never check her phone bruh, straight bubble guts lmao
Royce gonna catch a case with Deshawn or worse, end up like his brother
Dying to Live
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Soapy
- Posts: 16889
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17006
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
****Character List: https://dynastysports.net/viewtopic.php?p=69562#p69562****
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17006
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17006
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Squeaker
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 8000
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
That boy played a CTE-collection game with all this tackles.
Glad Alix finally getting her head on straight, lord knows she needs it
Glad Alix finally getting her head on straight, lord knows she needs it
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17006
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Fucking with someone other than our boy Ro is getting her head on straight? It be your own people.Captain Canada wrote: ↑11 Mar 2025, 11:18That boy played a CTE-collection game with all this tackles.
Glad Alix finally getting her head on straight, lord knows she needs it
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 8000
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
I know you know that boy Ro the most toxic protagonist ever. Bordering on anti-hero at this point.Caesar wrote: ↑11 Mar 2025, 11:21Fucking with someone other than our boy Ro is getting her head on straight? It be your own people.Captain Canada wrote: ↑11 Mar 2025, 11:18That boy played a CTE-collection game with all this tackles.
Glad Alix finally getting her head on straight, lord knows she needs it
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17006
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
He’s a troubled youth, sir. He comes from a tough home environment.Captain Canada wrote: ↑11 Mar 2025, 11:23I know you know that boy Ro the most toxic protagonist ever. Bordering on anti-hero at this point.Caesar wrote: ↑11 Mar 2025, 11:21Fucking with someone other than our boy Ro is getting her head on straight? It be your own people.Captain Canada wrote: ↑11 Mar 2025, 11:18That boy played a CTE-collection game with all this tackles.
Glad Alix finally getting her head on straight, lord knows she needs it
But we ranking him above Caesar Jenkins? Shocking.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17006
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Suffering from Success
Tigerland was lit.
Music thumped from every direction, neon signs glowed like beacons over packed bar patios, and LSU students poured into the street like the whole city had taken one collective exhale.
LSU 33, Florida 30. Double overtime.
A dogfight of a win, and Royce had been at the center of it.
Thirteen tackles.
Big ones. Open-field ones. Gang tackles where he blew up screens before they could breathe. It was the kind of game that reminded people why his name kept popping up in draft conversations—even if Royce himself tried to pretend he wasn’t listening.
And tonight? There was no avoiding it.
“ROYCE!”
“My dog!”
“Lafitte! You one of them ones, bro!”
It came from every direction—guys dapping him up, girls tugging at his sleeve for selfies, random people shoving shots into his hand and yelling “You earned that shit!”
He was drunk before he even made it inside Fred’s.
Dewon was already laughing, arms around two girls, grinning like this was the best night of his life. Marcus was leaned against the bar, talking trash to some Florida fans who’d wandered in and had the audacity to still wear blue. Khalil tossed Royce a beer and pointed at a guy in the corner.
“He said you overrated. Said he had you on quiet mode today.”
Royce smirked, cracked the beer. “He must’ve been watching the wrong game.”
Everything buzzed with heat and bodies and that post-win adrenaline that felt better than any high you could buy.
For a little while, Royce let himself be in it.
Let the noise carry him. Let the voices around him make him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could enjoy this.
But it didn’t last.
It never did.
By midnight, the rush had thinned into noise. The cheers turned into slurred rants. The faces all blurred together—people wanting things from him, but not knowing him.
And that old feeling crept back in.
That pressure in his chest. That hum in the back of his head that reminded him none of this was real.
He was on his third beer, shoulders tight, leaning against the railing near the back patio when someone bumped into him hard from behind.
The beer sloshed over his hand.
Royce turned, fast.
The guy—mid-twenties, jacked like a walk-on who never made the depth chart—didn’t even flinch.
“My bad,” he said, voice sharp. “Didn’t see you there, lil’ bro.”
The way he said it…
Royce stepped forward. “Watch who you talking to.”
The guy puffed his chest. “Calm down before somebody beat your ass up in here..”
Royce didn’t hesitate—he stepped in, jaw clenched, his fingers curling at his side.
“I ain’t never been afraid of no white boy and that ain’t about to start today.”
They were nose to nose now.
The crowd backed up.
For a second, it was dead silent except for the pounding bass inside.
Then Khalil’s arm was around Royce’s chest, dragging him back. Marcus jumped between them.
“Yo, chill, chill—he not worth it, bruh!”
Royce’s eyes never left the dude, breathing hard, jaw locked.
“Nah, he want his one. Let me go.”
“You real tough surrounded by your boys,” the guy muttered, turning to walk off. “Typical bitch ass motherfucker.”
Royce watched him disappear into the crowd, blood still pulsing loud in his ears.
He shoved Khalil’s arm off and grabbed his phone from his pocket.
“I’m out,” he muttered.
“Royce—”
He didn’t wait for the rest.
He pushed through the crowd, out the front door and into the cooler night air, the roar of the bar fading behind him.
Cheers and music still echoed, but it all sounded fake now.
The high was gone.
And all that was left was that weight again, sitting heavy behind his ribs.
…
Royce turned onto Government Street, windows cracked, the cool night air flooding into the car like a cold slap across the face. The bar was already far behind him, but the tension hadn’t left his shoulders. His jaw was still tight. His grip on the wheel too firm. The music playing low through the speakers—some slow Brent Faiyaz joint—wasn’t helping.
He was buzzed. Not drunk, not out of control. But definitely not sober.
He just wanted to get home.
To be alone.
To stop thinking.
His apartment was only a few blocks away when the blue lights hit his rearview mirror.
His stomach dropped.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pulling over to the side slowly, carefully, hands visible on the wheel.
The cruiser idled behind him for a few seconds before two officers stepped out.
Both white. One older, with a paunch under his vest and a flashlight already aimed at the rear windshield. The other younger, tall and buzzcut clean.
Royce exhaled and lowered the window.
The older cop leaned in slightly, the light catching Royce’s face. “Evenin’. You know why we pulled you over?”
“No, sir,” Royce said, voice even.
The cop sniffed, eyes narrowing. “You been drinking tonight?”
Royce’s eyes flicked forward. “I had a couple earlier.”
“Step out the vehicle for me.”
He did. Slowly. Calm. Hands first.
The younger officer circled around to his side while the older one asked him to follow the pen with his eyes, to stand on one leg, to walk in a straight line. Royce did them all, his movements sharp, controlled—but he could feel the weight of their gaze like a hand pressing against his back.
He wasn’t stumbling.
But his heart was hammering.
“You live around here?” the younger cop asked.
Royce nodded toward the end of the block. “Yeah. I live right there. Just over on Lafayette.”
The two cops exchanged a glance.
The older one finally exhaled. “Alright. You’re close enough to walk.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “We’re issuing you a summons for underage consumption. You can take it up with the court if you want, but you don’t need to be behind the wheel right now.”
Royce took the paper, jaw tight. “Yes, sir.”
The cop gave him one last long look. “Be smart, son. You got a lot more to lose than most.”
Royce didn’t answer. Just turned, locked his car, and started walking.
The cruiser rolled off a second later, tail lights fading into the dark.
Royce shoved the summons in his pocket. The sound of traffic was low and steady now, the buzz of streetlights overhead matching the low-grade throb in his head.
He didn’t feel relief.
Didn’t feel lucky.
He just felt... tired.
Like no matter how much distance he tried to put between himself and the edge, he always ended up staring over it anyway.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Macon air was thick and humid, even after sunset, clinging to Poochie’s skin like guilt he couldn’t quite sweat out. The Mercer campus was quiet that weekend, most of the student body either on the road with the football team or watching the game online from their apartments. But Poochie wasn’t on the bus.
He hadn’t made the travel squad.
Again.
He sat on the edge of a low brick wall near the edge of the quad, hoodie pulled low over his face, watching the screen of his cracked iPhone light up with game updates he refused to open. His cleats sat untouched in his dorm, like relics of a version of himself he didn’t believe in anymore.
Six months ago, he’d transferred from Alabama, thinking he was making the smart move—more reps, more shine, new start.
But he was buried on the depth chart. Barely getting scout team snaps. Coaches barely said his name.
And now he wasn’t even on the damn bus.
“I should’ve stayed at ‘Bama and rode the bench with dignity,” he muttered to himself, tapping ash from a cheap Black & Mild into the grass.
A beat later, a voice called from across the path.
“Yo, Pooch!”
He looked up.
Trent, a receiver from the team who didn’t make the travel squad either, was walking over with two girls flanking him, one sipping from a red Solo cup, the other laughing at something Trent had just said.
“You just gonna sit out here all night?” Trent asked, coming to a stop in front of him.
“I wasn’t planning on shit,” Poochie said.
“Well now you are,” Trent said. “We’re hitting up Nia’s. She got that top floor apartment off Vineville. Her cousin just came in town and bro... she bad.”
Poochie didn’t move at first, but the weight in his chest wasn’t going anywhere, and sitting around sulking sure as hell wasn’t helping.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “Aight. Let’s go.”
…
Nia’s apartment was hazy with smoke and low light, the kind of place where the speakers never stopped and nobody really asked questions.
Poochie leaned against the kitchen counter with a plastic cup of something too strong and too sweet, eyes drifting to the girl Trent had hyped up.
Kiera.
She was cute. Curly hair. Brown skin that glowed under the lamp light. Gold hoops. Smelled like coconut oil and bad decisions.
“You gonna keep staring or you gonna say something?” she asked, smirking over the rim of her drink.
Poochie gave her a lazy grin. “You always this forward?”
She stepped closer, lips brushing the edge of his ear. “Only when I’m bored.”
The rest blurred.
Flirtation turned to touches. Touches to kisses. Kisses to her pulling him by the hoodie toward the bedroom while the rest of the party faded into background noise.
For a moment, as the door clicked shut, Poochie thought about Natalia.
Thought about her laugh. Her eyes when she was really listening to him. The way she’d believed in him when he couldn’t find his own name in a depth chart.
But the guilt didn’t stop him.
It barely slowed him down.
And that made him feel even worse.
…
Later, while Kiera slept curled into the sheets beside him, Poochie sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at Natalia’s last text from earlier that night.
’Good luck next week. Proud of you regardless.’
He didn’t respond.
He couldn’t.
Because he wasn’t sure who the hell he was anymore.
And football?
That felt further away than ever.
Tigerland was lit.
Music thumped from every direction, neon signs glowed like beacons over packed bar patios, and LSU students poured into the street like the whole city had taken one collective exhale.
LSU 33, Florida 30. Double overtime.
A dogfight of a win, and Royce had been at the center of it.
Thirteen tackles.
Big ones. Open-field ones. Gang tackles where he blew up screens before they could breathe. It was the kind of game that reminded people why his name kept popping up in draft conversations—even if Royce himself tried to pretend he wasn’t listening.
And tonight? There was no avoiding it.
“ROYCE!”
“My dog!”
“Lafitte! You one of them ones, bro!”
It came from every direction—guys dapping him up, girls tugging at his sleeve for selfies, random people shoving shots into his hand and yelling “You earned that shit!”
He was drunk before he even made it inside Fred’s.
Dewon was already laughing, arms around two girls, grinning like this was the best night of his life. Marcus was leaned against the bar, talking trash to some Florida fans who’d wandered in and had the audacity to still wear blue. Khalil tossed Royce a beer and pointed at a guy in the corner.
“He said you overrated. Said he had you on quiet mode today.”
Royce smirked, cracked the beer. “He must’ve been watching the wrong game.”
Everything buzzed with heat and bodies and that post-win adrenaline that felt better than any high you could buy.
For a little while, Royce let himself be in it.
Let the noise carry him. Let the voices around him make him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could enjoy this.
But it didn’t last.
It never did.
By midnight, the rush had thinned into noise. The cheers turned into slurred rants. The faces all blurred together—people wanting things from him, but not knowing him.
And that old feeling crept back in.
That pressure in his chest. That hum in the back of his head that reminded him none of this was real.
He was on his third beer, shoulders tight, leaning against the railing near the back patio when someone bumped into him hard from behind.
The beer sloshed over his hand.
Royce turned, fast.
The guy—mid-twenties, jacked like a walk-on who never made the depth chart—didn’t even flinch.
“My bad,” he said, voice sharp. “Didn’t see you there, lil’ bro.”
The way he said it…
Royce stepped forward. “Watch who you talking to.”
The guy puffed his chest. “Calm down before somebody beat your ass up in here..”
Royce didn’t hesitate—he stepped in, jaw clenched, his fingers curling at his side.
“I ain’t never been afraid of no white boy and that ain’t about to start today.”
They were nose to nose now.
The crowd backed up.
For a second, it was dead silent except for the pounding bass inside.
Then Khalil’s arm was around Royce’s chest, dragging him back. Marcus jumped between them.
“Yo, chill, chill—he not worth it, bruh!”
Royce’s eyes never left the dude, breathing hard, jaw locked.
“Nah, he want his one. Let me go.”
“You real tough surrounded by your boys,” the guy muttered, turning to walk off. “Typical bitch ass motherfucker.”
Royce watched him disappear into the crowd, blood still pulsing loud in his ears.
He shoved Khalil’s arm off and grabbed his phone from his pocket.
“I’m out,” he muttered.
“Royce—”
He didn’t wait for the rest.
He pushed through the crowd, out the front door and into the cooler night air, the roar of the bar fading behind him.
Cheers and music still echoed, but it all sounded fake now.
The high was gone.
And all that was left was that weight again, sitting heavy behind his ribs.
…
Royce turned onto Government Street, windows cracked, the cool night air flooding into the car like a cold slap across the face. The bar was already far behind him, but the tension hadn’t left his shoulders. His jaw was still tight. His grip on the wheel too firm. The music playing low through the speakers—some slow Brent Faiyaz joint—wasn’t helping.
He was buzzed. Not drunk, not out of control. But definitely not sober.
He just wanted to get home.
To be alone.
To stop thinking.
His apartment was only a few blocks away when the blue lights hit his rearview mirror.
His stomach dropped.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pulling over to the side slowly, carefully, hands visible on the wheel.
The cruiser idled behind him for a few seconds before two officers stepped out.
Both white. One older, with a paunch under his vest and a flashlight already aimed at the rear windshield. The other younger, tall and buzzcut clean.
Royce exhaled and lowered the window.
The older cop leaned in slightly, the light catching Royce’s face. “Evenin’. You know why we pulled you over?”
“No, sir,” Royce said, voice even.
The cop sniffed, eyes narrowing. “You been drinking tonight?”
Royce’s eyes flicked forward. “I had a couple earlier.”
“Step out the vehicle for me.”
He did. Slowly. Calm. Hands first.
The younger officer circled around to his side while the older one asked him to follow the pen with his eyes, to stand on one leg, to walk in a straight line. Royce did them all, his movements sharp, controlled—but he could feel the weight of their gaze like a hand pressing against his back.
He wasn’t stumbling.
But his heart was hammering.
“You live around here?” the younger cop asked.
Royce nodded toward the end of the block. “Yeah. I live right there. Just over on Lafayette.”
The two cops exchanged a glance.
The older one finally exhaled. “Alright. You’re close enough to walk.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “We’re issuing you a summons for underage consumption. You can take it up with the court if you want, but you don’t need to be behind the wheel right now.”
Royce took the paper, jaw tight. “Yes, sir.”
The cop gave him one last long look. “Be smart, son. You got a lot more to lose than most.”
Royce didn’t answer. Just turned, locked his car, and started walking.
The cruiser rolled off a second later, tail lights fading into the dark.
Royce shoved the summons in his pocket. The sound of traffic was low and steady now, the buzz of streetlights overhead matching the low-grade throb in his head.
He didn’t feel relief.
Didn’t feel lucky.
He just felt... tired.
Like no matter how much distance he tried to put between himself and the edge, he always ended up staring over it anyway.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Macon air was thick and humid, even after sunset, clinging to Poochie’s skin like guilt he couldn’t quite sweat out. The Mercer campus was quiet that weekend, most of the student body either on the road with the football team or watching the game online from their apartments. But Poochie wasn’t on the bus.
He hadn’t made the travel squad.
Again.
He sat on the edge of a low brick wall near the edge of the quad, hoodie pulled low over his face, watching the screen of his cracked iPhone light up with game updates he refused to open. His cleats sat untouched in his dorm, like relics of a version of himself he didn’t believe in anymore.
Six months ago, he’d transferred from Alabama, thinking he was making the smart move—more reps, more shine, new start.
But he was buried on the depth chart. Barely getting scout team snaps. Coaches barely said his name.
And now he wasn’t even on the damn bus.
“I should’ve stayed at ‘Bama and rode the bench with dignity,” he muttered to himself, tapping ash from a cheap Black & Mild into the grass.
A beat later, a voice called from across the path.
“Yo, Pooch!”
He looked up.
Trent, a receiver from the team who didn’t make the travel squad either, was walking over with two girls flanking him, one sipping from a red Solo cup, the other laughing at something Trent had just said.
“You just gonna sit out here all night?” Trent asked, coming to a stop in front of him.
“I wasn’t planning on shit,” Poochie said.
“Well now you are,” Trent said. “We’re hitting up Nia’s. She got that top floor apartment off Vineville. Her cousin just came in town and bro... she bad.”
Poochie didn’t move at first, but the weight in his chest wasn’t going anywhere, and sitting around sulking sure as hell wasn’t helping.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “Aight. Let’s go.”
…
Nia’s apartment was hazy with smoke and low light, the kind of place where the speakers never stopped and nobody really asked questions.
Poochie leaned against the kitchen counter with a plastic cup of something too strong and too sweet, eyes drifting to the girl Trent had hyped up.
Kiera.
She was cute. Curly hair. Brown skin that glowed under the lamp light. Gold hoops. Smelled like coconut oil and bad decisions.
“You gonna keep staring or you gonna say something?” she asked, smirking over the rim of her drink.
Poochie gave her a lazy grin. “You always this forward?”
She stepped closer, lips brushing the edge of his ear. “Only when I’m bored.”
The rest blurred.
Flirtation turned to touches. Touches to kisses. Kisses to her pulling him by the hoodie toward the bedroom while the rest of the party faded into background noise.
For a moment, as the door clicked shut, Poochie thought about Natalia.
Thought about her laugh. Her eyes when she was really listening to him. The way she’d believed in him when he couldn’t find his own name in a depth chart.
But the guilt didn’t stop him.
It barely slowed him down.
And that made him feel even worse.
…
Later, while Kiera slept curled into the sheets beside him, Poochie sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at Natalia’s last text from earlier that night.
’Good luck next week. Proud of you regardless.’
He didn’t respond.
He couldn’t.
Because he wasn’t sure who the hell he was anymore.
And football?
That felt further away than ever.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17006
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Doux Enfant
The front door clicked shut behind them with a soft thud, muffling the buzz of the outside world and leaving only the low hum of the A/C unit and the soft thump of Alix’s sandals against the wood floor.
Royce dropped the white foam takeout container on the kitchen counter with one hand, running the other through his hair as he sighed and stretched. His shoulders cracked—he hadn't realized how tight he was until just now. Alix toed off her sandals by the door and made a slow circle around the living room before dropping onto the edge of the couch.
“God,” she groaned, “Ashlee’s gonna be complaining about the line at Mason’s until next week.”
“She was complaining in the line,” Royce said, chuckling as he leaned against the counter. “Talking ‘bout ‘what’s the point of brunch if I’m already hungry again?’”
Alix laughed, but it faded quickly into a thoughtful quiet. She pulled her legs up under her on the couch and played absently with the string on her hoodie.
“So,” she started, “Ashlee and I were talking about getting a place off campus next year. Maybe with Madi and Simone.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “Four of y’all in one apartment?”
“Yeah. Just looking right now. Nothing serious.”
He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, twisting the cap off. “Why not just get your own spot?”
Alix tilted her head. “Not all of us have NIL money coming in.”
“I’m not saying that—”
“You kind of are,” she interrupted, gently. “It’s not like I don’t want my own space, Royce. But I don’t have free rent or gear or boosters sneaking me gift cards in 'thank you' envelopes. I still gotta make decisions like… rent or groceries sometimes.”
He quieted, nodding once, guilt flickering behind his eyes.
“I’m not mad at you,” Alix said, a little softer. “But sometimes it feels like we live in two different worlds. You get checks for being you. I get told I should smile more when I’m filling out scholarship applications.”
Royce didn’t know what to say to that.
So, he didn’t say anything.
Instead, he took another long sip of water and pivoted without warning.
“You talk to Dominic lately?”
Alix blinked. “What?”
He kept his face neutral, but the question hung in the room like smoke.
“You heard me.”
Alix slowly set the throw pillow she’d been fiddling with back down. “No. Not in months. Why are you even bringing him up?”
Royce shrugged, voice flat. “Dunno. Just came to mind.”
Alix studied him for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly. “Right.”
She stood, stretched her arms overhead, then dropped them with a sigh. “Since we’re just pulling names out of the sky—how’s Bree?”
He met her eyes now. “She’s in my Stats class. That’s it.”
“That the same class Dominic’s in?”
Royce didn’t answer. The silence did it for him.
Alix smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Right.”
She wasn’t sure what she wanted from him in that moment—a confession? A denial? Something real—something other than shrugs and half-truths.
She walked over and leaned her hip against the counter beside him. “You know, you don’t have to lie. I’m not your girlfriend, remember?”
He looked at her then, really looked at her—eyes slow, jaw tense like he was chewing on words he didn’t want to spit out.
Before he could respond, his phone buzzed on the counter.
He glanced down.
Rana.
His face changed instantly—posture straightening, voice clipped. “Shit. It’s Tyrell.”
Alix stepped back. “What’s wrong?”
“Rana’s in labor.”
Royce was already moving—grabbing his hoodie, his keys, slipping on shoes in record time. The mood from five minutes ago vanished, replaced by urgency.
Alix hovered near the couch, unsure. “Do you want me to stay here? I can wait, it’s fine.”
But he paused at the door and looked back at her, brows pulled together, something unreadable flashing across his face.
“No,” he said. “Come with me.”
She hesitated.
And in that hesitation was everything unsaid between them.
But finally, she nodded. “Okay.”
She grabbed her bag from the floor and followed him out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind them.
…
The walls of the hospital room were soft beige, with curtains that filtered the late-afternoon sun into a warm, syrupy glow. The beeping of monitors faded into the background as soon as Royce stepped in behind the nurse, his eyes falling on Rana lying in the bed, a tired but radiant smile stretched across her face.
The baby—tiny, swaddled in blue, with a wrinkled forehead and a soft mop of dark curls—was nestled in her arms.
Royce had seen game-winning touchdowns, had watched stadiums erupt in noise so loud it made his teeth buzz—but none of it compared to the hush that settled over him as he stepped to the side of the bed and looked down at the baby boy blinking up at the world for the first time.
“Damn,” he muttered. “He look like Tyrell already. Ugly as a motherfucker.”
Rana chuckled hoarsely, brushing a hand over her newborn’s cheek. “Boy, don’t play with me. I’ll get out this bed and beat your ass.”
Royce grinned and glanced over his shoulder. Alix had hung back near the doorway at first, unsure, but now she stepped forward slowly. Her arms crossed tightly across her chest, like she wasn’t sure if she belonged here—but her eyes were soft as they settled on the baby.
“He’s beautiful,” she said quietly.
Rana gave her a nod, a little less guarded than usual. “You wanna hold him?”
Alix looked stunned. “Oh. Um—if it’s okay—”
Royce looked at Rana, eyebrows raised.
“Just sit down first,” Rana said with a smirk. “You drop him, I will kill you, pain meds or not.”
Alix settled into the chair near the window, and Rana carefully handed the baby to her.
Royce watched the way Alix cradled his nephew like she’d done it before, like it was natural, her thumb gently brushing over the baby's impossibly small hand.
…
A little while later, after the nurses had come in for checks and Rana had finally closed her eyes for a moment of rest, Tyrell clapped Royce on the back.
“Come walk with me,” he said, jerking his head toward the hallway.
Royce followed, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. They walked down past the vending machines, past the quiet bustle of the nurse’s station, and stopped near the end of the hallway.
Tyrell turned to face him, arms folded.
“I gotta ask,” he said, voice low, “you think that was the smartest thing you could’ve done today?”
Royce frowned. “What? What you talking about?”
Tyrell nodded back toward the room. “Bringing her here. To see your nephew being born.”
Royce looked genuinely confused. “We were together. I was on the way out the door. I asked if she wanted to come.”
Tyrell tilted his head slightly. “Royce… you know what that means to some people?”
Royce’s jaw flexed. “It ain’t like that.”
Tyrell didn’t let up. “You sure? ‘Cause you don’t bring just anybody to a moment like that. Not unless they’re family—or close to it.”
“I didn’t bring her in the delivery room,” Royce said, defensive now. “She ain’t hold his hand or cut the cord or nothing.”
Tyrell gave him a long, measured look. “Still. That’s a memory now. That baby’s first day? She’s in it. That means something. Whether you wanted it to or not.”
Royce leaned back against the wall, silent for a moment. He looked down the hallway like maybe the right words were somewhere out there, waiting to be found.
“I didn’t think about it like that,” he muttered.
“Start thinkin’ about it like that,” Tyrell said, not unkindly. “You don’t get to move through people’s lives like none of it sticks.”
Royce nodded, slowly. “Yeah. I hear you.”
Tyrell clapped him on the back again. “Alright. Go back in there. Your sister gon’ kill me if she wakes up and you’re not in there channeling your unc gene.”
Royce managed a small smile. But as he walked back toward the room, something heavy settled in his chest.
The front door clicked shut behind them with a soft thud, muffling the buzz of the outside world and leaving only the low hum of the A/C unit and the soft thump of Alix’s sandals against the wood floor.
Royce dropped the white foam takeout container on the kitchen counter with one hand, running the other through his hair as he sighed and stretched. His shoulders cracked—he hadn't realized how tight he was until just now. Alix toed off her sandals by the door and made a slow circle around the living room before dropping onto the edge of the couch.
“God,” she groaned, “Ashlee’s gonna be complaining about the line at Mason’s until next week.”
“She was complaining in the line,” Royce said, chuckling as he leaned against the counter. “Talking ‘bout ‘what’s the point of brunch if I’m already hungry again?’”
Alix laughed, but it faded quickly into a thoughtful quiet. She pulled her legs up under her on the couch and played absently with the string on her hoodie.
“So,” she started, “Ashlee and I were talking about getting a place off campus next year. Maybe with Madi and Simone.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “Four of y’all in one apartment?”
“Yeah. Just looking right now. Nothing serious.”
He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, twisting the cap off. “Why not just get your own spot?”
Alix tilted her head. “Not all of us have NIL money coming in.”
“I’m not saying that—”
“You kind of are,” she interrupted, gently. “It’s not like I don’t want my own space, Royce. But I don’t have free rent or gear or boosters sneaking me gift cards in 'thank you' envelopes. I still gotta make decisions like… rent or groceries sometimes.”
He quieted, nodding once, guilt flickering behind his eyes.
“I’m not mad at you,” Alix said, a little softer. “But sometimes it feels like we live in two different worlds. You get checks for being you. I get told I should smile more when I’m filling out scholarship applications.”
Royce didn’t know what to say to that.
So, he didn’t say anything.
Instead, he took another long sip of water and pivoted without warning.
“You talk to Dominic lately?”
Alix blinked. “What?”
He kept his face neutral, but the question hung in the room like smoke.
“You heard me.”
Alix slowly set the throw pillow she’d been fiddling with back down. “No. Not in months. Why are you even bringing him up?”
Royce shrugged, voice flat. “Dunno. Just came to mind.”
Alix studied him for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly. “Right.”
She stood, stretched her arms overhead, then dropped them with a sigh. “Since we’re just pulling names out of the sky—how’s Bree?”
He met her eyes now. “She’s in my Stats class. That’s it.”
“That the same class Dominic’s in?”
Royce didn’t answer. The silence did it for him.
Alix smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Right.”
She wasn’t sure what she wanted from him in that moment—a confession? A denial? Something real—something other than shrugs and half-truths.
She walked over and leaned her hip against the counter beside him. “You know, you don’t have to lie. I’m not your girlfriend, remember?”
He looked at her then, really looked at her—eyes slow, jaw tense like he was chewing on words he didn’t want to spit out.
Before he could respond, his phone buzzed on the counter.
He glanced down.
Rana.
His face changed instantly—posture straightening, voice clipped. “Shit. It’s Tyrell.”
Alix stepped back. “What’s wrong?”
“Rana’s in labor.”
Royce was already moving—grabbing his hoodie, his keys, slipping on shoes in record time. The mood from five minutes ago vanished, replaced by urgency.
Alix hovered near the couch, unsure. “Do you want me to stay here? I can wait, it’s fine.”
But he paused at the door and looked back at her, brows pulled together, something unreadable flashing across his face.
“No,” he said. “Come with me.”
She hesitated.
And in that hesitation was everything unsaid between them.
But finally, she nodded. “Okay.”
She grabbed her bag from the floor and followed him out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind them.
…
The walls of the hospital room were soft beige, with curtains that filtered the late-afternoon sun into a warm, syrupy glow. The beeping of monitors faded into the background as soon as Royce stepped in behind the nurse, his eyes falling on Rana lying in the bed, a tired but radiant smile stretched across her face.
The baby—tiny, swaddled in blue, with a wrinkled forehead and a soft mop of dark curls—was nestled in her arms.
Royce had seen game-winning touchdowns, had watched stadiums erupt in noise so loud it made his teeth buzz—but none of it compared to the hush that settled over him as he stepped to the side of the bed and looked down at the baby boy blinking up at the world for the first time.
“Damn,” he muttered. “He look like Tyrell already. Ugly as a motherfucker.”
Rana chuckled hoarsely, brushing a hand over her newborn’s cheek. “Boy, don’t play with me. I’ll get out this bed and beat your ass.”
Royce grinned and glanced over his shoulder. Alix had hung back near the doorway at first, unsure, but now she stepped forward slowly. Her arms crossed tightly across her chest, like she wasn’t sure if she belonged here—but her eyes were soft as they settled on the baby.
“He’s beautiful,” she said quietly.
Rana gave her a nod, a little less guarded than usual. “You wanna hold him?”
Alix looked stunned. “Oh. Um—if it’s okay—”
Royce looked at Rana, eyebrows raised.
“Just sit down first,” Rana said with a smirk. “You drop him, I will kill you, pain meds or not.”
Alix settled into the chair near the window, and Rana carefully handed the baby to her.
Royce watched the way Alix cradled his nephew like she’d done it before, like it was natural, her thumb gently brushing over the baby's impossibly small hand.
…
A little while later, after the nurses had come in for checks and Rana had finally closed her eyes for a moment of rest, Tyrell clapped Royce on the back.
“Come walk with me,” he said, jerking his head toward the hallway.
Royce followed, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. They walked down past the vending machines, past the quiet bustle of the nurse’s station, and stopped near the end of the hallway.
Tyrell turned to face him, arms folded.
“I gotta ask,” he said, voice low, “you think that was the smartest thing you could’ve done today?”
Royce frowned. “What? What you talking about?”
Tyrell nodded back toward the room. “Bringing her here. To see your nephew being born.”
Royce looked genuinely confused. “We were together. I was on the way out the door. I asked if she wanted to come.”
Tyrell tilted his head slightly. “Royce… you know what that means to some people?”
Royce’s jaw flexed. “It ain’t like that.”
Tyrell didn’t let up. “You sure? ‘Cause you don’t bring just anybody to a moment like that. Not unless they’re family—or close to it.”
“I didn’t bring her in the delivery room,” Royce said, defensive now. “She ain’t hold his hand or cut the cord or nothing.”
Tyrell gave him a long, measured look. “Still. That’s a memory now. That baby’s first day? She’s in it. That means something. Whether you wanted it to or not.”
Royce leaned back against the wall, silent for a moment. He looked down the hallway like maybe the right words were somewhere out there, waiting to be found.
“I didn’t think about it like that,” he muttered.
“Start thinkin’ about it like that,” Tyrell said, not unkindly. “You don’t get to move through people’s lives like none of it sticks.”
Royce nodded, slowly. “Yeah. I hear you.”
Tyrell clapped him on the back again. “Alright. Go back in there. Your sister gon’ kill me if she wakes up and you’re not in there channeling your unc gene.”
Royce managed a small smile. But as he walked back toward the room, something heavy settled in his chest.