Dying to Live
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Soapy
- Posts: 16919
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
boy thought he was at UGA
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djp73
- Posts: 13300
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
When the nephews rtg starting?
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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djp73
- Posts: 13300
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Think they’ll have pop warner in rtg by then?
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Call Me Skeptical
The phone buzzed again.
Royce groaned and rolled over, grabbing it off the nightstand. His screen burned bright in the darkness of the bedroom—just past five a.m.—and Shayla’s name was stacked in the notifications like a warning siren.
Shayla: “Please answer.”
Shayla: “One of Meech’s boys got shot.”
Shayla: “I was there. The cops came. I dipped before they got statements.”
Shayla: “I can’t go home right now. I don’t want them knocking at my grandma’s door.”
Shayla: “Can I come to you?”
Royce rubbed his hand down his face, exhaling.
He hadn’t even gone to sleep until after two, still stuck in his own head. The game, the hospital visit, Alix dozing next to him afterward like she belonged there—like she wanted to belong.
And now this.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb frozen over the keyboard. He didn’t want to be involved.
Not in Meech’s mess. Not in Shayla’s.
But he also knew what it meant for a Black girl to be in the wrong place at the wrong time in Baton Rouge—especially around guns, especially around blood.
’Come on. Visitor lot. Don’t pull in front.’
…
She showed up twenty minutes later, hoodie swallowing her frame, eyes darting like she was still in the alley where the shots rang out.
Royce had barely opened the door before she pushed past him, chest heaving, nerves twitching under her skin.
“Did anyone follow you?” he asked.
“No,” she muttered, already pacing. “I took the long way. Doubled back on Coursey, then slid through Sherwood just in case.”
Her voice trembled, like the adrenaline was still spiking through her.
“Shayla,” Royce said gently, stepping in front of her, “Sit down. You making me nervous pacing like that.”
She hesitated, lips parted, then finally dropped onto the edge of the couch, rubbing her arms like she was cold.
“I didn’t even see it happen,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I was in the kitchen, and then I just heard people screaming and saw someone laid out on the floor bleeding. Meech dipped like he had a plane to catch.”
Royce shook his head, grabbing a half bottle of Crown from the cabinet. He poured a few ounces into a glass and brought it to her.
She downed it fast, like it was medicine.
“Thank you,” she said, her fingers gripping the glass a little too tight. “You didn’t have to say yes.”
“I almost didn’t,” Royce admitted, leaning on the edge of the counter. “But I figured if you was texting me like that, you didn’t have nobody else to go to.”
Shayla gave a weak laugh. “I don’t. Not really. Meech always say he got me, but that man be ghost the second shit get real. You…” she looked up at him, eyes tired but locked in, “You ain’t like him. You always been solid.”
Royce didn’t answer. He didn’t want to be “solid.” He didn’t want to be this. He wasn’t trying to be Meech’s clean-up man, or Shayla’s temporary shelter.
But he also didn’t move when she stood up and walked toward him.
“Let me take my mind off it,” she whispered, hands pressing to his chest. “Just for a little while. I just… I don’t wanna think tonight.”
Her lips were on his neck before he could respond, soft and needy, her fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.
“Shayla,” he murmured, half pulling back.
“I’m on the pill,” she said against his jaw, her hands already moving to her waistband.
Royce sighed, stepping back. “I still ain’t trying to be nobody daddy, sorry.”
She laughed under her breath but didn’t argue.
The kiss that followed wasn’t sweet or slow—it was urgent, messy, searching. She pushed him backward toward the couch, and he let her, the silence around them thick and pulsing.
After, she curled into him like the panic had been exhaled from her lungs, resting against his chest with her breath slowing.
But Royce didn’t sleep.
He stared at the ceiling, one arm behind his head, his other resting on the curve of her back.
His phone buzzed once with a morning ESPN notification, but he didn’t check it.
All he could think about was Alix.
Her hand in his at the hospital. The calm in her voice when she told him he should not read Britni’s letter.
The way she’d looked holding his nephew—comfortable, natural. Warm.
And now… here he was.
A girl he didn’t trust asleep on his chest.
The weight of the moment coiling tight around him again, guilt bleeding through the cracks.
He told himself he had made the right choice by helping her.
But somehow, it didn’t feel like help.
It felt like something else entirely.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce stepped into Billy’s office, the cool hush of the space a sharp contrast to the Baton Rouge humidity just outside the doors. The smell of fresh espresso lingered in the air, and sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the silver trim on the leather chairs and the subtle gleam of wealth that wrapped around everything in here.
Chance Delpit was already seated, legs crossed, perfectly tailored blazer pressed crisp against his frame. He stood when Royce entered, that familiar polished smile curling across his face.
“There he is,” Delpit said, offering his hand. “You were really putting it on them boys from Florida, huh?”
Royce shook his hand, giving a half-grin. “Little somethin’. You know, I can’t let them come in our city without sending them back with something.”
Delpit laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep at it. You’ve been showing up the right way—on the field, in the right rooms. That’s why we’re here.”
Billy, standing behind the desk, gestured to the thick envelope sitting neatly between them. “Sixty-five K,” he said simply. “Half of what we agreed on. You know the terms.”
Royce picked it up, felt the heft of it in his hands. It didn’t feel real. Not at first. Even after all he’d done—all the bullshit he’d swallowed—this was still the first time someone had handed him money not for running a route or hitting someone, but for simply being him.
A product. A brand.
Delpit watched him, eyes sharp. “This isn’t a one-time thing,” he said. “You keep doing what we agreed on—showing face, keeping your name clean, looking like a leader out there—I’ll come back next season with a bigger offer.”
Royce nodded slowly. “As long as the money’s green, I’ll do whatever I gotta do.”
Delpit smiled, but then his voice shifted—lower, a little more serious.
“Look, Royce, I want to level with you. I’ve worked with a lot of young athletes, entertainers, politicians' kids, all that. Too many of ‘em make a little money, get loud, and burn out by twenty-seven with nothing left but bad decisions and regrets.”
Royce’s face didn’t move, but his shoulders stiffened slightly.
Delpit leaned forward. “You don’t have to be one of them. You’re smart. You walk into a room and you don’t shrink—and that matters. You ever thought about learning how the game really works? How money moves? How deals get made?”
Royce’s eyes narrowed, curiosity piqued.
“I’m talking about equity. Ownership. Partnerships. Being the guy who sets the terms instead of just signing on the dotted line. I could show you that side of the world—how to protect yourself, how to turn this spotlight into real power. So you’re not just another young Black man with a five-year career and a thirty-year decline.”
Royce paused. His fingers tightened around the envelope.
“I’d be lying if I said I ain’t thought about that,” he said, voice low. “It’s hard not to when everybody got advice but no plan. I got people asking me for shit every day—money, time, favors. I’m trying to figure out what’s even mine to give.”
Delpit nodded. “That’s where it starts. Knowing what’s yours. What you’re building. Not just for today—but ten, twenty years from now. When the noise fades and the lights dim. That’s when it counts.”
Royce met his gaze, and for the first time since walking in, his expression softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Put me on game, then. I’m listening.”
Delpit grinned. “Good. Because Baton Rouge might be where you start—but if you play this right? It won’t be where you finish.”
Billy snapped a quick photo of the two of them—Royce holding the envelope, Delpit’s arm casually draped around his shoulder. The flash popped.
And in that moment, Royce wasn’t just an athlete cashing a check.
He was a young man standing at the mouth of something bigger.
And for once, he wanted to know what was on the other side.
The phone buzzed again.
Royce groaned and rolled over, grabbing it off the nightstand. His screen burned bright in the darkness of the bedroom—just past five a.m.—and Shayla’s name was stacked in the notifications like a warning siren.
Shayla: “Please answer.”
Shayla: “One of Meech’s boys got shot.”
Shayla: “I was there. The cops came. I dipped before they got statements.”
Shayla: “I can’t go home right now. I don’t want them knocking at my grandma’s door.”
Shayla: “Can I come to you?”
Royce rubbed his hand down his face, exhaling.
He hadn’t even gone to sleep until after two, still stuck in his own head. The game, the hospital visit, Alix dozing next to him afterward like she belonged there—like she wanted to belong.
And now this.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb frozen over the keyboard. He didn’t want to be involved.
Not in Meech’s mess. Not in Shayla’s.
But he also knew what it meant for a Black girl to be in the wrong place at the wrong time in Baton Rouge—especially around guns, especially around blood.
’Come on. Visitor lot. Don’t pull in front.’
…
She showed up twenty minutes later, hoodie swallowing her frame, eyes darting like she was still in the alley where the shots rang out.
Royce had barely opened the door before she pushed past him, chest heaving, nerves twitching under her skin.
“Did anyone follow you?” he asked.
“No,” she muttered, already pacing. “I took the long way. Doubled back on Coursey, then slid through Sherwood just in case.”
Her voice trembled, like the adrenaline was still spiking through her.
“Shayla,” Royce said gently, stepping in front of her, “Sit down. You making me nervous pacing like that.”
She hesitated, lips parted, then finally dropped onto the edge of the couch, rubbing her arms like she was cold.
“I didn’t even see it happen,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I was in the kitchen, and then I just heard people screaming and saw someone laid out on the floor bleeding. Meech dipped like he had a plane to catch.”
Royce shook his head, grabbing a half bottle of Crown from the cabinet. He poured a few ounces into a glass and brought it to her.
She downed it fast, like it was medicine.
“Thank you,” she said, her fingers gripping the glass a little too tight. “You didn’t have to say yes.”
“I almost didn’t,” Royce admitted, leaning on the edge of the counter. “But I figured if you was texting me like that, you didn’t have nobody else to go to.”
Shayla gave a weak laugh. “I don’t. Not really. Meech always say he got me, but that man be ghost the second shit get real. You…” she looked up at him, eyes tired but locked in, “You ain’t like him. You always been solid.”
Royce didn’t answer. He didn’t want to be “solid.” He didn’t want to be this. He wasn’t trying to be Meech’s clean-up man, or Shayla’s temporary shelter.
But he also didn’t move when she stood up and walked toward him.
“Let me take my mind off it,” she whispered, hands pressing to his chest. “Just for a little while. I just… I don’t wanna think tonight.”
Her lips were on his neck before he could respond, soft and needy, her fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.
“Shayla,” he murmured, half pulling back.
“I’m on the pill,” she said against his jaw, her hands already moving to her waistband.
Royce sighed, stepping back. “I still ain’t trying to be nobody daddy, sorry.”
She laughed under her breath but didn’t argue.
The kiss that followed wasn’t sweet or slow—it was urgent, messy, searching. She pushed him backward toward the couch, and he let her, the silence around them thick and pulsing.
After, she curled into him like the panic had been exhaled from her lungs, resting against his chest with her breath slowing.
But Royce didn’t sleep.
He stared at the ceiling, one arm behind his head, his other resting on the curve of her back.
His phone buzzed once with a morning ESPN notification, but he didn’t check it.
All he could think about was Alix.
Her hand in his at the hospital. The calm in her voice when she told him he should not read Britni’s letter.
The way she’d looked holding his nephew—comfortable, natural. Warm.
And now… here he was.
A girl he didn’t trust asleep on his chest.
The weight of the moment coiling tight around him again, guilt bleeding through the cracks.
He told himself he had made the right choice by helping her.
But somehow, it didn’t feel like help.
It felt like something else entirely.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce stepped into Billy’s office, the cool hush of the space a sharp contrast to the Baton Rouge humidity just outside the doors. The smell of fresh espresso lingered in the air, and sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the silver trim on the leather chairs and the subtle gleam of wealth that wrapped around everything in here.
Chance Delpit was already seated, legs crossed, perfectly tailored blazer pressed crisp against his frame. He stood when Royce entered, that familiar polished smile curling across his face.
“There he is,” Delpit said, offering his hand. “You were really putting it on them boys from Florida, huh?”
Royce shook his hand, giving a half-grin. “Little somethin’. You know, I can’t let them come in our city without sending them back with something.”
Delpit laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep at it. You’ve been showing up the right way—on the field, in the right rooms. That’s why we’re here.”
Billy, standing behind the desk, gestured to the thick envelope sitting neatly between them. “Sixty-five K,” he said simply. “Half of what we agreed on. You know the terms.”
Royce picked it up, felt the heft of it in his hands. It didn’t feel real. Not at first. Even after all he’d done—all the bullshit he’d swallowed—this was still the first time someone had handed him money not for running a route or hitting someone, but for simply being him.
A product. A brand.
Delpit watched him, eyes sharp. “This isn’t a one-time thing,” he said. “You keep doing what we agreed on—showing face, keeping your name clean, looking like a leader out there—I’ll come back next season with a bigger offer.”
Royce nodded slowly. “As long as the money’s green, I’ll do whatever I gotta do.”
Delpit smiled, but then his voice shifted—lower, a little more serious.
“Look, Royce, I want to level with you. I’ve worked with a lot of young athletes, entertainers, politicians' kids, all that. Too many of ‘em make a little money, get loud, and burn out by twenty-seven with nothing left but bad decisions and regrets.”
Royce’s face didn’t move, but his shoulders stiffened slightly.
Delpit leaned forward. “You don’t have to be one of them. You’re smart. You walk into a room and you don’t shrink—and that matters. You ever thought about learning how the game really works? How money moves? How deals get made?”
Royce’s eyes narrowed, curiosity piqued.
“I’m talking about equity. Ownership. Partnerships. Being the guy who sets the terms instead of just signing on the dotted line. I could show you that side of the world—how to protect yourself, how to turn this spotlight into real power. So you’re not just another young Black man with a five-year career and a thirty-year decline.”
Royce paused. His fingers tightened around the envelope.
“I’d be lying if I said I ain’t thought about that,” he said, voice low. “It’s hard not to when everybody got advice but no plan. I got people asking me for shit every day—money, time, favors. I’m trying to figure out what’s even mine to give.”
Delpit nodded. “That’s where it starts. Knowing what’s yours. What you’re building. Not just for today—but ten, twenty years from now. When the noise fades and the lights dim. That’s when it counts.”
Royce met his gaze, and for the first time since walking in, his expression softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Put me on game, then. I’m listening.”
Delpit grinned. “Good. Because Baton Rouge might be where you start—but if you play this right? It won’t be where you finish.”
Billy snapped a quick photo of the two of them—Royce holding the envelope, Delpit’s arm casually draped around his shoulder. The flash popped.
And in that moment, Royce wasn’t just an athlete cashing a check.
He was a young man standing at the mouth of something bigger.
And for once, he wanted to know what was on the other side.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Grabbed by the Hog
The locker room still smelled like sweat and loss.
Even after the coaches had given their final words and most of the media had filtered in, the air remained heavy, stale with disappointment. Cleats clacked on tile, shoulder pads scraped against open lockers, and the occasional muttered curse punctuated the silence between murmured interviews.
Royce sat on the edge of the bench, taping and re-taping the same spot on his wrist. There was no reason for it—he wasn’t hurt. It just gave his hands something to do, something to keep him from balling them into fists.
The second loss.
The second one that mattered.
First Alabama. Now Arkansas.
Two rivalry games. Two gut punches.
His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.
A voice broke through the static of the room.
“Royce—Royce, quick question for you.”
He looked up. A local reporter, camera crew behind him, mic already extended. He was one of the regulars who showed up every week, usually grinning, always polite. Tonight, his smile was gone.
“Can you talk a little about what happened in the fourth quarter? It looked like the defense got caught flat-footed on that last drive. What do you think went wrong?”
Royce blinked slowly. For a second, he didn’t answer, his lips pressing into a thin, white line. Behind his eyes, the play flashed again—third and long, a blown coverage, a missed assignment, Arkansas’s sideline erupting in celebration.
He wanted to say we folded.
He wanted to say some of y’all quit.
He wanted to say I’m tired of being the only one pissed about losing.
Instead, he drew in a slow breath and kept his voice level.
“We didn’t execute the way we needed to,” he said, the words clipped but even. “We had a game plan, and we didn’t follow through when it counted. That’s on all of us.”
The reporter nodded, waiting for more, but Royce wasn’t giving it.
He turned back toward his locker, the tape now shredded in his lap.
“Thanks,” the reporter said quietly, stepping away.
As the camera light faded, Royce sat there, the weight of the loss finally crashing down like the shoulder pads at his feet. He didn’t look at anyone else in the room.
Because he didn’t want to see who wasn’t hurting the way he was.
…
The stadium had quieted, the weight of momentum shifting like a brewing storm, even though LSU still held the lead. But everyone in Tiger Stadium could feel it—something slipping.
Third and short. Arkansas lined up heavy, the backfield loaded, and LSU’s defense pinched tight to the middle. Royce crouched low at the second level, eyes darting, watching for any hint of misdirection. He shouted an adjustment, trying to tighten up the right side.
The ball was snapped.
Rodney Hill took the handoff and disappeared into the mass of bodies—but Royce didn’t bite. He saw the way Hill hesitated, then bounced the run wide just as Royce feared. Kolaj, stuck inside, didn’t react fast enough. The edge was gone.
“Shit,” Royce muttered, pushing off the block and giving chase, but Hill was already sprinting down the sideline.
Thirty-seven yards.
One cut.
Six points.
The Arkansas fans in their sliver of the stadium erupted as Hill crossed the goal line untouched, raising the ball in the air like a trophy. Royce didn’t stop running—he chased him all the way into the end zone, even though it was too late.
He didn’t even look at the scoreboard. He didn’t need to.
He turned on his heel and stormed back toward the line of scrimmage, fury painted across his face. Kolaj was jogging back, head down, helmet tilted slightly like he already knew what was coming.
Royce grabbed him by the shoulder pads, yanking him to a stop.
“You missed your damn gap!” he shouted, voice sharp, cutting through the noise. “That’s your edge! You let him bounce it outside like we ain’t been talkin’ about that all week!”
Kolaj didn’t respond, didn’t meet his eyes. Just mumbled something that Royce didn’t bother trying to hear.
“You do that again, and we losing this game,” Royce snapped, shoving him lightly before backing off.
He turned away, chest heaving as the extra point sailed through the uprights.
25-21.
End of the third.
And the fourth quarter loomed like something waiting to break.
…
“LSU was running all over Arkansas in the first half, but the Razorbacks have really locked them down here since the halftime break. That’s nothing doing for Holly.”
“The Tigers just need to hold on here. Arkansas has the momentum, but LSU has the lead and that clock is running down.”
…
The crowd inside Tiger Stadium had gone from restless to rabid, sensing just how thin the line was between hanging on and letting it all fall apart.
Arkansas had the ball near midfield, down by four with just under six minutes left. Every snap felt like a coin toss between survival and collapse. LSU’s sideline buzzed with tension, players standing shoulder-to-shoulder near the white line, helmets in hand, holding their breath.
Third and three.
Royce stood just behind the line, eyes trained on the quarterback, then shifted to the running back as the tight end motioned across the formation. He read it instantly—short-yardage package, trap run look—but something felt off. Arkansas had run it twice earlier in the game, and both times, the back hesitated before bouncing inside.
Not this time. Not if Royce had anything to say about it.
As the ball was snapped, he shot the gap before the pulling guard could even get his hands up. The back had barely taken the handoff when Royce collided with him, wrapping up low and driving him backward, his cleats churning against the turf.
The crowd exploded as the Razorback runner hit the ground a full yard behind the line of scrimmage.
Royce popped up first, roaring, pounding his chest as his teammates swarmed around him.
“Let’s go!” he shouted, face contorted with adrenaline.
The punting unit trotted out for Arkansas, the LSU offense already huddling up on the sideline, ready to bleed the clock.
It wasn’t the game-winner.
It wasn’t the highlight reel.
But it was the stop they needed.
And Royce had made it.
…
The offense huddled near the sideline, helmets in hand, grass stains on their jerseys, sweat dripping down their faces. The noise in Tiger Stadium was thunderous, but it wasn’t chaos—it was hope, building with every passing second.
Arkansas had just punted.
LSU had the ball, a four-point lead, and less than four minutes on the clock.
They needed two first downs. That was it. Two chains. And the game was theirs.
Coach Lanning stepped into the center of the huddle, his face tight with focus, voice rising above the din without needing to shout. The way he spoke—measured, direct—it cut through the adrenaline like a scalpel.
“Alright,” he said, locking eyes with every player in the huddle. “You want to be the kind of team that folds when it gets hot? Or the kind that closes?”
A murmur rippled through the group. The linemen nodded. The backs straightened.
“Two first downs,” Lanning said, holding up two fingers. “That’s what stands between us and walking off this field with a win. Not a single pass if we don’t need it. Not a damn trick play. Just us—our line—leaning on them and moving those chains.”
He turned to the offensive line, eyes blazing.
“You five? This is your moment. You blow ‘em off the ball. Don’t let ‘em breathe. Make ‘em feel every inch they gave up for the last sixty minutes. You finish the job.”
Then to the backs.
“Hold on to the damn ball. No hero shit. Get north and fall forward.”
He finally looked to Rickie—calm, composed, ready.
“You manage the clock. You keep it clean. Get us across the line and let the rest of ‘em handle the rest.”
The huddle leaned in.
Lanning stepped back, arms folded, his voice quiet now, but cutting deeper than any yell ever could.
“This is where we show ‘em who the fuck we are.”
And with that, the offense broke, sprinting onto the field—shoulder to shoulder, determined, ready to carry the weight of the moment one yard at a time.
…
“Arkansas surges forward and brings down Jackson after a gain of one!”
…
“Holly only picks up a couple there. It’s going to be third and six, make it seven.”
…
“Collins fakes and takes off to the outside himself! He stretches for the first down, but the referees are saying he’s short! The chain gang is coming out to measure. And they confirm it! Fourth and inches, LSU.”
“Dan Lanning isn’t taking any chances here and putting the faith in his defense to make another stop.”
…
The grass felt heavier beneath Royce’s cleats now. Every step dragged with fatigue, every cut sharp against tired legs. The LSU defense had been on the field too long—way too long—and Arkansas was bleeding them dry with methodical precision.
Royce lined up just off the edge, hands on his thighs, eyes narrowed beneath his facemask. The scoreboard glared down like a judge: 25–21. Just over two minutes left. First and goal at the LSU eight.
They had to hold.
He barked at Tylen to shift outside, pointed for the corner to press. He knew what was coming. Something short. Something quick. The Razorbacks hadn’t tested them deep this whole drive—they didn’t need to.
Taylen Green stood cool in the pocket, surveying, his jersey barely dirty, eyes scanning like a surgeon prepping for the cut.
The ball was snapped.
Jaedon Wilson motioned across the line, slowed just off the right tackle, then flared into the flat.
Royce saw it happening.
He exploded forward, trying to shoot the gap, but a chip block from the tight end caught just enough of him to throw off his balance. He lunged, fingertips grazing Green’s arm a beat too late.
The pass zipped out—low, fast, right into Wilson’s chest.
The receiver caught it at the three, turned his hips, and dove forward through a weak arm tackle. Royce’s cleats dug into the grass as he tried to reverse momentum and cut him off—but it was already over.
Wilson crossed the plane, ball outstretched, and the ref’s arms shot into the air.
Touchdown.
Royce skidded to a stop a few yards away, shoulders heaving as the end zone celebration unfolded in front of him. Wilson popped up, screaming, thumping his chest. Razorback linemen swarmed him, helmets banging together, while their sideline roared with the sound of stolen triumph.
Royce stared at the turf for a moment, then stood upright, jaw clenched so tight he could feel it grinding.
Another one.
Another lead gone.
Another game slipping through their hands.
He turned and walked slowly back toward the huddle, fists balled at his sides, the weight of the scoreboard pressing harder with every step.
28–25, Razorbacks.
And the stadium, once a cauldron of noise, was drowning in stunned silence.
The locker room still smelled like sweat and loss.
Even after the coaches had given their final words and most of the media had filtered in, the air remained heavy, stale with disappointment. Cleats clacked on tile, shoulder pads scraped against open lockers, and the occasional muttered curse punctuated the silence between murmured interviews.
Royce sat on the edge of the bench, taping and re-taping the same spot on his wrist. There was no reason for it—he wasn’t hurt. It just gave his hands something to do, something to keep him from balling them into fists.
The second loss.
The second one that mattered.
First Alabama. Now Arkansas.
Two rivalry games. Two gut punches.
His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.
A voice broke through the static of the room.
“Royce—Royce, quick question for you.”
He looked up. A local reporter, camera crew behind him, mic already extended. He was one of the regulars who showed up every week, usually grinning, always polite. Tonight, his smile was gone.
“Can you talk a little about what happened in the fourth quarter? It looked like the defense got caught flat-footed on that last drive. What do you think went wrong?”
Royce blinked slowly. For a second, he didn’t answer, his lips pressing into a thin, white line. Behind his eyes, the play flashed again—third and long, a blown coverage, a missed assignment, Arkansas’s sideline erupting in celebration.
He wanted to say we folded.
He wanted to say some of y’all quit.
He wanted to say I’m tired of being the only one pissed about losing.
Instead, he drew in a slow breath and kept his voice level.
“We didn’t execute the way we needed to,” he said, the words clipped but even. “We had a game plan, and we didn’t follow through when it counted. That’s on all of us.”
The reporter nodded, waiting for more, but Royce wasn’t giving it.
He turned back toward his locker, the tape now shredded in his lap.
“Thanks,” the reporter said quietly, stepping away.
As the camera light faded, Royce sat there, the weight of the loss finally crashing down like the shoulder pads at his feet. He didn’t look at anyone else in the room.
Because he didn’t want to see who wasn’t hurting the way he was.
…
The stadium had quieted, the weight of momentum shifting like a brewing storm, even though LSU still held the lead. But everyone in Tiger Stadium could feel it—something slipping.
Third and short. Arkansas lined up heavy, the backfield loaded, and LSU’s defense pinched tight to the middle. Royce crouched low at the second level, eyes darting, watching for any hint of misdirection. He shouted an adjustment, trying to tighten up the right side.
The ball was snapped.
Rodney Hill took the handoff and disappeared into the mass of bodies—but Royce didn’t bite. He saw the way Hill hesitated, then bounced the run wide just as Royce feared. Kolaj, stuck inside, didn’t react fast enough. The edge was gone.
“Shit,” Royce muttered, pushing off the block and giving chase, but Hill was already sprinting down the sideline.
Thirty-seven yards.
One cut.
Six points.
The Arkansas fans in their sliver of the stadium erupted as Hill crossed the goal line untouched, raising the ball in the air like a trophy. Royce didn’t stop running—he chased him all the way into the end zone, even though it was too late.
He didn’t even look at the scoreboard. He didn’t need to.
He turned on his heel and stormed back toward the line of scrimmage, fury painted across his face. Kolaj was jogging back, head down, helmet tilted slightly like he already knew what was coming.
Royce grabbed him by the shoulder pads, yanking him to a stop.
“You missed your damn gap!” he shouted, voice sharp, cutting through the noise. “That’s your edge! You let him bounce it outside like we ain’t been talkin’ about that all week!”
Kolaj didn’t respond, didn’t meet his eyes. Just mumbled something that Royce didn’t bother trying to hear.
“You do that again, and we losing this game,” Royce snapped, shoving him lightly before backing off.
He turned away, chest heaving as the extra point sailed through the uprights.
25-21.
End of the third.
And the fourth quarter loomed like something waiting to break.
…
“LSU was running all over Arkansas in the first half, but the Razorbacks have really locked them down here since the halftime break. That’s nothing doing for Holly.”
“The Tigers just need to hold on here. Arkansas has the momentum, but LSU has the lead and that clock is running down.”
…
The crowd inside Tiger Stadium had gone from restless to rabid, sensing just how thin the line was between hanging on and letting it all fall apart.
Arkansas had the ball near midfield, down by four with just under six minutes left. Every snap felt like a coin toss between survival and collapse. LSU’s sideline buzzed with tension, players standing shoulder-to-shoulder near the white line, helmets in hand, holding their breath.
Third and three.
Royce stood just behind the line, eyes trained on the quarterback, then shifted to the running back as the tight end motioned across the formation. He read it instantly—short-yardage package, trap run look—but something felt off. Arkansas had run it twice earlier in the game, and both times, the back hesitated before bouncing inside.
Not this time. Not if Royce had anything to say about it.
As the ball was snapped, he shot the gap before the pulling guard could even get his hands up. The back had barely taken the handoff when Royce collided with him, wrapping up low and driving him backward, his cleats churning against the turf.
The crowd exploded as the Razorback runner hit the ground a full yard behind the line of scrimmage.
Royce popped up first, roaring, pounding his chest as his teammates swarmed around him.
“Let’s go!” he shouted, face contorted with adrenaline.
The punting unit trotted out for Arkansas, the LSU offense already huddling up on the sideline, ready to bleed the clock.
It wasn’t the game-winner.
It wasn’t the highlight reel.
But it was the stop they needed.
And Royce had made it.
…
The offense huddled near the sideline, helmets in hand, grass stains on their jerseys, sweat dripping down their faces. The noise in Tiger Stadium was thunderous, but it wasn’t chaos—it was hope, building with every passing second.
Arkansas had just punted.
LSU had the ball, a four-point lead, and less than four minutes on the clock.
They needed two first downs. That was it. Two chains. And the game was theirs.
Coach Lanning stepped into the center of the huddle, his face tight with focus, voice rising above the din without needing to shout. The way he spoke—measured, direct—it cut through the adrenaline like a scalpel.
“Alright,” he said, locking eyes with every player in the huddle. “You want to be the kind of team that folds when it gets hot? Or the kind that closes?”
A murmur rippled through the group. The linemen nodded. The backs straightened.
“Two first downs,” Lanning said, holding up two fingers. “That’s what stands between us and walking off this field with a win. Not a single pass if we don’t need it. Not a damn trick play. Just us—our line—leaning on them and moving those chains.”
He turned to the offensive line, eyes blazing.
“You five? This is your moment. You blow ‘em off the ball. Don’t let ‘em breathe. Make ‘em feel every inch they gave up for the last sixty minutes. You finish the job.”
Then to the backs.
“Hold on to the damn ball. No hero shit. Get north and fall forward.”
He finally looked to Rickie—calm, composed, ready.
“You manage the clock. You keep it clean. Get us across the line and let the rest of ‘em handle the rest.”
The huddle leaned in.
Lanning stepped back, arms folded, his voice quiet now, but cutting deeper than any yell ever could.
“This is where we show ‘em who the fuck we are.”
And with that, the offense broke, sprinting onto the field—shoulder to shoulder, determined, ready to carry the weight of the moment one yard at a time.
…
“Arkansas surges forward and brings down Jackson after a gain of one!”
…
“Holly only picks up a couple there. It’s going to be third and six, make it seven.”
…
“Collins fakes and takes off to the outside himself! He stretches for the first down, but the referees are saying he’s short! The chain gang is coming out to measure. And they confirm it! Fourth and inches, LSU.”
“Dan Lanning isn’t taking any chances here and putting the faith in his defense to make another stop.”
…
The grass felt heavier beneath Royce’s cleats now. Every step dragged with fatigue, every cut sharp against tired legs. The LSU defense had been on the field too long—way too long—and Arkansas was bleeding them dry with methodical precision.
Royce lined up just off the edge, hands on his thighs, eyes narrowed beneath his facemask. The scoreboard glared down like a judge: 25–21. Just over two minutes left. First and goal at the LSU eight.
They had to hold.
He barked at Tylen to shift outside, pointed for the corner to press. He knew what was coming. Something short. Something quick. The Razorbacks hadn’t tested them deep this whole drive—they didn’t need to.
Taylen Green stood cool in the pocket, surveying, his jersey barely dirty, eyes scanning like a surgeon prepping for the cut.
The ball was snapped.
Jaedon Wilson motioned across the line, slowed just off the right tackle, then flared into the flat.
Royce saw it happening.
He exploded forward, trying to shoot the gap, but a chip block from the tight end caught just enough of him to throw off his balance. He lunged, fingertips grazing Green’s arm a beat too late.
The pass zipped out—low, fast, right into Wilson’s chest.
The receiver caught it at the three, turned his hips, and dove forward through a weak arm tackle. Royce’s cleats dug into the grass as he tried to reverse momentum and cut him off—but it was already over.
Wilson crossed the plane, ball outstretched, and the ref’s arms shot into the air.
Touchdown.
Royce skidded to a stop a few yards away, shoulders heaving as the end zone celebration unfolded in front of him. Wilson popped up, screaming, thumping his chest. Razorback linemen swarmed him, helmets banging together, while their sideline roared with the sound of stolen triumph.
Royce stared at the turf for a moment, then stood upright, jaw clenched so tight he could feel it grinding.
Another one.
Another lead gone.
Another game slipping through their hands.
He turned and walked slowly back toward the huddle, fists balled at his sides, the weight of the scoreboard pressing harder with every step.
28–25, Razorbacks.
And the stadium, once a cauldron of noise, was drowning in stunned silence.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16919
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
boy went hunting for picks and got caught smh
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17046
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47