in the crowd, in their cars, or at home—knew that LSU’s path had just gotten a lot harder.

And with Alabama waiting in a week, there wasn’t time to feel sorry about it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The house smelled like weed, fried food, and cheap cologne, the air thick with it. The music was loud but not overwhelming, just enough to provide background noise as voices layered over one another—conversations mixing with laughter, with side comments, with the occasional bark of someone calling out a dice roll from the corner.

Royce sat back on the couch, one arm resting on the back, the other holding a plastic cup filled with something brown and strong enough to get the job done. He swirled the liquid, watching the way it clung to the sides of the cup before taking another sip.

Across from him, Meech was watching him, that same slick-ass grin on his face, the one Royce had stopped trusting a long time ago.

"You real comfortable, huh?" Meech said, nodding toward him. "Them white folks not gonna come down to the bottom looking for your Black ass, huh?"

Royce smirked, shaking his head. "Shit, ain’t nobody checking for me."

Meech laughed but didn’t let up. He leaned forward, tapping his blunt against the ashtray before gesturing at Royce. "You know, for a nigga making the kind of money you making, you real lowkey with it. Don’t see you spreading it around too much."

Royce’s smirk flattened slightly, but he played it off with another sip of his drink. "What I look like? A fucking bank? It’s niggas out here getting plenty money."

"Nah," Meech said, still grinning. "But the hood looking at you, you feel me? You sitting on all that bread, but where it at? Where it’s going?"

The room suddenly felt a little warmer, or maybe Royce had just gotten real aware of how Meech was watching him.

Royce chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in it. "I ain’t got it like that."

Meech raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You sure?"

The moment stretched, and Royce could feel the weight behind the words, the shift in tone, the message under the surface.

Meech wasn’t just talking.

He was testing him.

Royce set his cup down and picked up his phone from the coffee table, exhaling slowly before pushing himself up from the couch. "I gotta get back for real, though. Got film and shit."

Meech leaned back, nodding like he expected that response. Like he had already decided this conversation wasn’t over.

Before Royce could make it out the door, Shayla caught his eye.

She had been sitting with some other girls, but the moment she saw him leaving, she pushed up from the chair, her smirk already forming.

"You heading out?" she asked, stepping into his space with just enough ease to let him know she knew what she was doing.

Royce shrugged. "Yeah, I got some shit to do."

She tilted her head slightly. "Come across the street with me first."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? And what’s across the street?"

"I told you before. My grandma house," she said smoothly. "She at church for some event. House empty."

Royce let that sit for a second, rolling his tongue over the inside of his cheek.

"That right?"

Shayla just smiled, stepping back toward the door, waiting for him to follow.

And he did.

…

The house was smaller, older, but kept up well—the kind of place that had probably looked the same for the last thirty years, with plastic on the couch and framed pictures of grandkids lining the walls.

Shayla led him inside, her fingers curling briefly around his wrist before letting go. The air was quieter here, still carrying the faint scent of old furniture and whatever had been cooked earlier in the day.

"You want something to drink?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Royce shook his head. "I’m straight."

She smiled, just enough to show that she wasn’t really offering anyway.

She took a step closer, her fingers ghosting along his arm before settling on his chest. "You still thinking about leaving?"

Royce let out a breath, his eyes flickering down to hers before his hand found her waist, pulling her closer.

"Nah," he murmured, and then he kissed her.

The shift was immediate—slow, then urgent, then slow again.

Her nails dragged lightly against his scalp as she deepened the kiss, her body pressing against his like she had already made up her mind about how the rest of the night was going to go.

Royce backed her up toward the couch, the plastic on the cushions crinkling under her as she sat down.

They didn’t talk much after that.

Didn’t need to.

Hands moving, bodies shifting, the moment unfolding exactly the way they both knew it would.

Then, Royce reached into his pocket, pulling out a gold foil wrapper and tearing it open with his teeth.

Shayla caught his wrist, her eyes flicking up to his.

"You don’t need that," she said smoothly.

Royce let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he pushed her hand away and opened the package anyway.

"Yeah," he said, voice still amused but firm. "I do."

~~~~~~~~~~

Royce stepped onto campus, the weight of the night still clinging to him like cigarette smoke. His head wasn’t pounding, but he felt off, like his body had caught up on rest, but his mind hadn’t.

The sky was that dull, grayish-blue of late afternoon, the campus moving at its usual pace—students rushing to class, others lounging in front of the student union, the usual groups scattered in clusters talking shit like they had nowhere better to be.

He wasn’t sure why he was even going to this meeting.

Maybe because Billy had told him he needed to keep showing up. Maybe because some part of him wanted to be here, to feel connected to something, even if he didn’t always know what that something was.

The Black Student Union meeting was already in progress when he walked in, the room more packed than usual, the air carrying a different kind of tension.

This wasn’t one of those easy, nod-along, feel-good meetings.

People were heated.

The conversation was already in motion, voices layering over each other, sharp, cutting.

"This is exactly what we’ve been talking about," one of the students, Rashad, was saying. "The way media covered Southern after that hazing death is nothing like what happened when LSU had that same problem a few years back. Southern got painted like a war zone, like this barbaric place where Black folks just don’t know how to act, but LSU? It was just some tragic mistake. Just boys being boys."

"You know why that is," another girl chimed in. "Because when it happens at LSU, it’s a bunch of white kids, and white kids get sympathy. Black kids don’t."

A few people nodded in agreement, murmuring their own thoughts.

Royce leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He wasn’t the type to jump into these kinds of debates, but something about the conversation rubbed him the wrong way.

And before he could think twice about it, he spoke.

"Man, the fuck y’all expect?"

Heads turned toward him, the energy in the room shifting slightly.

Royce let out a breath, shaking his head. "You got ni--dudes out here paying for friends. Paying to be in these little ass cults. And y’all surprised when they end up killing each other? They paying to beat on these lil’ dudes on some torture shit"

Silence.

Then, Rashad scoffed, his expression tightening. "That’s some ignorant shit to say."

Royce smirked, but there wasn’t much humor in it. "It’s the truth, though."

"That’s not the point," Rashad shot back. "The point is the way it’s treated. The way the media and the school cover for these white fraternities but throw Black orgs under the bus at the first sign of a problem. But you sitting here, making it seem like people dying is just natural selection or some shit?"

Royce shrugged. "I ain’t saying it’s right. I’m saying it ain’t surprising."

"You sound like you’re defending it."

"You sound like you think complaining about it is gonna change something."

The energy in the room spiked instantly.

People shifted in their seats, eyes darting between them, the air crackling with the kind of tension that wasn’t going to smooth over on its own.

Rashad leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him. "What’s your solution then, huh? Just sit back and accept it? Just chalk it up as ‘it is what it is’? That’s real weak-ass thinking."

Royce sat up slightly, eyes narrowing.

“No, I’m saying we gotta stop acting like these ain’t just motherfuckers trying to party and run trains on bitches behind some fake brotherhood shit. You take some hood dudes and give ‘em a little power and they gonna wild the fuck out. That’s just the reality of it.”

Rashad’s jaw ticked. "Nah. That’s the reality these white folks want and dudes like you perpetuate that shit."

The room went still.

Eyes flicked between the two of them, waiting to see if this was about to go somewhere neither of them could walk back from.

Then, Natalia stepped in.

"Alright, that’s enough," she said, her voice firm but calm, like someone used to diffusing things before they spiraled.

Rashad sat back slowly, exhaling sharply. Royce didn’t break eye contact, his jaw tight but unreadable.

Natalia looked between them, her gaze sharp. "We all got different ways of looking at things, but we’re not gonna sit here and turn this into a pissing contest."

“Wrong is wrong,” Rashad snapped back. “All opinions ain’t worth saying.”

“Nigga, please,” Royce said laughing.

“Royce,” Natalia said, an edge in her voice.

He held up his hands. “You got it. Out of respect for you.”

The conversation moved on.

But the tension didn’t disappear.

It just settled, simmering beneath the surface.

[Caesar]

Devil in the Details

The road to Houma stretched long and empty, lined with old oak trees and houses that all looked the same—worn-down porches, chain-link fences, rusted-out cars sitting in driveways like they’d never moved.

Royce had made this drive too many times.

But last year, he hadn’t.

Last year, he let the day pass without coming. Told himself it was just another day, that showing up didn’t change anything.

Another lie.

This year, though, he didn’t have an excuse.

And for some reason, Alix wanted to come.

She hadn’t known Romeo. Hadn’t been there for the nights that still crawled into Royce’s sleep, for the weight that never really left his chest.

But when she asked, she didn’t do it like she was offering pity.

She just said, "I want to come with you."

And he let her.

Now, they were here, passing through old streets that hadn’t changed, past places that still carried ghosts.

Alix sat quietly in the passenger seat, her hands tucked between her thighs, her gaze steady out the window.

She hadn’t spoken much since they left Baton Rouge, but Royce didn’t mind.

Some things didn’t need words.

…

The cemetery looked the same as always.

Quiet. Still. Untouched by time.

Royce had been here before. More than once.

The first time, he barely remembered. He had been fresh out of the hospital, still in a haze, still trying to process the fact that his brother had been lowered into the ground before he could even walk on his own.

The second time, he had come alone.

That one stuck with him.

And now, here he was again.

This time, Alix was with him.

They walked side by side, their footsteps soft against the patchy grass.

Romeo’s headstone stood out among the others—not because it was bigger, not because it was newer, but because it belonged to someone who shouldn’t be here.

Royce stopped a few feet away, his hands sliding into his hoodie pockets as his eyes landed on the fresh flowers sitting at the base.

Not just flowers.

A letter.

Folded, tucked carefully between the petals.

He didn’t have to open it to know who it was from.

Britni.

His jaw tightened.

For a second, he just stared at it.

Then, without really thinking, he reached down, fingers brushing the edge of the paper.

"Don’t."

Alix’s voice was soft but firm, cutting through the quiet.

Royce paused, his fingers hovering over the letter, his chest suddenly feeling too tight.

"You don’t need to read it," she said, watching him.

He exhaled sharply, his hand curling into a fist before he pulled back.

He didn’t know why he had wanted to read it in the first place.

Maybe because some part of him thought it would hold answers.

Maybe because some part of him still wanted to understand why Britni hated him so much.

Or maybe because he knew it wouldn’t change a damn thing, and he wanted proof.

Royce let out a slow breath, stepping back.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."

Alix didn’t say anything else.

She just stood there with him, letting the moment settle, letting the silence speak where words weren’t enough.

They didn’t stay long.

There wasn’t much else to say.

Romeo wasn’t here. Not really.

But as they turned to leave, Royce cast one last glance at the grave, at the flowers, at the letter left behind.

Maybe next year, he’d read it.

But not today.

~~~~~~~~~~

Houma had a way of making Royce feel like he never left.

Even after months away, after games under the brightest lights, cameras in his face, people he’d never met screaming his name—coming back here always pulled him back into something smaller, something colder.

Something like this.

He stood outside his mother’s house, the same house he had grown up in, the same one that hadn’t changed. The siding still chipped in places, the old front porch sagging just a little more, the weight of time pressing down on it.

His Audi sat in the driveway behind him, too new, too out of place in a neighborhood where cars stayed parked until they died.

Alix lingered behind him, quiet.

She hadn’t said anything when he told her he wanted to stop here, but he had felt her watching him during the drive over, like she knew this wasn’t going to end well.

Still, he had to try.

He knocked once. Twice.

Then the door cracked open, and there she was.

Rashida.

His mother.

For a second, she just looked at him, her expression unreadable, her body still as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted to open the door all the way.

But she did.

Barely.

Her posture was closed off, arms crossed over her chest, lips pressed into a thin line.

“You here alone?” she asked, voice flat.

Royce hesitated, then stepped aside just enough for her to see Alix.

The second Rashida’s eyes landed on her, the air shifted.

It was subtle—her shoulders tensing, the barely there narrowing of her eyes, the way her mouth pressed even tighter.

Royce felt it immediately. Knew what was coming before she even said a word.

“You bringing your little white girls here now?”

Alix stiffened beside him, but Royce didn’t look at her.

He kept his focus on his mother, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to keep his voice even.

“Can I come in?”

Rashida didn’t move at first.

Then, after what felt like forever, she let out a sharp breath and stepped back.

“Come on.”

She didn’t say it like she meant it.

She said it like she was letting him in just to see if he had the nerve to stay.

The house smelled the same.

Old wood, faint grease from whatever had been cooked earlier, the air still carrying the scent of the cleaning products she always used.

Nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Rashida sat down on the couch, arms still crossed, eyes on him but not really on him.

Royce stayed standing.

Alix hovered near the door, not sitting, not speaking. Just there.

“So,” Rashida said after a long moment. “Why you here?”

Royce exhaled, running a hand over his chin before dropping it back to his side.

“I just wanted to—” He paused, then started again. “I wanted to talk.”

“You got a phone.”

He swallowed back the immediate response he wanted to give. He had called before. She never answered.

“I wanted to come in person,” he said instead.

Rashida didn’t respond right away.

Her eyes flicked toward the window, where the Audi was parked in the driveway.

Her lip curled.

“Looks like you doing good,” she said, voice sharp and cool.

Royce didn’t bite. “I’m just here to—”

“I know what you here to do,” Rashida cut him off, finally looking at him again. “You here to say sorry. Like that’s gon’ change anything.”

Royce’s shoulders tensed. “I didn’t get him killed.”

Rashida’s face didn’t change.

“I didn’t do it myself,” he continued, his voice steady but edged with something darker. “I didn’t—”

“You sure act like you did,” she interrupted, her words cold enough to cut.

Royce flinched. Just barely.

“I ain’t never seen somebody look so alive after they brother, they twin, gets murdered.” She leaned back against the couch, shaking her head. “Got your fancy car out there, that fancy ass chain, some white bitch for the cameras. Her daddy probably racist and all, too. You livin’ good, huh?”

Royce exhaled slowly, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

“I came here to talk,” he said, voice tight. “Not for this.”

Rashida scoffed, shaking her head.

“You came here because you think you a good son,” she said. “But you ain’t. The good one in the ground because of you.”

Royce stared at her, feeling something hollow settle in his chest.

He had nothing else to say.

“Don’t bring your ass ‘round here, no more,” she snapped, finality in her voice. “Now, both y’all can get the fuck out of my house.”

…

The road blurred outside the car window, the radio turned down low, just background noise for the silence between them.

Alix hadn’t said a word since they pulled out of the driveway.

But Royce could feel her watching him.

Could feel the words sitting on her tongue, waiting.

And then, finally—

“Royce, I—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

It came out sharper than he meant.

The second he said it, he saw the way Alix’s expression flickered, something pulling tight around her mouth.

She didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t even look at him.

Just turned her head toward the window, her hands folded in her lap.

Royce let out a slow breath, his grip tightening around the wheel.

The road stretched ahead, dark and endless, and for a long time, they just drove.

Then—

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was quieter this time, softer.

Alix didn’t look at him, but after a beat, she nodded.

And the silence settled again.

[Captain Canada]

Goddamn

[Caesar]

Nerves

The cookout had been going strong for hours, the air thick with smoke from the grill and the sweet, familiar scent of weed drifting lazily through the yard. Music blared from a Bluetooth speaker someone had propped up on a cooler, the bass rattling bottles on the table.

Treg and his boys were in their usual element—drinks in hand, money being flashed, the girls circling like they could smell it in the air.

Mike, though, felt out of place.

Not that he didn’t belong—he did. But he didn’t move the same way they did.

While Treg and the rest of them were laughing, showing out, throwing down stacks on side bets, Mike was off to the side, thumb scrolling over his phone screen.

’You still at Treg’s?’, Laila’s text read

’Yeah.’

A few seconds later, the three dots popped up.

’Y’all drinking already?’

Mike glanced up. Treg and his boys were deep into bottles of Hennessy and Crown, loud and loose, waving bills like they weren’t worth a damn.

Yeah.

But he didn’t text that.

Instead, he just typed: A little.

’Don’t be stupid.’

Mike exhaled through his nose, shaking his head before responding.

’ I’m chillin.’

"Man, get off that damn phone."

Before Mike could look up, Treg snatched the phone out of his hand, waving it in the air.

"You texting your lil’ girlfriend?" Treg smirked, glancing at the screen before tossing it onto the table. "She got you on a leash, nigga?"

Mike shook his head, forcing a laugh even though he wasn’t really feeling it.

"Nah, man, I was just—"

"Just being lame as hell," one of the other guys cut in.

The table erupted in laughter.

Mike just sighed. It was easier to let them talk than to argue.

"Look," Treg continued, clapping a hand on Mike’s shoulder. "Come play spades with us."

Mike blinked. "I don’t know how to play."

Silence.

Then—laughter.

Loud, damn near disrespectful laughter.

"Ain’t no way," Treg said, grinning wide as he smacked the table. "You mean to tell me you ain’t never played spades before?"

"Nah, bruh," Mike admitted, rubbing the back of his head.

"You ain’t got no OGs in your family?" another guy asked, shaking his head.

"They was playing, but you know they don’t teach you how to play," Mike said.

"Shit’s a disgrace," Treg muttered, shaking his head. "Somebody teach this man before he embarrass us all."

"I got him."

The voice was smooth, playful.

Mike turned his head as Erika slid into his lap like she had done it before.

Her perfume was heavy, sweet, her long braids swaying as she adjusted herself.

"I’ll show you how to play," she said, smirking as she leaned against him.

Mike stiffened, hands hovering awkwardly in the air before he hesitantly placed them on her waist to keep her from falling.

From across the table, Treg grinned.

"Shit, while you at it," he said, "y’all should fuck."

The whole table hollered.

Mike shook his head, forcing a chuckle, his body still tense under Erika’s weight.

Erika, on the other hand, didn’t even blink.

"I’m down," she said, tilting her head at him.

Mike froze.

Then, after a beat, he shook his head again. "I got a girl."

More laughter.

Louder this time.

"You hear this nigga?" one of the guys wheezed. "This boy got a whole lap full of ass, and he talking about he got a girl."

Treg slapped the table again, still grinning. "Mike, man, what your girl don’t know won’t hurt her."

The words sat heavy in the air, the weight of expectation pressing against him.

Mike swallowed, his fingers twitching slightly against Erika’s waist.

She leaned in, her voice lower now, just for him.

"Come on," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear. "It’s just a little fun."

Mike exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.

This was the part where he was supposed to fold.

Supposed to go along with it, laugh it off, let whatever happen just because that’s what they expected from him.

And so, he did.

When Erika tilted her head just slightly, her lips brushing his jaw, Mike didn’t stop her.

When her hand slid lower, resting just under his shirt, he didn’t pull away.

And when Treg chuckled, shaking his head as he muttered, "That’s more like it," Mike let the moment swallow him whole.

~~~~~~~~~~

The bus ride to Bryant-Denny Stadium was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful.

It was the kind of quiet that came before a storm—thick, charged, humming with tension that settled heavy in the air.

Royce sat near the back, headphones on, but no music playing.

He had been here before. Not in Tuscaloosa, but in this moment.

Last year, when Alabama came to Baton Rouge, he had started. He had stepped onto that field in Death Valley thinking he was ready—thinking he was built for the moment.

And they had torn him apart.

He had played, but not well. Missed a few key tackles, got caught out of position, let the game speed up on him in a way that had him second-guessing everything.

By the second half, his snaps had been cut. By the fourth quarter, he was on the sideline, his helmet in his hands, watching his team fight without him.

It had been humiliating.

And now?

Now, he was back in it.

Only this time, it was their house.

The second they stepped off the bus, the noise hit.

A wall of boos, screams, and slurred, drawn-out insults thrown from every direction.

It was worse here.

It was always worse in Tuscaloosa.

The fans lined the barricades, packed together like a drunk, red-clad mob, their voices an endless stream of taunts.

"YOU BOYS AIN’T BUILT FOR THIS!"

"Y’ALL ‘BOUT TO GET SENT HOME IN BODY BAGS!"

"FOUR QUARTERS OF HELL, BABY!"

The older fans, the alumni, kept their distance—content to sip from their flasks and watch.

But the students?

They wanted a reaction.

They wanted blood.

Royce kept his eyes straight, jaw locked, hands balled into fists in the pockets of his warmups.

Then—

“HEY, LAFITTE!”

Something white flashed in front of his face, and before he even fully processed what he was seeing, his blood ran hot.

A poster board, held up by some smirking white boy in a crimson polo and backwards hat.

SMOKING ON THAT LAFITTE PACK 2.0

Everything tilted.

The world went silent.

Before he even thought about what he was doing, he lunged.

“Say, I’ll fucking kill you, lil’ bitch.”

His voice came out sharp, low, dangerous, his entire body tight, coiled, ready.

But before he could even get close, arms wrapped around him, dragging him back.

"Bro, chill!"

"Royce, nah, man!"

His teammates were on him, staff pushing him forward, shoving him away from the barricade.

The kid holding the sign stumbled back, wide-eyed for half a second before the smirk came back.

He laughed. Laughed.

And just like that, the boos doubled.

The entire section of students picked up on it, chanting, screaming, feeding off the chaos.

"OVERRATED!"

"OVERRATED!"

"OVERRATED!"

The sound thundered in his skull, in his bones, in his hands that were still curled into fists.

And then—

Somewhere in the mess of it all, he heard it.

Romeo’s name.

Didn’t catch the full sentence. Didn’t need to.

Because he knew.

Knew what they meant. Knew what they were saying.

It took three people to get him into the tunnel, his chest rising and falling like he had just run a full drive.

His vision was blurred with rage when Coach Lupoi’s voice boomed through the concrete walls.

“THE FUCK WAS THAT?”

Royce barely turned.

Barely saw anything past the heat clawing at his chest.

Coach Lupoi wasn’t having it.

"You wanna lose your head before we even step on the damn field?" he snapped, stepping up to him. “You think we came here for bullshit like that?”

Royce’s teammates were still holding onto him, making sure he didn’t turn back.

His pulse was hammering.

He didn’t care about Lupoi. Didn’t care about whatever lecture was coming.

Didn’t care about anything but what had just happened.

“I’m focused,” he bit out.

Lupoi’s expression hardened.

“You sure about that?”

Royce gritted his teeth, shoving past the staff, past his teammates, past everything as he stormed toward the locker room.

“I’m fucking focused.”

[Captain Canada]

Damn. That trigger word goes crazy.

[Caesar]

Buried

Bryant-Denny Stadium was already shaking.

It was just the second play of the game, and the Alabama crowd was in full throat, a deafening wall of red and white noise that felt like it might pull the sky down with it. Every clap, every scream, every stomp against the bleachers came with weight—a thousand-pound pressure meant to crush whoever stood across from them.

Royce stood in the middle of it all, breath steady, eyes scanning the backfield as the Tide lined up on second and long.

The play before, Milroe had overthrown his receiver, and now the noise was up even louder, trying to rattle LSU before they could even settle in. But Royce wasn’t hearing any of it.

He was locked in.

His fingers twitched just above his thighs, his feet planted light, bouncing. He called out an adjustment, pointing at the left guard with his gloved hand, then dropped his voice just enough for the front to hear.

"Watch the slide."

He saw it coming before the snap—the way the left tackle shifted his weight, the running back sneaking just a half-step inside.

They weren’t going to pick him up.

The ball snapped.

Royce was gone.

He burst off the edge like he’d been fired from a cannon, slicing past the tackle before the man could even get his hands up. His shoulder dipped low, cleats digging into the turf, and then he was in the backfield—on top of Milroe before the quarterback could finish his first read.

Boom.

Shoulder to ribs, Royce drove him into the ground with all the momentum of a pissed-off freight train, the ball popping loose for a heartbeat before Milroe smothered it under his chest.

The stadium stuttered.

Gasps and groans replaced cheers as Royce climbed off the turf, standing over Milroe just long enough to make his point.

“Get used to seeing me, nigga,” he barked, his voice cutting sharp under the boos raining down now.

He turned away slow, flexing his arms once as his teammates swarmed him, slapping his helmet and shoulder pads.

The crowd was back to roaring, but it was different now—

Because LSU had come to play.

…

“Big first drive from the Tigers’ defense as they force the Tide to punt. This game might be one of those legendary battles of these rivals, ladies and gentlemen!”

…

“Collins drops back and surveys the defense. He’s flushed out of the pocket but has to throw it into the ground to avoid the sack. It’s going to be a three and out for LSU. Rickie Collins is looking a bit shaky back there early on.”

…

The Alabama offense broke the huddle at their own eight-yard line to start their second drive, the crowd still humming from the shock of the earlier sack. But Milroe looked unfazed—cool in the pocket, as if the last possession hadn’t ended with him eating grass.

LSU’s defense shifted pre-snap, Royce creeping up toward the line before dropping back again. The Tigers were expecting a run, something safe to get the Tide out of the shadow of their own end zone.

Instead, Milroe took the snap, dropped three steps, and lasered a pass over the middle.

The throw hit Germie Bernard in stride between the linebackers, just past the outstretched fingers of the zone.

Boom—26 yards.

Before LSU could even reset, Alabama was already back on the ball.

The Tide hurried to the line like they knew exactly what was coming next. The Tigers were still shouting assignments, safeties trying to signal down, corners turning their heads to catch the coverage call.

Too late.

The ball was snapped.

Milroe reared back and launched it—a rainbow of a throw down the right sideline.

Royce turned his head just in time to see Kendrick Law blow past the corner, tracking the ball over his shoulder.

The stadium erupted the moment it fell into his hands.

Law never broke stride.

Sixty-six yards. Touchdown.

Just like that.

Bryant-Denny was shaking again—this time with euphoria.

Royce stood near midfield, hands on his hips, breathing hard, helmet already unbuckled.

The sound blurred in his ears, but his pulse was thunder in his chest.

He yanked the helmet off and slammed it into the turf with a sharp crack, the facemask bouncing as it skidded sideways.

He didn’t say a word as he walked off the field.

Didn’t look at anyone.

Didn’t need to.

His silence said it all.

They just gave one away.

…

“Alabama adds a field goal to make it 10-0.”

…

“Touchdown Alabama!”

…

“Touchdown Alabama!”

…

It was third and goal from the ten, and Bryant-Denny sounded like a war zone. The place was shaking, the crimson crowd losing their minds as Alabama lined up once again on the doorstep of the end zone.

LSU was already down big—27-0, and the third quarter was turning into a slow, painful unraveling.

The defense looked worn. Not physically, but emotionally—hands on hips, glances to the sideline, sluggish movement between plays.

But Royce was still wired.

Still chasing something.

The ball was snapped.

Milroe faked the handoff, froze the linebackers for a beat, then bounced outside.

Royce read it too late.

He planted and cut across the line, trying to angle Milroe toward the sideline, but the quarterback was already gone.

Whit should’ve set the edge.

Instead, he’d crashed hard inside, trying to blow up a block that wasn’t even there.

Milroe slipped untouched around the right corner and cruised into the end zone like it was a damn walkthrough.

Touchdown, Alabama. 34-0.

The crowd exploded.

Royce stared at the end zone, chest rising and falling as Milroe jogged back toward his sideline with his arms raised like he was toying with them.

Royce turned on his heel, storming back toward the huddle—but as soon as he caught up to Whit, he shoved him in the shoulder.

“You gotta stay the fuck outside, man!” he barked.

Whit turned, jaw already tight. “He would’ve cut back if I didn’t—”

“He ain’t cutting back if you do your fucking job!” Royce shouted, stepping into him now, voice rising over the roar of the stadium. “That’s your side! You just handed him six!”

“Man, get out my face—”

They were in each other’s faces now, helmets clutched in hand, sweat pouring, words sharp and hot and way past friendly.

“Make me, pussy ass nigga!” Royce snapped. “Because you sure as fuck looking scared to fight them niggas!”

Hands appeared between them fast—Tylen, Zackary, a couple coaches jumping in, forcing them apart before it went further.

“Cool out, both of y’all!” someone yelled. “That’s enough!”

Royce’s chest was still heaving, eyes locked on Whit as he let himself be pulled away.

Whit didn’t look back.

He didn’t have to.

The scoreboard behind them said more than either of them could.

34-0.

And counting.

…

“That’s going to be it from Tuscaloosa, and Alabama is looking like a national championship contender again with a Heisman hopeful at quarterback. The final score, Tide 40, Tigers 10.”

…

The clock hit zero.

The roar of Bryant-Denny swallowed everything. Deafening. Relentless.

Alabama had won. Dominated.

40-10.

Royce sat on the sideline, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

The sweat on his skin had already cooled, turning clammy under the stadium lights. His jersey felt heavier now, damp with exhaustion, failure settling into every fiber of fabric.

He could still hear it—the crowd, the damn fight song blaring, the Alabama players celebrating like they’d just stomped out a bug on the pavement.

They had.

He could feel his teammates moving around him, some already heading for the locker room, some still standing, staring at the scoreboard like they couldn’t believe it was real.

Royce didn’t need to look.

He already knew what it said.

Knew how it felt.

It was worse than last year. Worse than anything.

Because this time, he had been on the field the whole time.

And it hadn’t mattered.

He hadn’t mattered.

40-10.

He clenched his jaw, fingers digging into his forehead, trying to shut everything out.

The sound. The loss. The weight of it all pressing down on him.

Someone clapped him on the shoulder—a coach, maybe, or a teammate—but Royce barely felt it.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t move.

He just sat there, staring at the ground, as Alabama celebrated in the background.

[Captain Canada]

Belt to ass

[Caesar]

Own Medicine

The party was already loud by the time Alix and her friends pushed through the front door, the air heavy with heat, sweat, perfume, and stale vodka.

Someone had set up a Bluetooth speaker in the living room that blasted bass-heavy rap tracks, every beat vibrating through the floorboards. The kitchen was cluttered with empty seltzer cans and half-eaten pizza, and people were dancing or yelling to be heard over the music, the kind of noise that was supposed to make you feel alive.

Alix didn’t feel alive.

She felt... numb.

Mia had dragged her here after LSU got blown out by Alabama. They’d watched the game at Addy’s apartment, sipping drinks that turned into gulps, laughing too loud to mask how annoyed they were.

But Alix hadn’t been annoyed.

She’d been quiet, her mind caught on Royce.

She hadn't even texted him after the game.

Hadn't known if she wanted to.

Didn’t even know if she had the right to.

“Alix,” Mia nudged her with an elbow, pulling her back to the present. “That guy over there? He’s been eyeing you since we got in.”

Alix turned her head lazily.

Yeah. He was watching.

And he wasn’t shy about it either.

Taller than Royce, maybe. Sharper jawline. Easy smile. None of the anger that Royce had in his eyes even at the best of times.

And his eyes had that confident softness that some guys carried when they knew they were good-looking but didn’t need to be obnoxious about it.

She looked away, bringing her Solo cup to her lips.

“Go talk to him,” Mia pressed.

“I’m good.”

“No, you’re sulking,” Simone chimed in, stepping up beside her. “You’ve been walking around like someone ran over your cat since you got back from that trip to Houma. You need to do something reckless.”

Alix rolled her eyes, but she didn’t argue.

Because they weren’t wrong.

She’d felt off ever since they left Houma. Since standing next to Romeo’s grave, watching Royce nearly unravel again.

Since his mother called her a white girl like it was a slur.

Since he snapped at her in the car. Since she’d just stared out the window instead of fighting back.

Something in her had shifted.

Not snapped. But shifted.

She wasn’t sure what it meant yet.

“Hey.”

The voice pulled her out of her spiral.

She turned and found him—the guy from across the room—standing just a few feet away, drink in hand, smile smooth.

“I’m Trey,” he said.

“Alix.”

“You from around here?”

“Yeah,” she said, managing a half-smile. “Sherwood Forest, but I go to LSU now.”

He grinned. “Well, I definitely would’ve remembered seeing you before.”

Behind her, Mia let out a low, teasing “mmmhm.”

Alix fought the urge to roll her eyes again but didn’t walk away.

Trey was harmless.

And tonight? Harmless felt... safe.

They talked. About the game. Classes. Music. His favorite place to get food after midnight.

And he was funny—genuinely funny, not just party-charming.

He didn’t seem like he was trying too hard.

Not like the guys who approached her at football parties with “You with one of the players?” or worse, “You Royce’s girl, right?”

She didn’t want to be Royce’s girl tonight.

She didn’t even know if she was.

Trey made her forget that part, just for a minute.

And when the crowd in the kitchen thinned, when the alcohol settled behind her ribs and her laugh came easier, he leaned in close and asked—

"You wanna get out of here?"

His voice was low, breath warm, fingers brushing gently against her waist.

Alix opened her mouth. “I have a—”

But her voice caught.

Boyfriend?

No.

Royce wasn’t her boyfriend.

He didn’t say it. He didn’t ask her to say it.

He disappeared when things got heavy and texted her when he was drunk or needed her. He slept beside her, but never with both eyes closed.

So what was she holding onto?

She thought of how it felt watching Trey laugh. How he looked at her like she was a person, not a lifeline.

She thought of all the nights she sat in Royce’s dorm waiting for him to come back from wherever he was.

She thought about being called “white girl” like it made her the enemy.

She thought about standing at a grave that wasn’t hers to mourn.

She looked at Trey.

He was still waiting.

Still smiling.

And for once, she didn’t want to be the girl who always made the “right” choice.

Alix smiled, small and easy, and didn’t say no.

~~~~~~~~~~

The front door clicked shut behind him with a heavy finality, the sound echoing louder in the quiet of his apartment than it had any right to.

Royce stood in the entryway for a second, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his body aching from more than just the game.

It was just past 9:45, Baton Rouge humid and still, the street outside quiet like the world hadn’t watched them get humiliated a few hours ago.

40-10.

The number replayed in his head, over and over.

He let the bag fall with a thud to the floor. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing.

He hadn’t showered at the facility—just changed into his hoodie and sweats and dipped the second they got back.

A couple of the guys had tried to get him to come out.

“We hittin’ Reggie’s, bro—come through.”

“Forget that game, we need a reset night.”

Royce had just nodded and muttered, “I’m straight.”

He wasn’t.

But he wasn’t about to pretend to be either.

He poured two fingers of vodka into a glass and stepped out onto the small balcony overlooking the lot behind his building. The streetlights glowed faintly below, washing everything in a hazy yellow.

The drink burned his throat, but that was the point.

Inside, the muted TV was playing a rerun of the day’s college football wrap-up, and even without sound, the images were enough.

Alabama’s highlights ran on a loop—Milroe dancing into the end zone, the bomb to Kendrick Law, the post-game interview with DeBoer grinning like the devil after a contract extension.

Royce turned the volume up just enough to hear the anchor.

“…and there’s no denying it now. With this win, Alabama has cemented itself as the team to beat. They look playoff-bound—dominant, physical, and relentless. The LSU defense just had no answers tonight.”

Royce downed the rest of the vodka and set the empty glass on the railing.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Just let it sit there.

“No answers.”

That one stung.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbs slow and heavy as he tapped out a text to Alix.

’Where you at?’

No read receipt. No dots. No nothing.

He waited a couple minutes, staring at the screen like that would make her respond.

She didn’t.

He clicked out and tapped another name.

’What you doing?’

Bree responded a few minutes later.

’Busy tonight.’

Royce stared at that one a little longer.

He didn’t know what he was hoping for—comfort, distraction, a reminder that someone still wanted him even if he felt like shit.

He scrolled.

Shayla.

’You up?’

No answer.

Two more girls—girls he barely talked to.

’Slide if you’re free.’

Still nothing.

He exhaled and toggled his phone to Do Not Disturb, tossing it down beside the chair.

He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, the sky above Baton Rouge a murky black.

And for a long time, Royce just sat there, drinking alone, listening to the analysts talk about greatness—
as if he’d never been part of the conversation at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

The room was wrapped in shadow, the only light creeping in from the dull orange streetlamp outside Royce’s window.

He stirred from a dead sleep at the sound—the soft click of the front door opening.

His eyes opened, bleary and slow, and his hand instinctively reached toward the nightstand, not for anything in particular—just grounding himself.

Then, light steps across the floor.

Alix’s voice, quiet and guilty: “It’s just me.”

She stepped into view, holding up the spare key he’d given her, like it might soften the fact that she was just now coming in.

Her jacket was half off her shoulder, her makeup smudged faintly around her eyes. Hair tousled.

Royce blinked at her, said nothing.

Just shook his head once, slow, and dropped back against the pillow.

Alix hesitated like she might turn around and leave, then exhaled softly, kicked off her shoes, and started undressing in silence.

Tank top. Shorts.

Then she slid under the covers beside him, bare legs brushing against his. Her arm wrapped across his chest, face settling into the crook of his neck like it always had.

But Royce didn’t pull her in.

He didn’t even flinch.

Just laid there, jaw tight, muscles stiff beneath her.

“You smell like a nigga,” he said finally, voice low, flat.

She paused.

“It’s from the party,” she answered quickly. “Everyone was dancing. Probably rubbed off.”

She was already sitting up, pushing the blanket aside. “I’ll wash it off.”

The bathroom door clicked closed behind her, and a second later, the water started running.

Royce stared at the ceiling, his expression still unreadable.

Then his eyes flicked to the small pile of her clothes near the edge of the bed.

Her shorts.

Without a word, he reached over and slid her phone from the pocket. The screen lit up. He tapped in her passcode—Darius’ birthday.

He didn’t even have to scroll far.

Trey.

Trey: Had a good time tonight.
Trey: You got home safe?
Trey: Hit me when you’re free again.

Royce read the thread, thumb resting on the side of the screen.

The water in the bathroom kept running.

He stared at the messages for another second, no expression crossing his face, and then quietly slipped the phone back where he found it—in the same pocket of her shorts.

Then he laid back down.

And waited for the water to stop.

[Caesar]

Man Behind the Mask

The sky was still gray when Royce stepped out of Bree’s dorm, the early morning cold biting against his jawline as he pulled his hoodie tighter. The campus was quiet—too quiet, like the whole place was holding its breath from the embarrassment in Tuscaloosa.

Royce wasn’t thinking about the game, though.

He was thinking about the text from Trey.

The phone screen. The way Alix had looked when she came in smelling like someone else’s cologne. The water running behind the bathroom door while he sat there, holding her phone in his hand and trying not to feel what he felt.

He told himself he wasn’t going to bring it up.

Couldn’t.

Not because he was okay with it—He wasn’t.

But because saying anything would mean admitting it bothered him.

Admitting that it hurt.

And he wasn’t going to hand her that kind of power.

Not now.

Not after everything.

So, like always, he played it cool. Played it like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t already doing what she was probably doing—and worse.

He tugged his hood up and shoved his hands in his pocket, jaw tight as he moved through the near-empty quad.

His phone buzzed.

Billy.

Royce let it ring once before answering. “What’s up?”

“You busy?”

“I’m walking back to my place.”

“Can you stop by the office?” Billy’s tone was vague, too casual.

Royce narrowed his eyes. “Why? You know I’m already tired of all this slow-motion shit. You keep telling me it’s coming. I keep going to those fucking meetings like it’s church. Ain’t seen a damn dime.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Billy said, like he hadn’t just dodged the question. “Trust me. You’ll wanna be here for this.”

Royce sighed, shifting his weight as he stopped at the corner. “You got twenty minutes.”

…

Royce stepped into Billy’s office without knocking, shoulders tight beneath his hoodie, the same irritation simmering in his chest since Billy’s vague call that morning.

“I’m here,” he muttered, voice flat.

Billy looked up from his phone and nodded toward the conference room without preamble. “Back there.”

Royce shot him a look. “Who else is here?”

“You’ll see.”

Royce sighed, annoyed but too tired to argue. He walked through the glass door into the conference space and spotted a man already seated—mid-fifties, well-dressed, with a close-shaved head and a smooth, measured posture. The suit was expensive, but not flashy. His presence had weight, like someone who didn’t have to raise his voice to get people to move.

The man stood when Royce entered, offering a hand.

“Royce. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

Royce shook his hand, his grip firm. “And you are?”

“Chance Delpit.”

Royce blinked, the name meaning nothing.

Delpit gave a small, amused smile, like he was used to not being recognized but rarely corrected. “I’m from here. I run a few things—mostly infrastructure, zoning, a few partnerships with the state. I’m starting to dip into NIL.”

Royce’s brows furrowed slightly. “So why me?”

“Because Billy insisted. Said you weren’t just another kid with an offer list. Said you had presence. Depth. He kept sending me clips—interviews, games, told me about your background.”

Royce raised an eyebrow. “You been watching me?”

“Been evaluating,” Delpit said evenly. “I don’t throw money at people who shine bright for two years and flame out by twenty-three. I invest in people with long value. You’ve got something. But it’s not just the game tape that sold me.”

Royce shifted in his seat, arms crossed loosely. “Then what did?”

“The way you carry weight,” Delpit said. “People look to you even when you’re not talking. That’s rare. You’ve been through a lot—publicly—and you’re still standing. That means something to the kind of people I work with. Doesn’t mean you’re perfect. Just means you’re interesting.”

Royce didn’t respond, unsure how to feel about being called “interesting” by a man he’d just met.

Delpit leaned back in his chair. “I know this whole thing feels slow. And I don’t expect you to be excited about shaking hands and sitting in rooms where people talk in circles. But this is how you get your name to outlive your stats. You stay visible. You stay strategic. You don’t just walk through doors—you learn how to own the buildings.”

Royce let that sit.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard some version of this before. But something about Delpit’s calm certainty gave it more weight.

“I ain’t trying to be nobody’s puppet,” he said finally. “I ain’t the shucking and jiving type.”

Delpit nodded. “Good. I don’t invest in puppets. I invest in people who know when to play quiet and when to strike. You keep doing your part—ball out, stay smart—and I’ll make sure the deals keep coming.”

Royce rubbed the back of his neck, then exhaled. “All right.”

Delpit stood again, smoothing out his blazer. “We’ll talk soon. And Royce?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get caught thinking football is the only game that matters. The real ones know how to play both.”

…

Royce left the building with his hood pulled low over his eyes, stepping out into the sharp mid-morning sunlight.

He didn’t know much about Chance Delpit.

But he knew power when he felt it.

And now that power was watching.

~~~~~~~~~~

The therapy room was quiet except for the soft ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the vent above the couch. Britni sat with her legs tucked under her, a blanket folded across her lap the way she always had it during their sessions.

She wasn’t crying today. That was something.

Dr. Langston waited patiently, one hand resting on her notepad, the other cradling a mug of herbal tea that was probably more for comfort than caffeine.

Britni stared at the carpet for a long time before finally speaking.

“I went out on a date last week.”

Dr. Langston lifted her brows slightly, a gesture of encouragement more than surprise.

Britni gave a dry laugh, like the words tasted strange in her mouth. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? Like I needed to make a formal announcement.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Langston said gently. “It’s a big moment. Especially for you. Tell me how it went.”

Britni shrugged, her eyes still distant. “Better than I thought it would, honestly. I didn’t freak out. I didn’t leave halfway through. I didn’t start crying in the middle of the restaurant like I did last time.”

A pause. Then a small, hollow smile.

“We made it through dinner. Talked about movies, and work, and… nothing serious. He was sweet. Funny, actually. And for a second, I didn’t feel like I was carrying all of it. You know?”

Dr. Langston nodded. “That’s a big step. I’m really proud of you for trying.”

Britni bit her lip and looked down at her hands. “Yeah… but then the next morning, I woke up and realized the date was almost on the same day Romeo died.”

Her voice cracked a little at the end, and she sucked in a shaky breath before continuing.

“I felt sick. Like I’d betrayed him or something. Like… how could I sit there and laugh with someone when four years ago around that time I was planning what dress to wear to his funeral?”

She paused again, the silence heavy between them.

“I know he wouldn’t want me to be stuck. I tell myself that all the time. But I can’t shake the feeling that moving on means I’m letting go. And I don’t know how to do that without feeling like I’m leaving him behind.”

Dr. Langston leaned forward slightly. “Britni… what would you say to Romeo if he were here right now?”

Britni’s eyes welled up, but she blinked quickly, holding it back.

“I’d say I’m sorry. For not always seeing him for who he was. For being ashamed of the parts of him that didn’t fit the picture I wanted people to see. For trying to hide his background like it made him less than me.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I wish I could tell him I was proud of him. I wish I could tell him he didn’t have to change for me to love him.”

Dr. Langston let the words settle for a moment, her tone soft when she finally responded.

“Grief is never a straight line. There’s no right way to carry it. You took a step forward, and then you felt the weight of the past pull you back. That’s not failure. That’s just the process.”

Britni nodded slowly, her voice barely audible. “It just feels so heavy sometimes.”

“I know,” Dr. Langston said. “But you're getting stronger. Every time you choose to live again, even a little, you're honoring him more than you realize.”

And for the first time in a long time, Britni let that idea sit.

Not as something to argue with.

[Caesar]

Deserve Better

The sun was already beginning to dip behind the trees lining the edge of the practice field, painting the sky in streaks of amber and purple. The air was heavy with sweat and dust, cleats scraping hard against turf, pads smacking, coaches barking over the whistle shrieks.

It was that kind of practice.

The kind where the tension simmered just below the surface, where every missed step felt like a personal insult, and every glance between teammates carried unspoken pressure. LSU had already dropped a game they were supposed to win. Another loss, especially with a rivalry game looming, would send the season spiraling.

And Royce felt it in his bones.

He had been playing with fire in his chest all week—restless, pissed, laser-locked on every rep like it was a war drill instead of football.

But it came to a head during team drills.

Third down simulation. Defense lined up.

Snap.

The ball came out fast—too fast—and the linebacker on the opposite side missed the check. The running back broke through the gap untouched, juked a safety, and trotted untouched into the end zone.

Again.

Just like it had happened in Tuscaloosa.

“What the fuck are we doing!?” Royce screamed, yanking off his helmet and throwing it down at his feet.

Everyone froze for a second—just a beat too long.

“Y’all good with this? Huh?” he shouted, stalking forward, sweat pouring down his face, his neck pulsing. “Y’all really just out here goin’ through the motions like we ain’t just get fucked by them niggas last week! No motherfucking lube!”

Some of the guys avoided his eyes. Others mumbled under their breath.

But Royce wasn’t done.

He turned on Jyaire, who’d been beat more than once this practice. “You—been here four years, and you still ain’t figured out how to stay in phase? You too used to losing. That’s what it is.”

“Chill, man,” Jyaire, irritated. “We working, just like you.”

“Working?” Royce scoffed. “You call that working? You want a fucking ribbon for showing up, nigga? What the fuck we really doing if y’all think they giving out fucking ‘chips for just being here? This ain’t fucking peewee.”

Another player—Mac—stepped in. “Royce, relax. It’s practice. We’ll get it right.”

Royce snapped.

“Fuck that! I’m tired of hearing that ‘we’ll get it right’ bullshit. Them motherfuckers at Alabama weren’t worried about getting it right. That’s why they blow us the fuck out. Now, Florida licking their fucking lips.”

The field went silent except for the sound of the assistant strength coach blowing a whistle, calling for tempo reset.

But no one moved.

That was when Coach Lupoi came over, clipboard tucked under one arm, eyes already locked on Royce.

“Royce,” he said sharply. “Walk with me.”

Royce snatched his helmet off the ground and followed, still breathing hard.

They walked to the sideline, a safe distance from the rest of the team.

“You gotta lead,” Lupoi said, voice low but firm. “Not explode. They’ll follow your fire, but not if you burn ‘em with it.”

“I ain’t mean to crash out like that, Coach,” Royce muttered, barely able to look him in the eye. “I just… I’m just not trying to wonder what if at the end of this shit, man.”

“I know,” Lupoi said. “But frustration doesn’t win games. Discipline does. If you want them to raise their game, show ‘em how. Don’t shame ‘em into it.”

Royce didn’t say anything. Just nodded, jaw tight.

When he rejoined the huddle, no one said a word.

But something had shifted.

The energy was raw now. Tense. A fuse waiting for fire.

Because they all knew it: another loss wasn’t just another loss anymore.

It would define their season.

And they could feel that weight in every step.

~~~~~~~~~~

Toni sat at the edge of the bed, still fully dressed, arms folded tight across her chest. Deshawn stood near the dresser, tapping at his phone like she wasn’t even there.

“You went through my shit again?” he asked, not looking up.

“No,” she said flatly, eyes locked on the carpet. “I saw the messages because you left them open. That’s not the same thing.”

Deshawn scoffed, turning his back to her. “You always got some excuse.”

“I’m not making excuses, Deshawn. I’m saying I saw what I saw. Who the hell is Morgan?”

He turned then, slow, deliberate. “Don’t worry about Morgan.”

“You’re texting her at two in the morning. You think I’m just supposed to ignore that?”

“You wanna keep pushing me?” His voice dropped an octave, not loud, but sharper now, the warning edge she’d come to recognize.

“I’m not pushing you,” she snapped. “I’m trying to understand why the fuck I dropped everybody for you—for this—and now I gotta sit here pretending like you’re not out doing whatever the fuck you want.”

That hit.

She saw it flash across his face—something between guilt and irritation—but it vanished just as quickly, replaced with that familiar, simmering rage.

“I didn’t ask you to do all that.”

“Yes, you did! Not with words, but you made it clear I had to choose! And I chose you!”

Deshawn stepped closer, shoulders squared, phone clenched tight in his fist.

“And now you mad about it? That’s on you.”

“You treat me like I’m nothing, Deshawn,” she said, voice cracking, the weight of it finally breaking through. “You talk to me like I’m disposable. You look at me like I’m in the way—”

The slap came so fast she didn’t register it until she was on the floor, cheek stinging, her ear ringing.

She stared up at him in disbelief, hand flying to her face.

“Say some more dumb shit,” Deshawn growled, breathing heavy now.

Toni scrambled back onto her feet, shaking. “You really just hit me?”

He stepped forward. “Keep yelling. You think you can talk to me any kind of way?”

She shoved him back. “Get the fuck out—”

That’s when it happened.

His elbow caught her in the mouth.

A shove. A stumble. A hand around her wrist. A fist to the side of her ribs.

And then everything blurred.

…

The apartment was still, save for the soft hum of the fridge and the low static coming from the muted TV screen. Toni sat on the sofa, slumped sideways like her body couldn’t hold itself up any longer, a thin throw blanket draped over her shoulders as if it could somehow hide the truth.

Her left eye was swollen nearly shut. A deep, purplish bruise had bloomed across her cheekbone, and her lip was split, dried blood staining the corner of her mouth. Her arm rested awkwardly against her stomach like it hurt to bend.

The overhead light flickered gently, casting uneven shadows across the room, but Toni didn’t move.

She just sat there.

Silent.

Staring at nothing.

The door opened with a click, and Arianna’s laughter floated in first, loud and loose from a night out. She kicked off her heels at the door, still scrolling through something on her phone as she stepped into the living room.

“Yo, you left the lights—”

Her voice caught in her throat.

Her eyes snapped up.

Toni.

Still as stone.

The blood. The bruises. The silence.

Arianna froze.

She didn’t need to ask what happened.

She didn’t need Toni to say Deshawn’s name.

It was written all over her face—again.

The laughter that had been clinging to Arianna’s skin from earlier evaporated in an instant.

Toni looked up, slowly, her one good eye glassy, barely holding Arianna’s gaze.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

But the words didn’t mean anything.

Didn’t cover what was already done.

Arianna stared at her for a long moment, her jaw tightening as something cold passed through her chest.

Then she shook her head.

Once.

Slow.

And walked past her without a word.

Her bedroom door closed softly behind her, and Toni was alone again.

~~~~~~~~~~

The bass in the club was bone-deep, a rhythmic thump that pulsed through the soles of Alix’s boots as she danced between her cousins and friends under a haze of violet lights. The air was thick with perfume, spilled liquor, and the energy of a crowd trying to forget itself—bodies pressed close, drinks clinking, laughter loud and messy.

Alix swayed, arms above her head, hair clinging to the sides of her neck from the heat, a half-finished rum and Coke sloshing in her hand. She was three drinks in and didn’t care about the sweat, didn’t care about the way her head swam just enough to dull the edges of the week.

Her cousin Jasmine leaned in from the side, grinning, her hair bouncing with every step she took on the beat. “Okay, girl! You movin’ like you single single tonight!”

Alix laughed, half-shouting over the music, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jasmine gave her a look. “You know what it mean. You and that boy still playing house or what?”

Alix didn’t answer right away. She took a long sip from her cup instead.

Her other cousin, Marie, popped in with a smirk. “Royce, right? Tall, quiet, kinda moody. The one you brought to that one cookout?”

“Yeah,” Alix said, tone flat.

“Oh, he used to be at our church sometimes,” Marie added. “Quiet, but he got hands. I remember he and this boy named Donnie got into it during VBS over some girl.”

“He’s not church-boy quiet anymore,” Jasmine said knowingly. “Now he ‘future NFL pick’ quiet.”

One of Alix’s friends, Madi, swiveled into the conversation, cheeks flushed, clutching a tequila shot. “Wait—is that the one who plays linebacker or whatever? The one with the jawline and the accent?”

“Unfortunately,” Alix muttered, finishing her drink.

Madi leaned into Jasmine and Marie. “Y’all, he’s hot but like, emotionally unavailable hot. Alix can do better.”

“She tried to do better last weekend,” their other friend Simone chimed in with a cackle, giving Alix a playful nudge. “That guy from the party? He was fine.”

Jasmine’s brows shot up. “What guy from the party?”

Marie blinked. “You stepped out on moody twin boy?”

Alix groaned and rolled her eyes. “I didn’t step out on anybody. We’re not together. Haven’t been together.”

Madi gave her a look. “Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been talking about him like y’all share a lease.”

Alix just sipped from her straw, letting the ice clink as the drink ran out.

“Okay, but seriously,” Jasmine said, pulling her closer so she didn’t have to shout. “You know I like me a man that might go upside my head if I play with him too much. He won’t actually do it, but I need that look. Ol’ boy from last week like that?”

“He was nice,” Alix said defensively. “He actually listened.”

Marie folded her arms. “That man listened to you because he was trying to put dick in you. Royce probably doesn’t listen because he thinks you already know what he’s gonna say. That boy been through too much. You know that.”

Simone scoffed. “Yeah, but fine and quiet and mysterious are the ones that got issues. I wouldn’t trust no man like that. He probably got forty bitches on his roster.”

Jasmine snorted. “He could have forty-five of them if he got money, and that boy got money, don’t he? A lot more than some random motherfucker at a party.”

Alix laughed despite herself, shaking her head.

“I’m not picking anybody tonight,” she said, tossing her empty cup on a tray someone passed by. “I’m picking more drinks.”

“Now that’s the energy,” Madi said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the bar.

But as they moved through the crowd, Alix couldn’t stop the dull ache behind her ribs.

Because no matter how hard she tried to blur the weekend before into a forgettable night…
She hadn’t forgotten the look on Royce’s face the morning she came back.

And she hadn’t forgotten how she’d felt when he wouldn’t even look her in the eye.

The music rose, drowning her thoughts.

But it didn’t silence them.

…

The morning sunlight washed softly through the kitchen blinds, dust specks floating in the quiet. Alix stood near the sink, her hair still up from the night before, wearing one of her dad’s old Tulane hoodies and cradling a mug of coffee she hadn’t touched.

Marc sat at the table with the Advocate folded in half beside him, sipping his own coffee like he had nowhere to be for the next few hours. He was relaxed in that easy, old-school way—graying beard, navy LSU shirt, and socks pulled high even though he wasn’t wearing shoes.

Alix cleared her throat.

“Can I ask you something?”

Marc glanced up. “You just did.”

Alix gave him a look, then rolled her eyes. “What do you think of Royce?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just took another sip of coffee, then leaned back in the chair, one hand rubbing at his jaw like the question scratched something that had been sitting under his skin for a while.

“He reminds me of my brother Marquise,” Marc said finally.

Alix tilted her head. “Uncle Marquise?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, tone dry. “Eight baby mamas. Ten kids. Don’t take care of any of ‘em. Never settled down, never grew up. Always had some excuse for why everything was somebody else’s fault.”

Alix’s face twisted. “Royce isn’t like that.”

Marc raised his eyebrows. “No? Let’s see. Got a chip on his shoulder so big it’s a wonder he can fit through a door. Keeps women around like they’re insurance policies. Refuses to call what y’all have a relationship but still expects loyalty. And from what I hear, he’s halfway famous already and don’t know how to handle that without blowing shit up around him.”

“You don’t know him,” Alix said sharply.

“I know the type,” Marc countered. “And I know you. You fall hard for people you think you can fix. You think because he’s been through some stuff, it excuses the way he treats people.”

Alix looked away, her hands tightening around her mug.

“I get it,” Marc said, voice low but firm now. “He’s got presence. He’s charming in that ‘wounded soul’ kinda way. And people are giving him everything he wants because he can hit hard and look good doing it. But when that fame fades—and it will—what’s left?”

He let the question hang.

Alix didn’t answer.

Marc stood, rinsed out his mug in the sink, then turned back to her with one final glance.

“You deserve someone who don’t need you to heal him just so he can hurt you later. You’re not his therapist. You’re not his second chance. You’re twenty years old, Alix. Don’t waste your time becoming some boy’s lesson.”

He left her there, standing silent in the kitchen, the morning light growing a little sharper through the blinds.

And for the first time, Alix wasn’t sure if she could argue with him.