Go Out Right
The gravel lot behind Marcus’s apartment was lit by the orange glow of a single streetlamp, flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to give out for good or hold on a little longer. A dented folding table sat in the middle of the open space, red cups and empty wing containers scattered across it, the remnants of a low-key hangout only guys who’d been through too many practices and not enough sleep could manage.
Royce leaned back in a plastic lawn chair, hoodie pulled over his head despite the mild night. A half-warm beer rested between his legs, untouched for the last twenty minutes.
Across from him, Khalil was rolling something in his lap, talking to J.J., who was already three drinks in and halfway to loud. Dewon sat on a milk crate next to Marcus, feet stretched out, talking trash about how soft the SEC had gotten.
“Y’all don’t remember football before TikTok,” Dewon said, shaking his head like a disappointed uncle. “Back when you had to knock a man’s helmet off to get on ESPN.”
“Man, shut up,” Marcus laughed, tipping his drink toward him. “You was in diapers when Tebow was running through folks.”
“I was still tougher than you are now,” Dewon shot back.
Royce chuckled quietly, eyes focused on the gravel beneath his sneakers. The laughter swirled around him, but he felt it at a distance. Like he was watching from outside a window instead of sitting right in the middle of it.
J.J. noticed.
“You good, bro?”
Royce looked up. “Yeah, I’m straight.”
“You look like you got a ghost sitting on your chest,” Khalil said, not unkindly. “What’s up?”
Royce took a breath and ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know, man. Just thinking.”
“That’s your first mistake,” Marcus muttered, grinning.
Royce smirked but didn’t laugh. He shifted in his seat. “I wish I was y’all.”
That quieted them. Not immediately, but enough for the group to glance his way with more attention than before.
Khalil raised a brow. “The hell does that mean?”
Royce shrugged. “Y’all get to leave. Start over. Transfer, graduate, whatever. You get to be new somewhere. Free. Nobody expecting you to be shit other than whatever you want to be.”
Dewon tilted his head. “And you don’t?”
Royce shook his head. “Nah, man. Everywhere I go, people watching. Waiting. Like I’m a goddamn test they wanna see pass or fail. It’s pressure every day. Coaches, boosters, fans, media, even students just trying to catch a picture like I’m already famous. And I’m not. I ain’t even done shit yet.”
The words came out sharper than he intended. Raw, maybe even whiny, but real.
He didn’t usually say this stuff out loud.
“I used to be able to mess up and laugh about it,” Royce continued. “Now if I miss a tackle, they questioning my draft stock. I miss a class, they emailing the compliance office. I go out with the wrong girl, it’s screenshots. Y’all don’t get it. Y’all get to leave. I gotta stay. I’m stuck.”
There was a beat of silence. Just the sound of the lamp buzzing and someone’s Spotify mix playing faintly through an open window upstairs.
Then J.J. laughed. “Boy, if you don’t shut up.”
Royce frowned. “Nigga, I’m being serious.”
“I know,” J.J. said, grinning. “But you sound like a bitch complaining that his mansion too big to clean.”
Dewon leaned forward. “You got pressure ’cause you earned that shit. This LSU, my nigga. Ain’t shit given for free here. We all see it. You just too close to the fire to know how bright you burn.”
Khalil nodded. “Don’t act like we don’t all wish we had your kind of problem. You built for this.”
Marcus raised his drink. “Just don’t forget us when you’re catching all them picks on Sundays. I want box seats and a jersey with my name stitched on the back.”
Royce smiled despite himself, eyes dropping to the bottle in his hand. “Y’all stupid.”
“And you an ol’ moody ass nigga,” J.J. shot back. “But you still cool people. Sometimes.”
“Real shit,” Dewon added, raising his cup.
Royce finally took a sip of the beer. Warm, bitter. But it settled something in him.
He wasn’t okay. Not fully. But tonight, he wasn’t alone in it.
And that would have to be enough—for now.
~~~~~~~~~~
The room was dim, lit only by the dull glow of a TV playing some crime docu-series no one was actually watching. The house smelled like stale weed and grease—fried something left too long in the air. The blinds were drawn, not for privacy but because they’d been like that for days. A single oscillating fan buzzed in the corner, doing little to cut through the humidity.
Meech sat back on the sagging couch, one arm stretched along the backrest, a blunt burning slow between his fingers. Shayla stood by the window, arms crossed, not looking at him but not looking away from the muted television either. Her hair was up, sweat glistening at her temple. She hadn't said much since she walked in.
“You been around him lately?” Meech asked, finally breaking the silence, voice low and casual, like he was asking about the weather.
Shayla didn’t answer right away.
Meech turned his head, watching her. “I asked you something.”
She sighed, then spoke. “He’s been around… but he don’t really talk like that. Not to me.”
Meech scoffed. “What, you saying he ain’t feeling you?”
“I’m saying he don’t trust me like you think,” Shayla said, still not turning around. “I think he’s on to something. Keeps his guard up. Like he know you up to some shit.”
Meech flicked ash onto the tray beside him, watching it scatter. “Then you need to work harder.”
Shayla finally turned, arms still crossed. “And how you want me to do that?”
Meech gave her a look that was both sharp and bored. “You know how.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That boy ain’t dumb, Meech. He might fuck around, but he watching. He thinks about shit. You throw too much at him too fast, and he gon’ pull back.”
Meech leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, voice a little harder. “Then throw just enough. Make him comfortable. Let him think he choosing it. Pussy got power, Shayla. You know that.”
Her jaw tensed.
“I know,” she muttered.
He looked at her, voice dropping again. “Then use it.”
She stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable crossing her face.
“You acting like this some little errand,” she said, quieter now. “Like it’s easy.”
Meech stood, slow and deliberate, stepping into her space. Not touching her. Just close enough.
“I ain’t asking,” he said. “I told you what to do. Make it happen.”
Shayla nodded once, tight and slow. But her eyes didn’t meet his.
Meech stepped back and tossed the burnt-out roach into the tray. He didn’t say another word, just turned and walked toward the kitchen, leaving her standing in the silence, arms still folded like they were the only armor she had left.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7992
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Sickos everywhere 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Battered Tigers
“Collins drops back and flicks it out to Pimpton in the back of the endzone—and that’s another touchdown! Rickie Collins, Ka’Morreun Pimpton, that’s not déjà vu, ladies and gentleman, just LSU going up 20-0!”
“The Tigers came into this game ranked tenth in the nation, and with playing in the SEC Championship Game out of the question, they’ll likely find themselves in the playoff if they win this afternoon.”
“Ramos’ kick is up and good, and that’s 21-0. With the way that this game is going, LSU is going to get that win.”
…
Late in the second quarter, with Oklahoma driving deep into LSU territory, the Sooners lined up three wide on second down. Jackson Arnold dropped back, eyes scanning the middle of the field. Royce stood just outside the hash, reading the quarterback’s body language like a second language.
The moment Arnold’s front foot planted, Royce was already moving.
The pass came in fast—tight spiral, aimed for the slot receiver breaking across the seam. But Royce cut under it, timing the leap perfectly. His arm shot out, fingertips slapping the ball away just before it could hit the receiver’s chest. The crowd roared as the football bounced harmlessly to the turf.
But Royce didn’t get up right away.
He landed awkwardly, his left shoulder absorbing most of the fall. Pain bloomed instantly, hot and sharp, shooting down through his arm as he rolled over and clutched at it.
Coaches and trainers were on him within seconds.
“You good?” one of them asked, crouching beside him.
Royce grit his teeth, nodded at first—but then shook his head. “Something’s off,” he muttered, trying to rotate it and flinching. “Can’t move it right.”
They helped him up gently, careful with his arm as they walked him to the sideline. The noise from the crowd faded beneath the throb in his shoulder. Every step felt like fire licking through the joint.
On the bench, one of the trainers pressed around the shoulder as Royce winced.
“We’ll take a closer look at halftime,” she said. “See how bad the swelling is. If the range of motion comes back, maybe we can get you back out there. But no promises.”
Royce nodded, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the field. The helmet still in his hand felt like dead weight. Watching the defense regroup without him made the pain feel heavier than the injury itself.
And halftime suddenly felt very far away.
…
“Kearney hauls it in and Oklahoma’s going to get on the board here before halftime!”
“That might be a big shift of the old mo-men-tum.”
…
The third quarter opened under the glow of stadium lights that seemed to burn a little brighter with the stakes. The buzz in the stands had dulled to a tense murmur—LSU’s defense had bent more than it should’ve during Royce’s absence, and everyone knew it.
Then came the moment.
Royce jogged out from the tunnel just before the first defensive series, helmet tucked under his arm, shoulder wrapped tight beneath his pads. The away fans noticed—first a ripple, then a full wave of cheers as the PA announcer called his name.
Back on the sideline, he fastened his chin strap, bounced on the balls of his feet, and gave a quick nod to Coach Lanning.
"You good?" the coach asked, low and gruff.
Royce rolled his left shoulder once—gingerly—but firmly. “I’m straight.”
He was in on the next series.
Oklahoma came out with a pistol look, trying to set the tone with a run up the gut. On first down, the ball snapped, and Royce read it instantly. His eyes locked onto the running back cutting toward the A-gap, and without hesitation, he surged forward.
The shoulder barked with pain, but he powered through it.
He met the back at the line of scrimmage—full force—shoulder square and low. The collision sent a shock through his whole frame, but the runner went nowhere, stopped dead in his tracks.
Royce held on until the whistle blew, then popped up first, chest heaving, jaw set.
The crowd erupted again.
Pain still hummed in his arm, but it didn’t matter. He was back. And he made sure everyone knew it.
…
“Zentner lines up from 38 yards out. The snap is good. Hold is good. It has the distance and it’s right through the uprights. The Sooners chip into the lead, 21-10.”
…
Third and four.
The Oklahoma offense broke the huddle with urgency, hoping to keep their momentum alive midway through the third quarter. The Sooners had found some rhythm, picking up yards in short bursts, slowly inching toward midfield. But the LSU defense, re-energized by Royce’s return, had started to dig in.
Royce crouched just behind the line, eyes locked on the backfield. The pain in his shoulder was still there—a dull throb wrapped in adrenaline—but he tuned it out. He wasn’t thinking about pain. He was thinking about the chains.
Arnold took the snap from shotgun and immediately fired a quick pass to the flat—a swing route designed to beat the pressure LSU was known to bring. Hicks caught it clean, turning upfield with a burst.
But Royce had already seen it coming.
He broke on the ball the moment Arnold’s shoulders turned, flying toward the sideline like he’d been shot out of a cannon. The back tried to cut inside, but Royce closed the angle, wrapped him up clean, and drove him backward. The two of them skidded toward the painted white numbers, the back’s heels kicking up turf before he hit the ground a full yard short.
The whistle blew. Fourth down.
Royce stood up, fist clenched at his side, jaw tight. The sideline erupted behind him, helmets waving in the air, coaches shouting. He didn’t need to say a word—he just turned and jogged back to the sideline, all business, as the punt team trotted out from Oklahoma’s sideline.
…
The fourth quarter had barely begun, and the air inside the stadium had shifted—tense, electric, like everyone was bracing for something to snap.
LSU broke the huddle near midfield, clinging to a narrow lead and looking to grind down the clock. Rickie Collins, filling in for the injured Garrett Nussmeier, had been steady. He'd managed the offense, taken what the defense gave him, and avoided big mistakes. Until now, it had been enough.
But on second and eight, everything changed.
Collins dropped back from the shotgun, eyes scanning downfield. The pocket began to collapse almost immediately—Oklahoma’s edge rusher dipped low around the tackle and came screaming in untouched. Collins saw it too late. He tried to step up, but the defender barreled into him, shoulder pad crashing into his ribs as he was slammed to the turf.
The ball popped loose—LSU recovered it—but all eyes were on Rickie.
He didn’t get up.
Trainers rushed out as the stadium fell into a hush. Collins lay curled on his side, hand clutching at his ribcage, his face twisted in pain. After a moment, he tried to sit up, then slumped back down, shaking his head.
Coach Lanning was already pacing the sideline, headset tilted, lips tight.
The decision came quick—Rickie was done.
And with three quarterbacks now sidelined, there was only one name left on the quarterback depth chart.
A.J. Swann.
Fourth string.
He stood near the heater on the sideline, helmet already in hand, eyes wide beneath his facemask. When the call came, he jogged out with a stiff determination, back straight, trying to look composed.
The offensive huddle swallowed him up at the numbers, older teammates patting his pads, giving quiet words of encouragement—or maybe just prayers.
…
“Nothing doing for LSU and the Tigers are going to have to punt. They’re really up against it now.”
“It’s going to take some late game heroics from A.J. Swann to gut this one out, but you can see that they’re deflated down there on the sideline.”
…
“Zentner’s kick is good and Oklahoma is within eight now!”
…
“Third and eight. Swann in the shotgun. He drops the snap and has to dive on it. Lanning is livid over there on the sideline as he sends out LSU’s punt team. There isn’t a lot of time left, but there’s enough for Oklahoma to do something.”
…
“Second and four from the LSU 40 yard line. Two minutes left to play here in Norman. Arnold sets up in the gun, four wide. Oklahoma has all three of their timeouts so there’s no rush here. Here’s the snap. LSU is bringing pressure. Arnold evades a tackler, steps up—finds Fierro across the middle. Fierro makes a man miss and he’s off to the races! No one’s going to catch him 20, 10, 5, TOUCHDOWN SOONERS!”
“That’s what you call making a play! Josh Fierro wasn’t going to be denied!”
“Oklahoma has to get a two-point conversion here if they want to keep this game going. Let’s see what Venables goes with here.”
…
The scoreboard glared down over the field like an unblinking eye—LSU clinging to a two-point lead with just under two minutes to play. But that lead was slipping, fast.
Oklahoma had just found the end zone on a perfectly executed drive, capped by a tight back-shoulder throw to the pylon that sent their sideline into a frenzy. Now, down 21–19, the Sooners lined up for the two-point conversion.
The crowd was deafening, but Royce could hear everything on the field—his own breath, the shift of cleats against turf, the anxious calls from the secondary. The defense crouched low, packed tight near the line. Everyone knew what was coming.
Power run. Straight up the gut.
Taylor Tatum jogged back into the backfield, eyes calm, jersey grass-stained and soaked in sweat. Arnold took his place under center. The play clock ticked.
Royce crept forward, heart pounding, the pain in his shoulder drowned out by adrenaline. His eyes locked on the backfield, body taut like a coil.
The ball was snapped.
The line surged.
Tatum took the handoff and followed his lead blocker into a collapsing crease between the guard and center. Royce shot into the gap—but he was a half-step too late. A lineman brushed his shoulder, just enough to throw off his angle.
Tatum burst through the smoke of pads and arms and cleats, dragging a defender with him as he plunged over the goal line.
Two fingers shot into the air from the official behind the play.
Conversion good.
Tie game.
The Oklahoma crowd behind their bench erupted, their sideline spilling onto the field in celebration before the referees waved them back. Tatum jogged back to the sideline, his face emotionless, like it had all gone according to plan.
Royce stood near the goal line, hands on his hips, breathing hard, frustration boiling beneath his pads.
21–21.
…
“Arnold throws the swing pass to Tatum and the Sooners are going to open the overtime period with a touchdown!”
…
“Swann hits Thomas in stride and he’s going to scoot! LSU responds!”
…
“Ramos’ kick is up and it’s good.”
…
“Arnold’s pass is incomplete and Oklahoma is sending out Zentner for the field goal attempt. He lines up, easy as you like. We’re headed to a third overtime here in Norman.”
…
The stadium had long since passed exhaustion. This was the third overtime—tied at 31 apiece—and every cheer, every breath, every heartbeat felt heavier, sharper, more desperate.
Oklahoma was up first for the next round.
The Sooners lined up tight—two backs, one goal: brute force. No disguises, no misdirection. Just power football, man-on-man, inches between glory and heartbreak.
Royce stood just behind the line, crouched low, eyes on the backfield. He knew the formation, had seen it too many times on film. Kalib Hicks was the hammer. If Arnold handed it off, it was going right behind that left guard. It had to be now.
The ball snapped. Time shrank.
Arnold turned, shoved the ball into Hicks’s gut, and the back surged forward, legs churning, eyes wide. The left side of the line caved inward—but not enough.
Royce exploded through the gap, shoulder screaming, but it didn’t matter. He met Hicks a half-yard from the end zone and drove his legs. The collision was violent—helmets clacked, pads popped, turf sprayed into the air.
Hicks kept pushing.
So did Royce.
He lowered his hips, got underneath the runner, and twisted.
They crashed to the ground just inches from the plane, Hicks’ elbow landing first—ball still in his grasp, but not across.
The whistle blew. The ref threw his arms sideways.
No good.
Royce stayed on top of Hicks for a second longer, chest heaving, hands clenched in the turf. Then he stood, helmet tilted skyward as his teammates swarmed him, screams of celebration cutting through the heavy Norman night.
It wasn’t over yet.
But Royce had just swung the momentum back their way.
…
“LSU can win if they convert here. Power formation in there. Swann tries to power it in—but the Sooners stop him! We’re going to a fourth overtime! This game just won’t end, ladies and gentlemen!”
…
“The Tigers get the ball first here in the fourth overtime. Swann’s in the shotgun, Durham to his right. Swann calls for the snap. Durham takes it up the gut and… he’s brought down at the line of scrimmage! Oklahoma stopped them again! If the Sooners convert, they’ll win!”
…
The fourth overtime.
By now, every snap felt like the edge of a blade. No more field goals, no more drives—just two-point conversions, traded back and forth like punches in a fight neither side was willing to lose.
LSU had failed to convert on their attempt, run up the middle that was stopped at the line of scrimmage, the hit to deny the effort echoed like heartbreak.
And now it was Oklahoma’s turn.
The Sooners broke the huddle with urgency, energy, like they could smell blood in the water. Arnold lined up in the shotgun, flanked by two receivers, one of them—Deion Burks—motioning quickly from right to left. Royce saw it, called it out, adjusted.
The ball snapped.
A toss.
Not to the back, but to Burks, who had looped around behind the line of scrimmage—jet sweep. The blockers sealed the edge. Royce saw the play unfolding too late. He cut across the field, legs burning, closing the gap with everything he had left.
But Burks had a step. Just enough.
He turned the corner, dove.
The pylon rocked.
The side judge’s arms shot up into the air.
Good.
Oklahoma players exploded off the sideline, helmets flying, coaches swarming the field. The sound in the stadium was deafening on one side—and dead silent on the other.
Royce stood at the goal line, panting, frozen, eyes locked on the spot where Burks had broken the plane. His chest heaved under his shoulder pads, soaked with sweat and disappointment. He turned slowly, helmet still on, scanning the chaos as crimson and cream filled the field.
The LSU sideline was still. Stunned.
He dropped to a knee, rested his forearm on his thigh, and stared at the grass beneath him. It felt like everything had drained out of him at once. The pain in his shoulder pulsed now that the adrenaline was gone, but he barely felt it.
Another big game. Another close loss.
He yanked off his helmet and stared blankly ahead as Oklahoma celebrated around him, his jaw clenched, heart thudding with a familiar weight.
He had given them everything.
And it still wasn’t enough.
“Collins drops back and flicks it out to Pimpton in the back of the endzone—and that’s another touchdown! Rickie Collins, Ka’Morreun Pimpton, that’s not déjà vu, ladies and gentleman, just LSU going up 20-0!”
“The Tigers came into this game ranked tenth in the nation, and with playing in the SEC Championship Game out of the question, they’ll likely find themselves in the playoff if they win this afternoon.”
“Ramos’ kick is up and good, and that’s 21-0. With the way that this game is going, LSU is going to get that win.”
…
Late in the second quarter, with Oklahoma driving deep into LSU territory, the Sooners lined up three wide on second down. Jackson Arnold dropped back, eyes scanning the middle of the field. Royce stood just outside the hash, reading the quarterback’s body language like a second language.
The moment Arnold’s front foot planted, Royce was already moving.
The pass came in fast—tight spiral, aimed for the slot receiver breaking across the seam. But Royce cut under it, timing the leap perfectly. His arm shot out, fingertips slapping the ball away just before it could hit the receiver’s chest. The crowd roared as the football bounced harmlessly to the turf.
But Royce didn’t get up right away.
He landed awkwardly, his left shoulder absorbing most of the fall. Pain bloomed instantly, hot and sharp, shooting down through his arm as he rolled over and clutched at it.
Coaches and trainers were on him within seconds.
“You good?” one of them asked, crouching beside him.
Royce grit his teeth, nodded at first—but then shook his head. “Something’s off,” he muttered, trying to rotate it and flinching. “Can’t move it right.”
They helped him up gently, careful with his arm as they walked him to the sideline. The noise from the crowd faded beneath the throb in his shoulder. Every step felt like fire licking through the joint.
On the bench, one of the trainers pressed around the shoulder as Royce winced.
“We’ll take a closer look at halftime,” she said. “See how bad the swelling is. If the range of motion comes back, maybe we can get you back out there. But no promises.”
Royce nodded, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the field. The helmet still in his hand felt like dead weight. Watching the defense regroup without him made the pain feel heavier than the injury itself.
And halftime suddenly felt very far away.
…
“Kearney hauls it in and Oklahoma’s going to get on the board here before halftime!”
“That might be a big shift of the old mo-men-tum.”
…
The third quarter opened under the glow of stadium lights that seemed to burn a little brighter with the stakes. The buzz in the stands had dulled to a tense murmur—LSU’s defense had bent more than it should’ve during Royce’s absence, and everyone knew it.
Then came the moment.
Royce jogged out from the tunnel just before the first defensive series, helmet tucked under his arm, shoulder wrapped tight beneath his pads. The away fans noticed—first a ripple, then a full wave of cheers as the PA announcer called his name.
Back on the sideline, he fastened his chin strap, bounced on the balls of his feet, and gave a quick nod to Coach Lanning.
"You good?" the coach asked, low and gruff.
Royce rolled his left shoulder once—gingerly—but firmly. “I’m straight.”
He was in on the next series.
Oklahoma came out with a pistol look, trying to set the tone with a run up the gut. On first down, the ball snapped, and Royce read it instantly. His eyes locked onto the running back cutting toward the A-gap, and without hesitation, he surged forward.
The shoulder barked with pain, but he powered through it.
He met the back at the line of scrimmage—full force—shoulder square and low. The collision sent a shock through his whole frame, but the runner went nowhere, stopped dead in his tracks.
Royce held on until the whistle blew, then popped up first, chest heaving, jaw set.
The crowd erupted again.
Pain still hummed in his arm, but it didn’t matter. He was back. And he made sure everyone knew it.
…
“Zentner lines up from 38 yards out. The snap is good. Hold is good. It has the distance and it’s right through the uprights. The Sooners chip into the lead, 21-10.”
…
Third and four.
The Oklahoma offense broke the huddle with urgency, hoping to keep their momentum alive midway through the third quarter. The Sooners had found some rhythm, picking up yards in short bursts, slowly inching toward midfield. But the LSU defense, re-energized by Royce’s return, had started to dig in.
Royce crouched just behind the line, eyes locked on the backfield. The pain in his shoulder was still there—a dull throb wrapped in adrenaline—but he tuned it out. He wasn’t thinking about pain. He was thinking about the chains.
Arnold took the snap from shotgun and immediately fired a quick pass to the flat—a swing route designed to beat the pressure LSU was known to bring. Hicks caught it clean, turning upfield with a burst.
But Royce had already seen it coming.
He broke on the ball the moment Arnold’s shoulders turned, flying toward the sideline like he’d been shot out of a cannon. The back tried to cut inside, but Royce closed the angle, wrapped him up clean, and drove him backward. The two of them skidded toward the painted white numbers, the back’s heels kicking up turf before he hit the ground a full yard short.
The whistle blew. Fourth down.
Royce stood up, fist clenched at his side, jaw tight. The sideline erupted behind him, helmets waving in the air, coaches shouting. He didn’t need to say a word—he just turned and jogged back to the sideline, all business, as the punt team trotted out from Oklahoma’s sideline.
…
The fourth quarter had barely begun, and the air inside the stadium had shifted—tense, electric, like everyone was bracing for something to snap.
LSU broke the huddle near midfield, clinging to a narrow lead and looking to grind down the clock. Rickie Collins, filling in for the injured Garrett Nussmeier, had been steady. He'd managed the offense, taken what the defense gave him, and avoided big mistakes. Until now, it had been enough.
But on second and eight, everything changed.
Collins dropped back from the shotgun, eyes scanning downfield. The pocket began to collapse almost immediately—Oklahoma’s edge rusher dipped low around the tackle and came screaming in untouched. Collins saw it too late. He tried to step up, but the defender barreled into him, shoulder pad crashing into his ribs as he was slammed to the turf.
The ball popped loose—LSU recovered it—but all eyes were on Rickie.
He didn’t get up.
Trainers rushed out as the stadium fell into a hush. Collins lay curled on his side, hand clutching at his ribcage, his face twisted in pain. After a moment, he tried to sit up, then slumped back down, shaking his head.
Coach Lanning was already pacing the sideline, headset tilted, lips tight.
The decision came quick—Rickie was done.
And with three quarterbacks now sidelined, there was only one name left on the quarterback depth chart.
A.J. Swann.
Fourth string.
He stood near the heater on the sideline, helmet already in hand, eyes wide beneath his facemask. When the call came, he jogged out with a stiff determination, back straight, trying to look composed.
The offensive huddle swallowed him up at the numbers, older teammates patting his pads, giving quiet words of encouragement—or maybe just prayers.
…
“Nothing doing for LSU and the Tigers are going to have to punt. They’re really up against it now.”
“It’s going to take some late game heroics from A.J. Swann to gut this one out, but you can see that they’re deflated down there on the sideline.”
…
“Zentner’s kick is good and Oklahoma is within eight now!”
…
“Third and eight. Swann in the shotgun. He drops the snap and has to dive on it. Lanning is livid over there on the sideline as he sends out LSU’s punt team. There isn’t a lot of time left, but there’s enough for Oklahoma to do something.”
…
“Second and four from the LSU 40 yard line. Two minutes left to play here in Norman. Arnold sets up in the gun, four wide. Oklahoma has all three of their timeouts so there’s no rush here. Here’s the snap. LSU is bringing pressure. Arnold evades a tackler, steps up—finds Fierro across the middle. Fierro makes a man miss and he’s off to the races! No one’s going to catch him 20, 10, 5, TOUCHDOWN SOONERS!”
“That’s what you call making a play! Josh Fierro wasn’t going to be denied!”
“Oklahoma has to get a two-point conversion here if they want to keep this game going. Let’s see what Venables goes with here.”
…
The scoreboard glared down over the field like an unblinking eye—LSU clinging to a two-point lead with just under two minutes to play. But that lead was slipping, fast.
Oklahoma had just found the end zone on a perfectly executed drive, capped by a tight back-shoulder throw to the pylon that sent their sideline into a frenzy. Now, down 21–19, the Sooners lined up for the two-point conversion.
The crowd was deafening, but Royce could hear everything on the field—his own breath, the shift of cleats against turf, the anxious calls from the secondary. The defense crouched low, packed tight near the line. Everyone knew what was coming.
Power run. Straight up the gut.
Taylor Tatum jogged back into the backfield, eyes calm, jersey grass-stained and soaked in sweat. Arnold took his place under center. The play clock ticked.
Royce crept forward, heart pounding, the pain in his shoulder drowned out by adrenaline. His eyes locked on the backfield, body taut like a coil.
The ball was snapped.
The line surged.
Tatum took the handoff and followed his lead blocker into a collapsing crease between the guard and center. Royce shot into the gap—but he was a half-step too late. A lineman brushed his shoulder, just enough to throw off his angle.
Tatum burst through the smoke of pads and arms and cleats, dragging a defender with him as he plunged over the goal line.
Two fingers shot into the air from the official behind the play.
Conversion good.
Tie game.
The Oklahoma crowd behind their bench erupted, their sideline spilling onto the field in celebration before the referees waved them back. Tatum jogged back to the sideline, his face emotionless, like it had all gone according to plan.
Royce stood near the goal line, hands on his hips, breathing hard, frustration boiling beneath his pads.
21–21.
…
“Arnold throws the swing pass to Tatum and the Sooners are going to open the overtime period with a touchdown!”
…
“Swann hits Thomas in stride and he’s going to scoot! LSU responds!”
…
“Ramos’ kick is up and it’s good.”
…
“Arnold’s pass is incomplete and Oklahoma is sending out Zentner for the field goal attempt. He lines up, easy as you like. We’re headed to a third overtime here in Norman.”
…
The stadium had long since passed exhaustion. This was the third overtime—tied at 31 apiece—and every cheer, every breath, every heartbeat felt heavier, sharper, more desperate.
Oklahoma was up first for the next round.
The Sooners lined up tight—two backs, one goal: brute force. No disguises, no misdirection. Just power football, man-on-man, inches between glory and heartbreak.
Royce stood just behind the line, crouched low, eyes on the backfield. He knew the formation, had seen it too many times on film. Kalib Hicks was the hammer. If Arnold handed it off, it was going right behind that left guard. It had to be now.
The ball snapped. Time shrank.
Arnold turned, shoved the ball into Hicks’s gut, and the back surged forward, legs churning, eyes wide. The left side of the line caved inward—but not enough.
Royce exploded through the gap, shoulder screaming, but it didn’t matter. He met Hicks a half-yard from the end zone and drove his legs. The collision was violent—helmets clacked, pads popped, turf sprayed into the air.
Hicks kept pushing.
So did Royce.
He lowered his hips, got underneath the runner, and twisted.
They crashed to the ground just inches from the plane, Hicks’ elbow landing first—ball still in his grasp, but not across.
The whistle blew. The ref threw his arms sideways.
No good.
Royce stayed on top of Hicks for a second longer, chest heaving, hands clenched in the turf. Then he stood, helmet tilted skyward as his teammates swarmed him, screams of celebration cutting through the heavy Norman night.
It wasn’t over yet.
But Royce had just swung the momentum back their way.
…
“LSU can win if they convert here. Power formation in there. Swann tries to power it in—but the Sooners stop him! We’re going to a fourth overtime! This game just won’t end, ladies and gentlemen!”
…
“The Tigers get the ball first here in the fourth overtime. Swann’s in the shotgun, Durham to his right. Swann calls for the snap. Durham takes it up the gut and… he’s brought down at the line of scrimmage! Oklahoma stopped them again! If the Sooners convert, they’ll win!”
…
The fourth overtime.
By now, every snap felt like the edge of a blade. No more field goals, no more drives—just two-point conversions, traded back and forth like punches in a fight neither side was willing to lose.
LSU had failed to convert on their attempt, run up the middle that was stopped at the line of scrimmage, the hit to deny the effort echoed like heartbreak.
And now it was Oklahoma’s turn.
The Sooners broke the huddle with urgency, energy, like they could smell blood in the water. Arnold lined up in the shotgun, flanked by two receivers, one of them—Deion Burks—motioning quickly from right to left. Royce saw it, called it out, adjusted.
The ball snapped.
A toss.
Not to the back, but to Burks, who had looped around behind the line of scrimmage—jet sweep. The blockers sealed the edge. Royce saw the play unfolding too late. He cut across the field, legs burning, closing the gap with everything he had left.
But Burks had a step. Just enough.
He turned the corner, dove.
The pylon rocked.
The side judge’s arms shot up into the air.
Good.
Oklahoma players exploded off the sideline, helmets flying, coaches swarming the field. The sound in the stadium was deafening on one side—and dead silent on the other.
Royce stood at the goal line, panting, frozen, eyes locked on the spot where Burks had broken the plane. His chest heaved under his shoulder pads, soaked with sweat and disappointment. He turned slowly, helmet still on, scanning the chaos as crimson and cream filled the field.
The LSU sideline was still. Stunned.
He dropped to a knee, rested his forearm on his thigh, and stared at the grass beneath him. It felt like everything had drained out of him at once. The pain in his shoulder pulsed now that the adrenaline was gone, but he barely felt it.
Another big game. Another close loss.
He yanked off his helmet and stared blankly ahead as Oklahoma celebrated around him, his jaw clenched, heart thudding with a familiar weight.
He had given them everything.
And it still wasn’t enough.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Don’t Let Go Yet
The TV had been on for hours, flickering through slow-motion footage of icy mountains and underwater caverns, soft strings playing under muted narration. Neither of them had touched the remote in a while.
A mostly-empty carton of shrimp fried rice sat abandoned on the coffee table, next to a half-finished ginger ale and Royce’s phone. The air smelled like reheated food and the last hints of citrus from the candle Alix lit when she came over—burned down now, just a low disc of wax in glass.
Royce didn’t know what time it was. Late, probably. But time moved different when the season stalled out and the silence didn’t ask questions.
He sat on the couch, sunk into the cushions, one arm slung along the top, the other resting gently on Alix’s hip. She was curled into him, her head in his lap, face tilted toward the TV, even though her eyes had closed nearly an hour ago.
She hadn’t said much since arriving—just small things.
“Did you eat yet?”
“Pick the movie, I don’t care.”
“Don’t judge me if I fall asleep before it’s over.”
He hadn’t judged her. He’d just watched her.
Now, her legs were draped under the throw blanket, one socked foot barely peeking out. Her breath had fallen into that even rhythm that only came when her body finally stopped bracing itself.
Royce watched her in the flickering light. Her lips were slightly parted, soft in sleep. A few strands of hair had come loose and fallen across her cheek. She hadn’t worn makeup today, and something about that made her look even more like herself. No defense. No polish.
Just Alix.
His fingers brushed her hair back slowly, almost without thinking. Tucked it behind her ear. Let his thumb linger against her temple. He felt her shift slightly, nestle deeper into his lap, her hand curling into the hem of his T-shirt like she didn’t want to drift too far.
Outside, it had started to rain. Soft and steady. Baton Rouge rain—constant but gentle, the kind that made everything feel quieter.
Royce leaned his head back against the cushion, let his eyes close for a second.
This—this right here—was the first time in days he hadn’t felt the dull ache of the Oklahoma loss pulling at his chest like dead weight. The first time his body didn’t feel like it was vibrating with pressure. The first time he didn’t care about the bowl game, the scouts, the headlines, the whispers about his future.
Because she was here. Not asking for anything. Just being. With him.
Her phone buzzed on the cushion beside her. Not loud, just a pulse against the fabric.
He glanced at it.
’Trey: Why you ghosting me?’
Royce didn’t move.
He’d seen the name before. The last time he’d looked at her phone. Put the pieces together without needing confirmation. They never talked about it. Never needed to.
And honestly? He wasn’t sure what stung more—that it had happened, or that she hadn’t told him. That she didn’t feel like she owed him that.
But tonight, he didn’t feel the fire in his gut like he had before.
Tonight, he just felt tired.
He looked down at her again, her cheek pressing into his thigh, lashes resting peacefully against her skin. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She was wrapped around him like something that belonged.
She was here. And that mattered more than whatever had come before.
Royce reached for his phone. Opened his messages.
Bree’s name was still near the top.
He tapped her thread.
’Where you at?’
He let the words sit there, blinking at him like they were waiting to be said.
Then he backspaced. Slowly. Letter by letter.
Deleted the thread entirely.
Set the phone down facedown.
He looked back at Alix.
Her breathing was steady. Her hand twitched slightly against his stomach, holding on even in sleep.
Royce exhaled. His chest felt heavier than it had all night—but not in a bad way. Just in a way that meant he was still feeling something.
His hand drifted to her back. Not to wake her. Not to press anything.
Just to stay connected.
The rain tapped the windows. The TV hummed quietly. And in that small, dim room filled with takeout boxes and silence, Royce felt something shift.
Not big.
Not loud.
Just real.
And for now, that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike walked slow.
Not because he had anywhere to be, but because he didn’t. That was the problem.
The streets were quiet—just the occasional bark from behind a leaning chain-link fence, or the distant hum of a car that never seemed to actually pass. The sky was dull, the air sticky with the kind of humidity that clung to the skin like guilt.
His hands were in the pockets of his hoodie, his head low, eyes sweeping across the cracked sidewalks of the neighborhood he’d grown up in. He passed the corner where old man Dawson used to park his busted lawn chair to yell at kids on bikes. Passed the vacant lot where Romeo once threw a rock through a parked car window just to see if the alarm worked.
Mike had laughed until he couldn’t breathe that day. Then they'd run.
Now the lot was overgrown, just weeds and ghosted laughter.
He exhaled through his nose, slow.
Northwestern State.
He said it in his head the way people on TV talked about new beginnings. Like saying the name out loud might make it feel like something real. It didn’t. Not yet.
He pulled out his phone. Tapped the screen to life.
No texts from Laila.
He thought about sending one. About telling her the truth.
I slept with someone else.
I got caught up.
I don’t even know why I did it, except maybe I didn’t believe someone like you would actually stay.
He locked the phone again. Let it slide back into his pocket.
Somewhere down the block, a porch light blinked on, then off again. One of those motion-activated ones that never worked right. The flicker felt familiar.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew the name before he looked.
Treg: Time to re-up. We gotta move all this shit by the weekend.
Mike stared at the message, lips pressed into a flat line.
He didn’t reply.
Just turned the corner and headed toward the corner store. The one Royce and Romeo used to hit after school for Gatorade and honey buns. Back then, it had felt like a landmark. Now it was just a dim spot with flickering fluorescent lights and a busted screen door that groaned when he pulled it open.
The bell above the door let out a wheeze instead of a ring, the kind of tired sound that fit the whole store—buzzing lights, lukewarm air, one of the drink coolers rattling like it was catching its breath.
Vanessa was behind the counter, scrolling her phone with one long acrylic nail. She didn’t look up at first, just said, “We close in twenty.”
“I know,” Mike said.
That’s when she looked up.
She blinked once, then gave a crooked smile like she was flipping through memories in real time.
“Well, damn. Mike-Mike.”
He nodded, stepping up to the counter. “Hey, V.”
Vanessa leaned her hip into the register and tilted her head. She still had the same gold hoops, same smirk. Her hair was up in a messy bun, loose strands falling around her face.
“You got tall,” she said, eyes scanning him like she was recalibrating.
Mike smiled without showing teeth. “You got… the same playlist on rotation.”
She laughed. “That’s ‘cause it still hits.”
There was a pause. Not long. But long enough.
She tapped her nail against the counter.
“You still running with Treg?”
“Not really,” Mike lied.
Vanessa gave him a look like she’d heard that one before.
Then she pulled a pack of rolling papers from the display and slid them across the counter.
“$2.29.”
Mike dug into his pocket, handed her a five.
Vanessa didn’t move right away. She leaned in just a little, voice softer now. Still teasing, but the edges dulled.
“You going off to play ball like your cousin?”
Mike shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor. “I guess.”
“Royce always acted like he was too good for this place,” she said, tapping the counter gently. “Still came around though. You let him know I said hey?”
He gave a half-smile. “I’ll think about it.”
Vanessa grinned, sharp and knowing. “Tell him I still got his hoodie.”
Mike took the change, nodding once.
As he turned to leave, she called out, “Y’all always think you moving on, but Houma moves with you.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pushed the door open and let it close behind him.
Outside, the night had gotten heavier. The sky felt like it was sitting too close to the ground.
Mike walked to his car, keys spinning on one finger. He didn’t get in.
He just leaned against the hood, papers in hand, watching the streetlights buzz and flicker overhead like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to stay on or go dark.
He sat.
Rolled a thin one slow, not lighting it yet.
Stared out at the empty road ahead of him.
He leaned his head back against the windshield.
He didn’t move for a long time.
~~~~~~~~~~
The locker room was near silent—just the soft drone of overhead lights and the fading echo of someone’s laughter down the hallway. It smelled like disinfectant, wet towels, and stale expectations.
Poochie walked slow, a duffel in his hand, his cleats from fall camp still inside, unworn for weeks. The Mercer logo on the bag already looked faded.
He turned into the equipment office, where Coach Rollins sat behind a desk, chewing on a pen cap and scribbling notes he probably didn’t care about.
“Yo,” Poochie said.
The coach didn’t look up. “Thought you had treatment.”
“I’m good.”
“You skipping out?”
Poochie dropped the bag on the floor like it was something he was done carrying. “I’m out. Family stuff.”
Now Rollins looked up. His gaze was calm but sharp, like he’d heard this story a hundred times already.
“Just for break?”
“I’ll be back in the spring,” Poochie said, lying without a flinch.
Rollins studied him a second longer than necessary. “Uh-huh.”
He sat back in the chair, arms folding like he was already preparing to let go.
“You know if you don’t come back, that’s it, right? No guarantees. No spots saved.”
Poochie nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
“You sure this ain’t just you tapping out?”
Poochie gave a tired smile. “What’s the difference?”
The coach didn’t answer. Just tapped the clipboard with the back of his pen.
“You got your exit paperwork?”
“Right here.” Poochie held up the manila envelope.
“You need anything?”
Poochie shook his head. “Nah. I’m straight.”
He turned before the coach could say anything else.
The late sun threw long shadows across the parking lot as he stepped outside. His BMW sat near the edge of the lot, black paint dulled by road dust, rims still catching just enough light to remind him what it was supposed to mean.
He remembered the day he got it.
Junior year.
Prep phenom.
Baton Rouge whispers about how this school or that school “looked out” for their star recruits.
The BMW had shown up the same week he reeled in 220 and two scores. Back then, he thought it was just the beginning.
Now, it looked like a lie on four wheels.
He slid into the leather seat and started the engine. The dash lit up, the exhaust gave its low rumble, and the navigation system blinked, still set to the Mercer campus address from weeks ago.
He reached over and turned the music off.
No distractions tonight.
He backed out slow, glancing at the stadium one last time through the mirror. It looked smaller now.
Like everything else.
…
Hours later, on the interstate, headlights streaked past like ghosts. Poochie gripped the steering wheel tight, eyes fixed on the horizon, the city long gone behind him.
“Better to be a has-been than a never-was,” he muttered, almost laughing.
The BMW purred down I-85, fast and smooth—just like it was always supposed to.
But the man inside it wasn’t the boy they gave it to.
The TV had been on for hours, flickering through slow-motion footage of icy mountains and underwater caverns, soft strings playing under muted narration. Neither of them had touched the remote in a while.
A mostly-empty carton of shrimp fried rice sat abandoned on the coffee table, next to a half-finished ginger ale and Royce’s phone. The air smelled like reheated food and the last hints of citrus from the candle Alix lit when she came over—burned down now, just a low disc of wax in glass.
Royce didn’t know what time it was. Late, probably. But time moved different when the season stalled out and the silence didn’t ask questions.
He sat on the couch, sunk into the cushions, one arm slung along the top, the other resting gently on Alix’s hip. She was curled into him, her head in his lap, face tilted toward the TV, even though her eyes had closed nearly an hour ago.
She hadn’t said much since arriving—just small things.
“Did you eat yet?”
“Pick the movie, I don’t care.”
“Don’t judge me if I fall asleep before it’s over.”
He hadn’t judged her. He’d just watched her.
Now, her legs were draped under the throw blanket, one socked foot barely peeking out. Her breath had fallen into that even rhythm that only came when her body finally stopped bracing itself.
Royce watched her in the flickering light. Her lips were slightly parted, soft in sleep. A few strands of hair had come loose and fallen across her cheek. She hadn’t worn makeup today, and something about that made her look even more like herself. No defense. No polish.
Just Alix.
His fingers brushed her hair back slowly, almost without thinking. Tucked it behind her ear. Let his thumb linger against her temple. He felt her shift slightly, nestle deeper into his lap, her hand curling into the hem of his T-shirt like she didn’t want to drift too far.
Outside, it had started to rain. Soft and steady. Baton Rouge rain—constant but gentle, the kind that made everything feel quieter.
Royce leaned his head back against the cushion, let his eyes close for a second.
This—this right here—was the first time in days he hadn’t felt the dull ache of the Oklahoma loss pulling at his chest like dead weight. The first time his body didn’t feel like it was vibrating with pressure. The first time he didn’t care about the bowl game, the scouts, the headlines, the whispers about his future.
Because she was here. Not asking for anything. Just being. With him.
Her phone buzzed on the cushion beside her. Not loud, just a pulse against the fabric.
He glanced at it.
’Trey: Why you ghosting me?’
Royce didn’t move.
He’d seen the name before. The last time he’d looked at her phone. Put the pieces together without needing confirmation. They never talked about it. Never needed to.
And honestly? He wasn’t sure what stung more—that it had happened, or that she hadn’t told him. That she didn’t feel like she owed him that.
But tonight, he didn’t feel the fire in his gut like he had before.
Tonight, he just felt tired.
He looked down at her again, her cheek pressing into his thigh, lashes resting peacefully against her skin. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She was wrapped around him like something that belonged.
She was here. And that mattered more than whatever had come before.
Royce reached for his phone. Opened his messages.
Bree’s name was still near the top.
He tapped her thread.
’Where you at?’
He let the words sit there, blinking at him like they were waiting to be said.
Then he backspaced. Slowly. Letter by letter.
Deleted the thread entirely.
Set the phone down facedown.
He looked back at Alix.
Her breathing was steady. Her hand twitched slightly against his stomach, holding on even in sleep.
Royce exhaled. His chest felt heavier than it had all night—but not in a bad way. Just in a way that meant he was still feeling something.
His hand drifted to her back. Not to wake her. Not to press anything.
Just to stay connected.
The rain tapped the windows. The TV hummed quietly. And in that small, dim room filled with takeout boxes and silence, Royce felt something shift.
Not big.
Not loud.
Just real.
And for now, that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike walked slow.
Not because he had anywhere to be, but because he didn’t. That was the problem.
The streets were quiet—just the occasional bark from behind a leaning chain-link fence, or the distant hum of a car that never seemed to actually pass. The sky was dull, the air sticky with the kind of humidity that clung to the skin like guilt.
His hands were in the pockets of his hoodie, his head low, eyes sweeping across the cracked sidewalks of the neighborhood he’d grown up in. He passed the corner where old man Dawson used to park his busted lawn chair to yell at kids on bikes. Passed the vacant lot where Romeo once threw a rock through a parked car window just to see if the alarm worked.
Mike had laughed until he couldn’t breathe that day. Then they'd run.
Now the lot was overgrown, just weeds and ghosted laughter.
He exhaled through his nose, slow.
Northwestern State.
He said it in his head the way people on TV talked about new beginnings. Like saying the name out loud might make it feel like something real. It didn’t. Not yet.
He pulled out his phone. Tapped the screen to life.
No texts from Laila.
He thought about sending one. About telling her the truth.
I slept with someone else.
I got caught up.
I don’t even know why I did it, except maybe I didn’t believe someone like you would actually stay.
He locked the phone again. Let it slide back into his pocket.
Somewhere down the block, a porch light blinked on, then off again. One of those motion-activated ones that never worked right. The flicker felt familiar.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew the name before he looked.
Treg: Time to re-up. We gotta move all this shit by the weekend.
Mike stared at the message, lips pressed into a flat line.
He didn’t reply.
Just turned the corner and headed toward the corner store. The one Royce and Romeo used to hit after school for Gatorade and honey buns. Back then, it had felt like a landmark. Now it was just a dim spot with flickering fluorescent lights and a busted screen door that groaned when he pulled it open.
The bell above the door let out a wheeze instead of a ring, the kind of tired sound that fit the whole store—buzzing lights, lukewarm air, one of the drink coolers rattling like it was catching its breath.
Vanessa was behind the counter, scrolling her phone with one long acrylic nail. She didn’t look up at first, just said, “We close in twenty.”
“I know,” Mike said.
That’s when she looked up.
She blinked once, then gave a crooked smile like she was flipping through memories in real time.
“Well, damn. Mike-Mike.”
He nodded, stepping up to the counter. “Hey, V.”
Vanessa leaned her hip into the register and tilted her head. She still had the same gold hoops, same smirk. Her hair was up in a messy bun, loose strands falling around her face.
“You got tall,” she said, eyes scanning him like she was recalibrating.
Mike smiled without showing teeth. “You got… the same playlist on rotation.”
She laughed. “That’s ‘cause it still hits.”
There was a pause. Not long. But long enough.
She tapped her nail against the counter.
“You still running with Treg?”
“Not really,” Mike lied.
Vanessa gave him a look like she’d heard that one before.
Then she pulled a pack of rolling papers from the display and slid them across the counter.
“$2.29.”
Mike dug into his pocket, handed her a five.
Vanessa didn’t move right away. She leaned in just a little, voice softer now. Still teasing, but the edges dulled.
“You going off to play ball like your cousin?”
Mike shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor. “I guess.”
“Royce always acted like he was too good for this place,” she said, tapping the counter gently. “Still came around though. You let him know I said hey?”
He gave a half-smile. “I’ll think about it.”
Vanessa grinned, sharp and knowing. “Tell him I still got his hoodie.”
Mike took the change, nodding once.
As he turned to leave, she called out, “Y’all always think you moving on, but Houma moves with you.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pushed the door open and let it close behind him.
Outside, the night had gotten heavier. The sky felt like it was sitting too close to the ground.
Mike walked to his car, keys spinning on one finger. He didn’t get in.
He just leaned against the hood, papers in hand, watching the streetlights buzz and flicker overhead like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to stay on or go dark.
He sat.
Rolled a thin one slow, not lighting it yet.
Stared out at the empty road ahead of him.
He leaned his head back against the windshield.
He didn’t move for a long time.
~~~~~~~~~~
The locker room was near silent—just the soft drone of overhead lights and the fading echo of someone’s laughter down the hallway. It smelled like disinfectant, wet towels, and stale expectations.
Poochie walked slow, a duffel in his hand, his cleats from fall camp still inside, unworn for weeks. The Mercer logo on the bag already looked faded.
He turned into the equipment office, where Coach Rollins sat behind a desk, chewing on a pen cap and scribbling notes he probably didn’t care about.
“Yo,” Poochie said.
The coach didn’t look up. “Thought you had treatment.”
“I’m good.”
“You skipping out?”
Poochie dropped the bag on the floor like it was something he was done carrying. “I’m out. Family stuff.”
Now Rollins looked up. His gaze was calm but sharp, like he’d heard this story a hundred times already.
“Just for break?”
“I’ll be back in the spring,” Poochie said, lying without a flinch.
Rollins studied him a second longer than necessary. “Uh-huh.”
He sat back in the chair, arms folding like he was already preparing to let go.
“You know if you don’t come back, that’s it, right? No guarantees. No spots saved.”
Poochie nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
“You sure this ain’t just you tapping out?”
Poochie gave a tired smile. “What’s the difference?”
The coach didn’t answer. Just tapped the clipboard with the back of his pen.
“You got your exit paperwork?”
“Right here.” Poochie held up the manila envelope.
“You need anything?”
Poochie shook his head. “Nah. I’m straight.”
He turned before the coach could say anything else.
The late sun threw long shadows across the parking lot as he stepped outside. His BMW sat near the edge of the lot, black paint dulled by road dust, rims still catching just enough light to remind him what it was supposed to mean.
He remembered the day he got it.
Junior year.
Prep phenom.
Baton Rouge whispers about how this school or that school “looked out” for their star recruits.
The BMW had shown up the same week he reeled in 220 and two scores. Back then, he thought it was just the beginning.
Now, it looked like a lie on four wheels.
He slid into the leather seat and started the engine. The dash lit up, the exhaust gave its low rumble, and the navigation system blinked, still set to the Mercer campus address from weeks ago.
He reached over and turned the music off.
No distractions tonight.
He backed out slow, glancing at the stadium one last time through the mirror. It looked smaller now.
Like everything else.
…
Hours later, on the interstate, headlights streaked past like ghosts. Poochie gripped the steering wheel tight, eyes fixed on the horizon, the city long gone behind him.
“Better to be a has-been than a never-was,” he muttered, almost laughing.
The BMW purred down I-85, fast and smooth—just like it was always supposed to.
But the man inside it wasn’t the boy they gave it to.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Never Said I Wasn’t
The house smelled like vanilla, laundry softener, and baby powder. Warm. Clean. Lived in. Not perfect, but peaceful in the way families tried to be when they still believed peace was possible.
Royce stood in the doorway a second longer than he meant to, hand resting on the frame. The air inside felt different than the one outside—slower, thicker. His hoodie clung to his shoulders from the walk up the driveway, and he could still hear the faint rumble of his car cooling off in the street.
Tyrell was the first to speak. “You gonna come in or post up there like you delivering for Amazon?”
Royce smirked, shook his head, and stepped inside.
The baby was knocked out in a carrier on the living room floor, swaddled in soft blue, a pacifier hanging from one tiny clenched fist. Roni lay on her stomach next to him, scrolling TikTok with headphones in, laughing silently every so often.
Rana moved between the stove and the sink, barefoot, hair pulled up with a pencil stabbed through it. She was wearing one of Tyrell’s old T-shirts and leggings, the kind of at-home uniform that said she wasn’t dressing up for anybody—not even her younger brother.
“Been a minute,” she said, glancing at him from over her shoulder. “You forget how to use a phone?”
Royce’s reply was automatic. “It works both ways.”
Rana let out a little breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Of course it does.”
He nodded toward the baby, not wanting to press it. “He sleep like you do.”
“That mean?”
“Like the world owe him quiet.”
Rana cracked a smile. “Good. He’ll need that kind of delusion.”
Tyrell stood from the table, where he’d been half-watching the baby monitor and half-watching nothing. “You eat already?”
“I’m straight.”
“We got leftover gumbo.”
“I said I’m good.”
Tyrell gave him a look but didn’t push. He walked past Royce to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
Royce moved further into the room but didn’t sit. Just stood, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes flicking from the baby to Roni to the soft-colored family photos lined up on the wall. Rana and Tyrell’s engagement pictures. Roni’s last middle school dance. The baby shower. A few with Royce in the background—smiling, holding a drink, chin tilted like he was halfway in and halfway out of the moment.
“You staying in Baton Rouge for Christmas?” Rana asked, her voice casual but not careless.
Royce didn’t answer right away.
She turned, spatula in hand.
“You planning to go see her?”
Her.
Rashida.
Royce’s jaw tensed, just for a second. “Ain’t nothing changed.”
“She’s still your mother.”
“And I’m still her son, but that don’t mean shit to her,” he said, voice low.
Silence fell sharp in the kitchen.
Roni glanced up from her phone but didn’t say anything. She was used to these silences.
Rana stepped away from the stove. “Royce—”
“I don’t wanna talk about her,” he said, sharper now. “Not today.”
Tyrell leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “When, then?”
Royce looked at him, then back at the baby. “When it fucking matter what I say. It’s been three years. At some point, we just gotta dead the shit and move on, huh?”
That landed like a stone in the room.
Rana sat down slowly, folding her arms.
Tyrell straightened, dropping the casual lean. His tone, when it came, was steady. A little quieter than usual.
“How long you gonna live in this loop, man?”
Royce didn’t respond.
“You got talent. You got money coming in. People looking at you like the next big thing. And you still moving like a ghost.”
Royce’s eyes narrowed. “You think I asked for that?”
“I think you still trying to prove you survived without letting yourself live.”
The words didn’t hit like an accusation. They landed more like a truth Royce didn’t want to unpack.
Tyrell stepped closer. “The world already out here trying to break us. You ain’t gotta finish the job for it.”
Royce didn’t say anything. He nodded once, slow, almost like a reflex. Then stepped forward, clapped Tyrell on the shoulder—solid, grateful, wordless.
And without another word, he walked into the kitchen.
He opened the cabinet without asking, pulled out the Crown. No glass for anyone else. Just one short one for himself.
Rana watched him pour. Said nothing.
Roni put her headphones back in and laid her head beside the baby’s, one hand reaching to rest lightly against the carrier.
Royce took a slow sip and leaned on the counter, his back to the rest of them. His eyes locked on the window over the sink. Nothing but darkness outside, a faint reflection of his own face staring back.
He couldn’t see tomorrow yet.
~~~~~~~~~~
The room was warm, almost too warm, like the heat had been left running a few degrees too high all day. Folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle, half-filled with students in hoodies, oversized tees, and frizzed-up finals-week energy. A box of Matherne’s cookies sat on the table in the corner, mostly untouched, next to three half-drunk bottles of cranberry juice and a lonely stack of napkins.
Royce sat near the back, legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest. Hood up. Face still. His body was there, but his mind was halfway across campus—or maybe nowhere at all. He wasn’t sure.
He watched as the conversation floated around the room, the way it always did—soft but urgent, mostly led by the same three or four people who showed up with notes and talking points. Someone named Kaleb was outlining a proposed mentorship program with local high schools. Another girl, Janiyah, brought up a voter registration initiative for the spring. Heads nodded. Voices rose with cautious optimism.
Royce didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. He wasn’t here to lead anything. Just here because Billy wanted pictures.
“Presence,” he’d said. “People just need to see you show up, man. That’s half the damn battle.”
So he showed up.
But that didn’t mean he had to care.
Natalia sat a few chairs away, legs crossed, pen tapping against her notepad. She hadn’t looked at him much, not directly, but Royce could feel her side-eye every now and then—quick, curious, calculating.
He’d seen her around. Smart. Organized. No-nonsense. One of the only people who could hold the room without raising her voice. She dressed like she meant business, even today—black slacks, oversized denim jacket, hoops big enough to make a point.
As the meeting wound down and people began gathering their things, the room buzzed with soft chatter. Plans for dinner, finals, holiday travel.
Royce stood, stretching out his legs, rolling his neck like it hurt just to be upright.
Natalia’s voice came from behind him.
“You coming back next semester?”
He glanced over his shoulder. She was looking at him directly now, arms folded, one brow slightly raised. Not judging. Just... waiting.
Royce shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Lot going on?”
He nodded, lips pressed together. “Something like that.”
She gave a half-smile. “I figured out where I remember you from.”
Royce raised a brow. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “Blue Store. The one on North. Senior year, I think? You and my boyfriend almost threw hands in the parking lot.”
He smirked. “Poochie.”
“Yeah,” she said, laughing a little now. “You remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. I was about to give ya nigga the blues..”
Natalia grinned. “You don’t look like you could fight, if we keeping it a buck.”
Royce chuckled under his breath. “Shit. You saw how scared that boy was. You were standing right there.”
“I was. Thinking y’all were both ridiculous.”
He nodded, his voice dipping into something playful. “Can’t let nobody make you look like a punk.”
A brief pause.
“You cleaned up since then,” she said.
Royce met her eyes. “A little bit, you still a bad bitch, though.”
Natalia shook her head, but she didn’t stop smiling.
He turned toward the door.
Hit my line if you ever wanna kick it,” he said, casual, tossing the words over his shoulder.
And then he was gone.
Natalia stood there a second longer, arms still crossed, smiling to herself. Before turning to clean up the room a bit so the janitors didn’t have as much work to do.
~~~~~~~~~~
The interception came with fireworks from Donovan—arms in the air, headset nearly flying off, feet pounding across the living room rug like he was celebrating a game-winner.
“Let’s go! Four times! You officially suck, Malik.”
Malik sat back, letting the controller drop to his lap, one hand rubbing his face like he was too tired to respond. He smiled anyway. The kind that crept out of him when he wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
“You know I’m letting y’all win so y’all don’t get depressed during finals week.”
“Man, shut up,” Cam said from the kitchen area, elbow-deep in a bag of barbecue chips. “Y’all lucky we ain’t recording this.”
Malik shook his head and leaned into the couch. “Y’all act like I ain’t got national experience. I came from Baylor.”
A beat passed. Then Aiden laughed. “Exactly.”
Donovan grinned, pointing at Malik. “And still ain’t got a pick in this game.”
The laughter swelled again. It didn’t feel like teasing. Just the easy kind of camaraderie Malik had been missing for months.
The apartment wasn’t much—two mismatched couches, a cracked coffee table, a flatscreen slightly tilted from someone tripping over the stand during Week 4—but it was warm. It felt lived in. Safe in that unspoken way some spaces become when no one in them is trying to prove anything.
Malik didn’t always talk about Baylor. Didn’t talk about how it felt sitting in linebacker meetings knowing you were the best athlete in the room and still the last one getting reps. Didn’t talk about the 6 a.m. lifts that broke him more mentally than physically. Or the calls home to Zion City where he told his mama he was “doing fine” even when he wasn’t.
But here?
In Reno?
He was playing.
Not always starting. Not always perfect. But playing.
Breathing. Laughing. Sleeping through the night.
It was the first time in years football didn’t feel like punishment.
The game reset. Malik passed the controller to Cam and stretched his arms overhead, hoodie riding up slightly over his stomach. His phone buzzed on the armrest. He grabbed it lazily, already expecting some group chat chaos.
Instead, it was from Jazlyn.
’Still up? I’m bored and I don’t feel like watching Grey’s alone’
He read it twice, the corners of his mouth tugging upward before he let it happen.
Nia wasn’t serious. Not yet. They’d met in one of those “Athletes in Society” classes—a throwaway elective where half the class showed up late and the other half just wore team gear and nodded through discussions.
She had long braids and a voice like she was always half-laughing at something. They’d studied together once, made out in his car twice, a little more a few times and been texting lowkey ever since.
He liked her.
Not because she made him feel needed. But because she didn’t. She just liked him around.
Malik texted back.
’Want me to come through? I got 10 on the Chipotle’
“Yo,” he said aloud, phone still in his hand. “Hurry this shit up. I gotta go.”
Donovan gave him a thumbs up. “Tell ol’ girl you got money on this.”
Cam grinned. “Shit, y’all didn’t say anything about the money before.”
Aiden just looked over and said, “None of you motherfuckers got money. That’s why.”
Malik chuckled and tossed his phone aside.
He didn’t know what this thing with Jazlyn was. But for now, it didn’t matter. It was nice.
And Reno?
Reno was quiet. Cold. Unassuming.
It didn’t expect anything from him except his best.
And for once, that felt like something he might actually give.
The house smelled like vanilla, laundry softener, and baby powder. Warm. Clean. Lived in. Not perfect, but peaceful in the way families tried to be when they still believed peace was possible.
Royce stood in the doorway a second longer than he meant to, hand resting on the frame. The air inside felt different than the one outside—slower, thicker. His hoodie clung to his shoulders from the walk up the driveway, and he could still hear the faint rumble of his car cooling off in the street.
Tyrell was the first to speak. “You gonna come in or post up there like you delivering for Amazon?”
Royce smirked, shook his head, and stepped inside.
The baby was knocked out in a carrier on the living room floor, swaddled in soft blue, a pacifier hanging from one tiny clenched fist. Roni lay on her stomach next to him, scrolling TikTok with headphones in, laughing silently every so often.
Rana moved between the stove and the sink, barefoot, hair pulled up with a pencil stabbed through it. She was wearing one of Tyrell’s old T-shirts and leggings, the kind of at-home uniform that said she wasn’t dressing up for anybody—not even her younger brother.
“Been a minute,” she said, glancing at him from over her shoulder. “You forget how to use a phone?”
Royce’s reply was automatic. “It works both ways.”
Rana let out a little breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Of course it does.”
He nodded toward the baby, not wanting to press it. “He sleep like you do.”
“That mean?”
“Like the world owe him quiet.”
Rana cracked a smile. “Good. He’ll need that kind of delusion.”
Tyrell stood from the table, where he’d been half-watching the baby monitor and half-watching nothing. “You eat already?”
“I’m straight.”
“We got leftover gumbo.”
“I said I’m good.”
Tyrell gave him a look but didn’t push. He walked past Royce to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
Royce moved further into the room but didn’t sit. Just stood, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes flicking from the baby to Roni to the soft-colored family photos lined up on the wall. Rana and Tyrell’s engagement pictures. Roni’s last middle school dance. The baby shower. A few with Royce in the background—smiling, holding a drink, chin tilted like he was halfway in and halfway out of the moment.
“You staying in Baton Rouge for Christmas?” Rana asked, her voice casual but not careless.
Royce didn’t answer right away.
She turned, spatula in hand.
“You planning to go see her?”
Her.
Rashida.
Royce’s jaw tensed, just for a second. “Ain’t nothing changed.”
“She’s still your mother.”
“And I’m still her son, but that don’t mean shit to her,” he said, voice low.
Silence fell sharp in the kitchen.
Roni glanced up from her phone but didn’t say anything. She was used to these silences.
Rana stepped away from the stove. “Royce—”
“I don’t wanna talk about her,” he said, sharper now. “Not today.”
Tyrell leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “When, then?”
Royce looked at him, then back at the baby. “When it fucking matter what I say. It’s been three years. At some point, we just gotta dead the shit and move on, huh?”
That landed like a stone in the room.
Rana sat down slowly, folding her arms.
Tyrell straightened, dropping the casual lean. His tone, when it came, was steady. A little quieter than usual.
“How long you gonna live in this loop, man?”
Royce didn’t respond.
“You got talent. You got money coming in. People looking at you like the next big thing. And you still moving like a ghost.”
Royce’s eyes narrowed. “You think I asked for that?”
“I think you still trying to prove you survived without letting yourself live.”
The words didn’t hit like an accusation. They landed more like a truth Royce didn’t want to unpack.
Tyrell stepped closer. “The world already out here trying to break us. You ain’t gotta finish the job for it.”
Royce didn’t say anything. He nodded once, slow, almost like a reflex. Then stepped forward, clapped Tyrell on the shoulder—solid, grateful, wordless.
And without another word, he walked into the kitchen.
He opened the cabinet without asking, pulled out the Crown. No glass for anyone else. Just one short one for himself.
Rana watched him pour. Said nothing.
Roni put her headphones back in and laid her head beside the baby’s, one hand reaching to rest lightly against the carrier.
Royce took a slow sip and leaned on the counter, his back to the rest of them. His eyes locked on the window over the sink. Nothing but darkness outside, a faint reflection of his own face staring back.
He couldn’t see tomorrow yet.
~~~~~~~~~~
The room was warm, almost too warm, like the heat had been left running a few degrees too high all day. Folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle, half-filled with students in hoodies, oversized tees, and frizzed-up finals-week energy. A box of Matherne’s cookies sat on the table in the corner, mostly untouched, next to three half-drunk bottles of cranberry juice and a lonely stack of napkins.
Royce sat near the back, legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest. Hood up. Face still. His body was there, but his mind was halfway across campus—or maybe nowhere at all. He wasn’t sure.
He watched as the conversation floated around the room, the way it always did—soft but urgent, mostly led by the same three or four people who showed up with notes and talking points. Someone named Kaleb was outlining a proposed mentorship program with local high schools. Another girl, Janiyah, brought up a voter registration initiative for the spring. Heads nodded. Voices rose with cautious optimism.
Royce didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. He wasn’t here to lead anything. Just here because Billy wanted pictures.
“Presence,” he’d said. “People just need to see you show up, man. That’s half the damn battle.”
So he showed up.
But that didn’t mean he had to care.
Natalia sat a few chairs away, legs crossed, pen tapping against her notepad. She hadn’t looked at him much, not directly, but Royce could feel her side-eye every now and then—quick, curious, calculating.
He’d seen her around. Smart. Organized. No-nonsense. One of the only people who could hold the room without raising her voice. She dressed like she meant business, even today—black slacks, oversized denim jacket, hoops big enough to make a point.
As the meeting wound down and people began gathering their things, the room buzzed with soft chatter. Plans for dinner, finals, holiday travel.
Royce stood, stretching out his legs, rolling his neck like it hurt just to be upright.
Natalia’s voice came from behind him.
“You coming back next semester?”
He glanced over his shoulder. She was looking at him directly now, arms folded, one brow slightly raised. Not judging. Just... waiting.
Royce shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Lot going on?”
He nodded, lips pressed together. “Something like that.”
She gave a half-smile. “I figured out where I remember you from.”
Royce raised a brow. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “Blue Store. The one on North. Senior year, I think? You and my boyfriend almost threw hands in the parking lot.”
He smirked. “Poochie.”
“Yeah,” she said, laughing a little now. “You remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. I was about to give ya nigga the blues..”
Natalia grinned. “You don’t look like you could fight, if we keeping it a buck.”
Royce chuckled under his breath. “Shit. You saw how scared that boy was. You were standing right there.”
“I was. Thinking y’all were both ridiculous.”
He nodded, his voice dipping into something playful. “Can’t let nobody make you look like a punk.”
A brief pause.
“You cleaned up since then,” she said.
Royce met her eyes. “A little bit, you still a bad bitch, though.”
Natalia shook her head, but she didn’t stop smiling.
He turned toward the door.
Hit my line if you ever wanna kick it,” he said, casual, tossing the words over his shoulder.
And then he was gone.
Natalia stood there a second longer, arms still crossed, smiling to herself. Before turning to clean up the room a bit so the janitors didn’t have as much work to do.
~~~~~~~~~~
The interception came with fireworks from Donovan—arms in the air, headset nearly flying off, feet pounding across the living room rug like he was celebrating a game-winner.
“Let’s go! Four times! You officially suck, Malik.”
Malik sat back, letting the controller drop to his lap, one hand rubbing his face like he was too tired to respond. He smiled anyway. The kind that crept out of him when he wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
“You know I’m letting y’all win so y’all don’t get depressed during finals week.”
“Man, shut up,” Cam said from the kitchen area, elbow-deep in a bag of barbecue chips. “Y’all lucky we ain’t recording this.”
Malik shook his head and leaned into the couch. “Y’all act like I ain’t got national experience. I came from Baylor.”
A beat passed. Then Aiden laughed. “Exactly.”
Donovan grinned, pointing at Malik. “And still ain’t got a pick in this game.”
The laughter swelled again. It didn’t feel like teasing. Just the easy kind of camaraderie Malik had been missing for months.
The apartment wasn’t much—two mismatched couches, a cracked coffee table, a flatscreen slightly tilted from someone tripping over the stand during Week 4—but it was warm. It felt lived in. Safe in that unspoken way some spaces become when no one in them is trying to prove anything.
Malik didn’t always talk about Baylor. Didn’t talk about how it felt sitting in linebacker meetings knowing you were the best athlete in the room and still the last one getting reps. Didn’t talk about the 6 a.m. lifts that broke him more mentally than physically. Or the calls home to Zion City where he told his mama he was “doing fine” even when he wasn’t.
But here?
In Reno?
He was playing.
Not always starting. Not always perfect. But playing.
Breathing. Laughing. Sleeping through the night.
It was the first time in years football didn’t feel like punishment.
The game reset. Malik passed the controller to Cam and stretched his arms overhead, hoodie riding up slightly over his stomach. His phone buzzed on the armrest. He grabbed it lazily, already expecting some group chat chaos.
Instead, it was from Jazlyn.
’Still up? I’m bored and I don’t feel like watching Grey’s alone’
He read it twice, the corners of his mouth tugging upward before he let it happen.
Nia wasn’t serious. Not yet. They’d met in one of those “Athletes in Society” classes—a throwaway elective where half the class showed up late and the other half just wore team gear and nodded through discussions.
She had long braids and a voice like she was always half-laughing at something. They’d studied together once, made out in his car twice, a little more a few times and been texting lowkey ever since.
He liked her.
Not because she made him feel needed. But because she didn’t. She just liked him around.
Malik texted back.
’Want me to come through? I got 10 on the Chipotle’
“Yo,” he said aloud, phone still in his hand. “Hurry this shit up. I gotta go.”
Donovan gave him a thumbs up. “Tell ol’ girl you got money on this.”
Cam grinned. “Shit, y’all didn’t say anything about the money before.”
Aiden just looked over and said, “None of you motherfuckers got money. That’s why.”
Malik chuckled and tossed his phone aside.
He didn’t know what this thing with Jazlyn was. But for now, it didn’t matter. It was nice.
And Reno?
Reno was quiet. Cold. Unassuming.
It didn’t expect anything from him except his best.
And for once, that felt like something he might actually give.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Packing, Leaving, Running
Arianna folded the last sweatshirt into the box like it was the final word in a long, bitter conversation.
It was the one she used to steal from Toni’s side of the closet on cold mornings. The old Southern sweatshirt with the cracked letters and frayed sleeves. Toni had pretended to be annoyed about it, but never told her to stop. Never actually asked for it back.
Arianna hesitated.
Then shoved it down between the others.
The box flaps creaked as she closed it. The sound echoed louder than it should have, cutting through the kind of silence that only happened when people in the same space were pretending the other didn’t exist.
She knelt to seal the box, pressing the packing tape down with more force than necessary. Her thumb slipped on the edge, catching a corner of the cardboard. A thin line of red bloomed across her skin.
She didn’t even hiss. Just shook her hand out, muttered, “Figures,” and wiped it on her jeans.
From the other room: nothing.
No footsteps. No offer to help. No questions. No music. No tension so thick it vibrated.
Just the stillness that comes when a bond has already snapped, and no one’s willing to look at the frayed ends.
Arianna let her eyes trail toward the open door of Toni’s room. The same door that used to stay open between them for weeks at a time. Long nights spent on each other’s beds talking shit, laughing until the walls shook.
Now?
Closed.
Then open.
Then closed again.
Toni was in there. Arianna knew that. Had seen the shadow of her move across the floor. Had heard her open a bottle of water. Had felt her presence like a wall she wasn’t strong enough to climb anymore.
Arianna stood. Her back ached from all the bending, lifting, stuffing emotions into boxes that were already too full.
She turned around slowly, arms folded across her chest, just staring at the space that used to be hers.
The corner where she’d hung her graduation cap.
The dresser covered in Polaroids and lip gloss tubes and perfume bottles.
The mirror where she used to stand while Toni sat behind her and braided her hair with soft fingers and even softer jokes.
Gone.
Packed away like it hadn’t meant anything.
She stepped into the hallway at the same moment Toni did.
It was perfect in the worst way.
They both stopped.
The air between them froze—dense with things left unsaid and memories that suddenly felt heavier than all the boxes.
Toni held a bottle of nail polish in one hand, her other hand already sliding a toe separator into place. Like nothing was happening. Like this wasn’t happening.
Arianna opened her mouth.
Toni looked at her for a split second, then turned back into her room, door swinging half-shut behind her.
No words.
Just a silence so thick, Arianna thought she might choke on it.
Outside, Jonah was waiting.
He leaned against his car, hoodie up, hands stuffed into the kangaroo pocket like he was trying not to look too concerned. His eyes lifted as she approached, scanning her face without asking any questions.
He moved without a word, grabbing two boxes and heading for the trunk.
Arianna followed, carrying the last one like it weighed more than it did.
As she turned to walk down the steps, the apartment door swung open again behind her.
Deshawn.
Fresh fade. Slides. Sweatpants. That same smug look he always wore like a second skin.
He looked at her, then at the boxes, then at Jonah.
Snorted. “’Bout time.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
Just walked past her like she was furniture that had been sitting in the hallway too long.
Jonah’s jaw flexed. Arianna kept walking.
She didn’t break stride. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look back.
She wouldn’t give Deshawn the satisfaction.
Wouldn’t give Toni the guilt.
Jonah loaded the last box and closed the trunk.
Arianna sat in the passenger seat, bag across her lap like a shield.
The door closed with a soft thunk.
That’s when it hit her.
The tears didn’t come in waves. No sound. No heaving.
Just two slow tracks down her cheeks, so steady she didn’t notice them until she tasted salt.
Jonah didn’t say anything.
He just reached across the center console, slowly, and handed her a half-crumpled napkin from the glove compartment.
She took it. Dabbed at her face without looking at him.
They didn’t speak.
The car pulled off quietly, turning the corner with a hum that barely registered.
Arianna looked out the window, the apartment growing smaller in the side mirror, a little blurrier with every breath she took.
~~~~~~~~~~
The quad had that final-week quiet. Not silence exactly—just a kind of hush, like the whole campus had exhaled and was waiting for the semester to end. A few students sat cross-legged on blankets, highlighters in hand, earbuds in. The sun was low and warm, dragging long shadows across the pavement.
Royce sat on a stone bench beneath an oak tree, his backpack slumped at his feet, one ankle resting over the other. Hoodie up, earbuds in. No music playing.
He wasn’t hiding.
He just didn’t want to be known right now.
His last final had ended an hour ago. Stats. Went fine, he guessed. He could barely remember what he wrote. His brain still felt like it was buzzing, but his body was finally still.
It was peaceful.
For once.
Then he saw her.
Britni.
Walking across the far end of the quad with her roommate and two other girls, all of them laughing at something he couldn’t hear. She had her long braids in a high bun, gold earrings glinting in the sun. She faked confidence like a coat—like she hadn’t just clawed her way through grief for however many years straight.
Then she looked up.
Saw him.
And stopped walking.
Just for a second.
Her smile vanished. Her body froze mid-step, hand still midair from brushing her friend’s arm. She stared at him like she was seeing a ghost—or worse, someone she wished she could unsee.
Royce held her gaze.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look away.
He didn’t hate her.
But her eyes said she still hated him.
Or at least what he represented.
Romeo.
Everything Royce wasn’t. Everything she lost. Everything she thought he stole.
He could see it written in the tightness of her jaw, the slight flare in her nostrils, the way her fingers curled around the strap of her bag like she needed something to anchor her.
Neither of them said anything.
They never did.
Because what would that even sound like?
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I was shot, too.”
“He was my brother before he was your boyfriend. I miss him too.”
Words wouldn't fix anything.
They never had.
Britni’s roommate turned. “What are you doing?”
Britni blinked.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, her voice clipped and dry.
She turned and walked away with them, her posture straightening like she needed to reassemble herself just to keep moving forward.
Royce exhaled slowly. Let his shoulders drop back against the bench.
His phone buzzed.
Shayla: You free or nah? I’m tryna link before I head out.
He stared at the screen for a second. Thought about Britni’s eyes. Thought about Romeo.
Then typed:
’Can’t. Finals.’
He deleted the thread after sending it.
Leaned back, closed his eyes.
Let the sun warm his face and tried to pretend—for just a minute—that he didn’t feel like the wrong one lived.
~~~~~~~~~~
The knock came just after eleven.
Three taps—quick, light, then a pause. Not the kind that said "I'm here to hang out." The kind that said I shouldn't be here.
Royce sat on the edge of the couch, Xbox controller resting on his knee, the TV flashing in the corner of the dark living room. He looked at the door without moving for a second. He wasn't expecting anyone. Not at that hour. Not without a text first.
The knock came again—quieter this time, but somehow more urgent.
He stood slowly, grabbing his phone off the table and walking toward the door, every step slower than the one before. When he looked through the peephole, his eyebrows drew together.
Shayla.
Hair pulled into a messy puff, face bare. Not bare like casual. Bare like unplanned. She wore a dark hoodie and black tights, her arms wrapped tight around her midsection like she was holding herself in place.
He opened the door without saying anything.
She slipped past him like water through a crack, barely brushing against his arm as she stepped into the living room.
“You good?” he asked, locking the door behind her.
She didn’t answer right away. Just stood in the middle of the room, not moving, not looking at him. Her chest rose and fell like she’d just jogged across the city, but there was no sweat on her, no flushed skin. Just nerves.
"Shayla."
She turned to face him. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Royce crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”
She shook her head. “I just need somewhere to crash tonight.”
“That why you came over? Dressed like you just jumped out the back somebody’s car?”
She flinched—not visibly, but he saw it.
“I’m not trying to get into all that.”
“Fuck you mean? I am.”
Her eyes snapped up. Sharp. Defensive.
“You need to watch your back, Royce.”
That stopped him.
He took a step toward her, narrowing his eyes. “What does that mean?”
Shayla dropped onto the edge of the couch, like her knees had finally stopped cooperating. She exhaled hard, fingers laced tightly in her lap.
“It means there’s stuff happening around you that you don’t see. And maybe you don’t want to. But it’s real.”
He stood across from her, hands on his hips now. “Are you talking about Meech?”
She didn’t answer.
“Shayla.”
“I’m not naming people.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
She looked up at him, tired now. “I’m trying to get out.”
“Out of what?”
“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely—at the room, the air, herself. “All of it.”
“You came here in the middle of the night talking about danger and secrets like this a movie. I need more than riddles.”
Her jaw tightened. “I don’t owe you explanations.”
“You do if you want something from me.”
Silence stretched.
Royce stared at her, the knot in his chest twisting tighter. He didn’t know if it was anger or concern. Maybe both.
She ran her hands down her thighs, then clasped them again.
“I was supposed to be in cosmetology school,” she said quietly. “Had the paperwork filled out, tour scheduled and everything. I was gonna do lashes and brows and make girls feel pretty. That’s what I wanted.”
Her voice broke just slightly at the end, and Royce caught it.
“But?”
“But that ain’t how it went,” she said. “I got caught up. I let someone talk me into thinking I’d be taken care of, and now—” she stopped. “Now I’m on the edge of something I don’t even fully understand.”
Royce walked to the armchair and sat down, elbows on his knees.
“What do you want from me, Shayla?”
She looked at him like it hurt her to ask.
“I need help. A way out.”
“Help how?”
She looked down again.
“I’ll tell you,” she said softly, “But only if you say you’ll help.”
His breath caught in his throat.
He stared at her—really stared at her—for the first time since she walked in.
She wasn’t scheming.
She wasn’t seductive.
She was scared.
But Royce had been played before. By people who wore fear like a costume. By people who knew exactly how to look lost just long enough to take something from you.
He didn’t answer.
Just leaned back slowly in the chair, arms folding across his chest.
Shayla didn’t press him.
She just sat there on the couch, still wrapped up in herself, still waiting for an answer he wasn’t ready to give.
Outside, the wind picked up, brushing against the windows like a whisper no one wanted to hear.
Arianna folded the last sweatshirt into the box like it was the final word in a long, bitter conversation.
It was the one she used to steal from Toni’s side of the closet on cold mornings. The old Southern sweatshirt with the cracked letters and frayed sleeves. Toni had pretended to be annoyed about it, but never told her to stop. Never actually asked for it back.
Arianna hesitated.
Then shoved it down between the others.
The box flaps creaked as she closed it. The sound echoed louder than it should have, cutting through the kind of silence that only happened when people in the same space were pretending the other didn’t exist.
She knelt to seal the box, pressing the packing tape down with more force than necessary. Her thumb slipped on the edge, catching a corner of the cardboard. A thin line of red bloomed across her skin.
She didn’t even hiss. Just shook her hand out, muttered, “Figures,” and wiped it on her jeans.
From the other room: nothing.
No footsteps. No offer to help. No questions. No music. No tension so thick it vibrated.
Just the stillness that comes when a bond has already snapped, and no one’s willing to look at the frayed ends.
Arianna let her eyes trail toward the open door of Toni’s room. The same door that used to stay open between them for weeks at a time. Long nights spent on each other’s beds talking shit, laughing until the walls shook.
Now?
Closed.
Then open.
Then closed again.
Toni was in there. Arianna knew that. Had seen the shadow of her move across the floor. Had heard her open a bottle of water. Had felt her presence like a wall she wasn’t strong enough to climb anymore.
Arianna stood. Her back ached from all the bending, lifting, stuffing emotions into boxes that were already too full.
She turned around slowly, arms folded across her chest, just staring at the space that used to be hers.
The corner where she’d hung her graduation cap.
The dresser covered in Polaroids and lip gloss tubes and perfume bottles.
The mirror where she used to stand while Toni sat behind her and braided her hair with soft fingers and even softer jokes.
Gone.
Packed away like it hadn’t meant anything.
She stepped into the hallway at the same moment Toni did.
It was perfect in the worst way.
They both stopped.
The air between them froze—dense with things left unsaid and memories that suddenly felt heavier than all the boxes.
Toni held a bottle of nail polish in one hand, her other hand already sliding a toe separator into place. Like nothing was happening. Like this wasn’t happening.
Arianna opened her mouth.
Toni looked at her for a split second, then turned back into her room, door swinging half-shut behind her.
No words.
Just a silence so thick, Arianna thought she might choke on it.
Outside, Jonah was waiting.
He leaned against his car, hoodie up, hands stuffed into the kangaroo pocket like he was trying not to look too concerned. His eyes lifted as she approached, scanning her face without asking any questions.
He moved without a word, grabbing two boxes and heading for the trunk.
Arianna followed, carrying the last one like it weighed more than it did.
As she turned to walk down the steps, the apartment door swung open again behind her.
Deshawn.
Fresh fade. Slides. Sweatpants. That same smug look he always wore like a second skin.
He looked at her, then at the boxes, then at Jonah.
Snorted. “’Bout time.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
Just walked past her like she was furniture that had been sitting in the hallway too long.
Jonah’s jaw flexed. Arianna kept walking.
She didn’t break stride. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look back.
She wouldn’t give Deshawn the satisfaction.
Wouldn’t give Toni the guilt.
Jonah loaded the last box and closed the trunk.
Arianna sat in the passenger seat, bag across her lap like a shield.
The door closed with a soft thunk.
That’s when it hit her.
The tears didn’t come in waves. No sound. No heaving.
Just two slow tracks down her cheeks, so steady she didn’t notice them until she tasted salt.
Jonah didn’t say anything.
He just reached across the center console, slowly, and handed her a half-crumpled napkin from the glove compartment.
She took it. Dabbed at her face without looking at him.
They didn’t speak.
The car pulled off quietly, turning the corner with a hum that barely registered.
Arianna looked out the window, the apartment growing smaller in the side mirror, a little blurrier with every breath she took.
~~~~~~~~~~
The quad had that final-week quiet. Not silence exactly—just a kind of hush, like the whole campus had exhaled and was waiting for the semester to end. A few students sat cross-legged on blankets, highlighters in hand, earbuds in. The sun was low and warm, dragging long shadows across the pavement.
Royce sat on a stone bench beneath an oak tree, his backpack slumped at his feet, one ankle resting over the other. Hoodie up, earbuds in. No music playing.
He wasn’t hiding.
He just didn’t want to be known right now.
His last final had ended an hour ago. Stats. Went fine, he guessed. He could barely remember what he wrote. His brain still felt like it was buzzing, but his body was finally still.
It was peaceful.
For once.
Then he saw her.
Britni.
Walking across the far end of the quad with her roommate and two other girls, all of them laughing at something he couldn’t hear. She had her long braids in a high bun, gold earrings glinting in the sun. She faked confidence like a coat—like she hadn’t just clawed her way through grief for however many years straight.
Then she looked up.
Saw him.
And stopped walking.
Just for a second.
Her smile vanished. Her body froze mid-step, hand still midair from brushing her friend’s arm. She stared at him like she was seeing a ghost—or worse, someone she wished she could unsee.
Royce held her gaze.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look away.
He didn’t hate her.
But her eyes said she still hated him.
Or at least what he represented.
Romeo.
Everything Royce wasn’t. Everything she lost. Everything she thought he stole.
He could see it written in the tightness of her jaw, the slight flare in her nostrils, the way her fingers curled around the strap of her bag like she needed something to anchor her.
Neither of them said anything.
They never did.
Because what would that even sound like?
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I was shot, too.”
“He was my brother before he was your boyfriend. I miss him too.”
Words wouldn't fix anything.
They never had.
Britni’s roommate turned. “What are you doing?”
Britni blinked.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, her voice clipped and dry.
She turned and walked away with them, her posture straightening like she needed to reassemble herself just to keep moving forward.
Royce exhaled slowly. Let his shoulders drop back against the bench.
His phone buzzed.
Shayla: You free or nah? I’m tryna link before I head out.
He stared at the screen for a second. Thought about Britni’s eyes. Thought about Romeo.
Then typed:
’Can’t. Finals.’
He deleted the thread after sending it.
Leaned back, closed his eyes.
Let the sun warm his face and tried to pretend—for just a minute—that he didn’t feel like the wrong one lived.
~~~~~~~~~~
The knock came just after eleven.
Three taps—quick, light, then a pause. Not the kind that said "I'm here to hang out." The kind that said I shouldn't be here.
Royce sat on the edge of the couch, Xbox controller resting on his knee, the TV flashing in the corner of the dark living room. He looked at the door without moving for a second. He wasn't expecting anyone. Not at that hour. Not without a text first.
The knock came again—quieter this time, but somehow more urgent.
He stood slowly, grabbing his phone off the table and walking toward the door, every step slower than the one before. When he looked through the peephole, his eyebrows drew together.
Shayla.
Hair pulled into a messy puff, face bare. Not bare like casual. Bare like unplanned. She wore a dark hoodie and black tights, her arms wrapped tight around her midsection like she was holding herself in place.
He opened the door without saying anything.
She slipped past him like water through a crack, barely brushing against his arm as she stepped into the living room.
“You good?” he asked, locking the door behind her.
She didn’t answer right away. Just stood in the middle of the room, not moving, not looking at him. Her chest rose and fell like she’d just jogged across the city, but there was no sweat on her, no flushed skin. Just nerves.
"Shayla."
She turned to face him. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Royce crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”
She shook her head. “I just need somewhere to crash tonight.”
“That why you came over? Dressed like you just jumped out the back somebody’s car?”
She flinched—not visibly, but he saw it.
“I’m not trying to get into all that.”
“Fuck you mean? I am.”
Her eyes snapped up. Sharp. Defensive.
“You need to watch your back, Royce.”
That stopped him.
He took a step toward her, narrowing his eyes. “What does that mean?”
Shayla dropped onto the edge of the couch, like her knees had finally stopped cooperating. She exhaled hard, fingers laced tightly in her lap.
“It means there’s stuff happening around you that you don’t see. And maybe you don’t want to. But it’s real.”
He stood across from her, hands on his hips now. “Are you talking about Meech?”
She didn’t answer.
“Shayla.”
“I’m not naming people.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
She looked up at him, tired now. “I’m trying to get out.”
“Out of what?”
“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely—at the room, the air, herself. “All of it.”
“You came here in the middle of the night talking about danger and secrets like this a movie. I need more than riddles.”
Her jaw tightened. “I don’t owe you explanations.”
“You do if you want something from me.”
Silence stretched.
Royce stared at her, the knot in his chest twisting tighter. He didn’t know if it was anger or concern. Maybe both.
She ran her hands down her thighs, then clasped them again.
“I was supposed to be in cosmetology school,” she said quietly. “Had the paperwork filled out, tour scheduled and everything. I was gonna do lashes and brows and make girls feel pretty. That’s what I wanted.”
Her voice broke just slightly at the end, and Royce caught it.
“But?”
“But that ain’t how it went,” she said. “I got caught up. I let someone talk me into thinking I’d be taken care of, and now—” she stopped. “Now I’m on the edge of something I don’t even fully understand.”
Royce walked to the armchair and sat down, elbows on his knees.
“What do you want from me, Shayla?”
She looked at him like it hurt her to ask.
“I need help. A way out.”
“Help how?”
She looked down again.
“I’ll tell you,” she said softly, “But only if you say you’ll help.”
His breath caught in his throat.
He stared at her—really stared at her—for the first time since she walked in.
She wasn’t scheming.
She wasn’t seductive.
She was scared.
But Royce had been played before. By people who wore fear like a costume. By people who knew exactly how to look lost just long enough to take something from you.
He didn’t answer.
Just leaned back slowly in the chair, arms folding across his chest.
Shayla didn’t press him.
She just sat there on the couch, still wrapped up in herself, still waiting for an answer he wasn’t ready to give.
Outside, the wind picked up, brushing against the windows like a whisper no one wanted to hear.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13258
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Who gonna get got first?
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Arm Candy
The chandeliers didn’t even look real. Too many crystals. Too many reflections. The kind of light that made everything sparkle, even if it didn’t belong there.
Royce adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket and exhaled slowly through his nose. His tie was tight. He’d triple-checked the knot. The jacket was tailored but still felt like armor. He’d barely made it in the door before someone tried to pull him into a conversation about NIL projections, and that was before he made it to the registration table.
Alix stood beside him in a dark green dress that turned heads—on purpose or not, it didn’t matter. The silk clung to her like it had been made with her in mind. Still, she kept tugging at the hem near her thigh, straightening the strap at her shoulder. Her earrings were heavy. Her skin glowed, but her smile stayed small.
She didn’t ask who anyone was.
He didn’t explain.
They both knew.
This wasn’t their room.
Not really.
The air buzzed with names that sounded like bank accounts, conversations full of politics and philanthropy and people who hadn’t paid for their own gas in a decade. Waiters passed with trays of shrimp cocktail and tiny meatballs on skewers, and everyone laughed too loud at the right times.
Alix hated this kind of crowd. She wasn’t shy—but she wasn’t built for staged smiles and sentences loaded with subtext. She didn’t know which wine to order or how to nod like she knew someone’s foundation. She remembered the last time he brought her to something like this. The glances. The polite corrections. The women who asked who she was with before asking for her name.
And yet, she came tonight.
She always did.
Royce didn’t say much at first. Just kept his hand at the small of her back, his thumb occasionally brushing over the fabric like he needed the contact as much as she did.
They stood at the edge of the room near a poinsettia-lined column, watching as LSU alumni and local politicians mingled like they'd grown up attending parties in ballrooms that looked like bank lobbies.
“You good?” Royce asked quietly.
Alix gave a short nod, eyes on a couple across the floor—polished, professional, probably already on someone’s holiday card.
“Do I look like I know what I’m doing?” she asked.
Royce smiled. “You look like you belong more than I do.”
She turned toward him then. “That’s the lie we’re both telling.”
They moved through the crowd slowly, Royce nodding at people whose faces he recognized but couldn’t place. Some smiled too wide, like they’d rehearsed it. Some shook his hand with both of theirs, speaking in clipped, performative warmth.
“Royce,” someone called.
Chance Delpit.
Moving through the room like it bent around him. Black velvet blazer. Watch too shiny. That smooth, perfect-politician voice that made everything sound like an opportunity.
He pulled Royce in for a side-hug, clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Glad you made it.”
“Appreciate the invite,” Royce said.
“And this must be Alix,” Chance said, turning to her with that curated charm. “I’ve heard.”
Alix offered a small smile. “All good, I hope.”
“The best,” he said. “Much too pretty for this joker.”
Royce slid his hand slightly higher on her back. “She don’t need much help.”
Chance laughed and waved someone over, already ready to introduce them to someone else—a business owner, a board chair, a potential donor. Alix smiled and nodded through it. So did Royce.
But they both felt it—the ache of pretending. The pressure to hold posture. The weight of being looked at, not just seen.
Later, they stood near the back of the room, plastic glasses of punch in hand, watching another round of introductions unfold across the floor.
Alix leaned close, lowering her voice. “You think they know?”
“Know what?”
“That we’re faking this.”
Royce didn’t answer at first. Just sipped his drink.
“They faking it too.”
She looked at him, lips pressed together like she wanted to believe that.
His hand was still on her back.
Not as a claim, but as a tether.
They didn’t belong in the room. Not really.
But for tonight, they belonged to each other.
…
The champagne was long gone, so they switched to Crown.
Not because it made sense, but because it was there. The bottle was already open when they got back, its weight familiar in Royce’s hand. He poured two short glasses without asking, and Alix didn’t say no.
Now they were on the couch, shoes off, bodies sunk deep into the cushions. The only light in the apartment came from the kitchen, casting a soft glow across Royce’s living room. Her green dress had bunched up just above her knees, and his tie lay in a forgotten coil on the arm of the couch.
They were quiet for a long time. Just sipping. Letting the noise of the night settle into the corners.
Alix stared at the rim of her glass like it might hold the answers to questions she hadn’t even asked yet.
“You ever feel like you’re just… extra?” she said suddenly.
Royce looked over at her. “Extra what?”
She shrugged, a loose, lazy movement. But her voice didn’t match.
“Like the background character in everybody else’s story. Like… the person that’s always there for the buildup, but never in the part where things get good.”
She said it like it was a joke. It wasn’t.
Royce leaned back, his drink untouched in his hand. “That liquor got you being all philosophical and shit?”
Alix hesitated. For a moment, he thought she might brush it off, make a crack, steer them back to something easier.
But she didn’t.
She pulled her knees up onto the couch and rested her cheek on the back cushion, facing him fully now.
“I used to think I was okay with it,” she said. “Being the cool girl. The one that didn’t need too much. Didn’t ask for much. Didn’t get in the way.”
Royce didn’t interrupt.
“My mom was like that,” she continued. “She made herself small for every man that ever gave her attention. She’d shrink herself just to fit whatever they needed. I used to swear I’d never be like that. But then I’d look around and realize I wasn’t even in the picture.”
Her voice got quieter. “I don’t know what’s worse. Needing someone and getting hurt, or pretending you don’t need anyone at all.”
Royce shifted toward her, slow. “You ever say that out loud before?”
She gave a small, bitter laugh. “Not like that.”
He set his drink down. Reached out, hand resting gently against her shin.
“I see you,” he said.
Alix blinked. Like the words didn’t register at first.
“I do,” he said again, firmer this time. “You’re not background. Not to me.”
She didn’t speak right away.
Just looked at him, wide-eyed and blinking, like she was trying to decide if he meant it or if he was just saying it because it was late and the liquor was warm and the lights were low.
He didn’t look away.
Eventually, she leaned in, slow and uncertain, like the moment could still collapse under the weight of hesitation.
Royce met her halfway.
Their lips touched gently at first—soft, almost unsure. Then again, deeper. Her hand found his collar. His fingers curled against her waist, steady and grounding.
It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t rushed.
It was something else.
Something real.
When they finally pulled apart, neither of them said anything for a few seconds. They just sat there, foreheads nearly touching, breath caught in the same rhythm.
Alix looked down at her lap, then back at him.
“You sure you see me?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Royce didn’t blink.
“Yeah, I see you.”
…
The apartment was still.
The kind of stillness that settles only after a long night and just before sleep finally wins. Dishes were still in the sink, two half-empty glasses sat on the coffee table, and the smell of perfume lingered faintly in the air—floral, but not too sweet.
The living room lights were off. Only the hallway glowed dimly, casting Royce’s shadow long across the floor as he sat alone at the kitchen counter, phone in hand, face lit by the soft blue of the screen.
He’d been scrolling for ten minutes.
His DMs were flooded.
Most of them didn’t even bother pretending.
Girls from high school he hadn’t talked to in years. Girls from campus who’d seen him at practice, on the sideline, in someone’s story. Girls who didn’t use names—just emojis and intentions.
"You single for break or nah?"
"I know you saw me in that dress after the Ole Miss game
"
"Let me come thru and treat you right."
"You look like trouble. I’m tryna risk it."
Royce didn’t respond to any of them.
Didn’t even think about it.
He just scrolled.
Thumb dragging up the screen again and again, watching the names change, the photos blur together, the thirst stack like unread headlines in a paper he didn’t want to read.
There was a time he would’ve answered.
A time when the attention felt like something to earn. Something to flex.
But tonight?
He wasn’t hungry for it.
He wasn’t anything.
Just still.
Still in the same hoodie he’d pulled on after the gala. Still tasting Alix’s name at the back of his throat.
Still hearing the way her voice broke when she talked about needing someone.
He exhaled and locked his phone.
The screen went black.
His reflection looked back at him—tired eyes, unreadable face.
He moved quietly down the hall, the floor creaking once beneath his bare feet.
The bedroom door was already cracked. The light from the hallway spilled across the bed where Alix lay curled on her side, facing the wall. One arm stretched across the empty half of the bed like she’d reached for him in her sleep.
She was wearing one of his shirts now—an old one, soft with time, sleeves bunched around her elbows. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, messy and perfect in a way that made something squeeze in his chest.
Royce stood at the doorway for a second.
Just watching.
He didn’t know what to call this thing between them.
It wasn’t clean.
It wasn’t simple.
But it was here.
And tonight, it was the only thing that made sense.
He walked in, careful not to wake her, and slid into bed behind her.
The sheets were warm from her body, and as soon as he settled, she moved—instinctive, gentle—pressing her back into his chest, her hand finding his forearm and pulling it across her.
Like she’d done it a thousand times before.
Like her body already knew where he belonged.
Royce closed his eyes and let the sleep take over.
The chandeliers didn’t even look real. Too many crystals. Too many reflections. The kind of light that made everything sparkle, even if it didn’t belong there.
Royce adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket and exhaled slowly through his nose. His tie was tight. He’d triple-checked the knot. The jacket was tailored but still felt like armor. He’d barely made it in the door before someone tried to pull him into a conversation about NIL projections, and that was before he made it to the registration table.
Alix stood beside him in a dark green dress that turned heads—on purpose or not, it didn’t matter. The silk clung to her like it had been made with her in mind. Still, she kept tugging at the hem near her thigh, straightening the strap at her shoulder. Her earrings were heavy. Her skin glowed, but her smile stayed small.
She didn’t ask who anyone was.
He didn’t explain.
They both knew.
This wasn’t their room.
Not really.
The air buzzed with names that sounded like bank accounts, conversations full of politics and philanthropy and people who hadn’t paid for their own gas in a decade. Waiters passed with trays of shrimp cocktail and tiny meatballs on skewers, and everyone laughed too loud at the right times.
Alix hated this kind of crowd. She wasn’t shy—but she wasn’t built for staged smiles and sentences loaded with subtext. She didn’t know which wine to order or how to nod like she knew someone’s foundation. She remembered the last time he brought her to something like this. The glances. The polite corrections. The women who asked who she was with before asking for her name.
And yet, she came tonight.
She always did.
Royce didn’t say much at first. Just kept his hand at the small of her back, his thumb occasionally brushing over the fabric like he needed the contact as much as she did.
They stood at the edge of the room near a poinsettia-lined column, watching as LSU alumni and local politicians mingled like they'd grown up attending parties in ballrooms that looked like bank lobbies.
“You good?” Royce asked quietly.
Alix gave a short nod, eyes on a couple across the floor—polished, professional, probably already on someone’s holiday card.
“Do I look like I know what I’m doing?” she asked.
Royce smiled. “You look like you belong more than I do.”
She turned toward him then. “That’s the lie we’re both telling.”
They moved through the crowd slowly, Royce nodding at people whose faces he recognized but couldn’t place. Some smiled too wide, like they’d rehearsed it. Some shook his hand with both of theirs, speaking in clipped, performative warmth.
“Royce,” someone called.
Chance Delpit.
Moving through the room like it bent around him. Black velvet blazer. Watch too shiny. That smooth, perfect-politician voice that made everything sound like an opportunity.
He pulled Royce in for a side-hug, clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Glad you made it.”
“Appreciate the invite,” Royce said.
“And this must be Alix,” Chance said, turning to her with that curated charm. “I’ve heard.”
Alix offered a small smile. “All good, I hope.”
“The best,” he said. “Much too pretty for this joker.”
Royce slid his hand slightly higher on her back. “She don’t need much help.”
Chance laughed and waved someone over, already ready to introduce them to someone else—a business owner, a board chair, a potential donor. Alix smiled and nodded through it. So did Royce.
But they both felt it—the ache of pretending. The pressure to hold posture. The weight of being looked at, not just seen.
Later, they stood near the back of the room, plastic glasses of punch in hand, watching another round of introductions unfold across the floor.
Alix leaned close, lowering her voice. “You think they know?”
“Know what?”
“That we’re faking this.”
Royce didn’t answer at first. Just sipped his drink.
“They faking it too.”
She looked at him, lips pressed together like she wanted to believe that.
His hand was still on her back.
Not as a claim, but as a tether.
They didn’t belong in the room. Not really.
But for tonight, they belonged to each other.
…
The champagne was long gone, so they switched to Crown.
Not because it made sense, but because it was there. The bottle was already open when they got back, its weight familiar in Royce’s hand. He poured two short glasses without asking, and Alix didn’t say no.
Now they were on the couch, shoes off, bodies sunk deep into the cushions. The only light in the apartment came from the kitchen, casting a soft glow across Royce’s living room. Her green dress had bunched up just above her knees, and his tie lay in a forgotten coil on the arm of the couch.
They were quiet for a long time. Just sipping. Letting the noise of the night settle into the corners.
Alix stared at the rim of her glass like it might hold the answers to questions she hadn’t even asked yet.
“You ever feel like you’re just… extra?” she said suddenly.
Royce looked over at her. “Extra what?”
She shrugged, a loose, lazy movement. But her voice didn’t match.
“Like the background character in everybody else’s story. Like… the person that’s always there for the buildup, but never in the part where things get good.”
She said it like it was a joke. It wasn’t.
Royce leaned back, his drink untouched in his hand. “That liquor got you being all philosophical and shit?”
Alix hesitated. For a moment, he thought she might brush it off, make a crack, steer them back to something easier.
But she didn’t.
She pulled her knees up onto the couch and rested her cheek on the back cushion, facing him fully now.
“I used to think I was okay with it,” she said. “Being the cool girl. The one that didn’t need too much. Didn’t ask for much. Didn’t get in the way.”
Royce didn’t interrupt.
“My mom was like that,” she continued. “She made herself small for every man that ever gave her attention. She’d shrink herself just to fit whatever they needed. I used to swear I’d never be like that. But then I’d look around and realize I wasn’t even in the picture.”
Her voice got quieter. “I don’t know what’s worse. Needing someone and getting hurt, or pretending you don’t need anyone at all.”
Royce shifted toward her, slow. “You ever say that out loud before?”
She gave a small, bitter laugh. “Not like that.”
He set his drink down. Reached out, hand resting gently against her shin.
“I see you,” he said.
Alix blinked. Like the words didn’t register at first.
“I do,” he said again, firmer this time. “You’re not background. Not to me.”
She didn’t speak right away.
Just looked at him, wide-eyed and blinking, like she was trying to decide if he meant it or if he was just saying it because it was late and the liquor was warm and the lights were low.
He didn’t look away.
Eventually, she leaned in, slow and uncertain, like the moment could still collapse under the weight of hesitation.
Royce met her halfway.
Their lips touched gently at first—soft, almost unsure. Then again, deeper. Her hand found his collar. His fingers curled against her waist, steady and grounding.
It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t rushed.
It was something else.
Something real.
When they finally pulled apart, neither of them said anything for a few seconds. They just sat there, foreheads nearly touching, breath caught in the same rhythm.
Alix looked down at her lap, then back at him.
“You sure you see me?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Royce didn’t blink.
“Yeah, I see you.”
…
The apartment was still.
The kind of stillness that settles only after a long night and just before sleep finally wins. Dishes were still in the sink, two half-empty glasses sat on the coffee table, and the smell of perfume lingered faintly in the air—floral, but not too sweet.
The living room lights were off. Only the hallway glowed dimly, casting Royce’s shadow long across the floor as he sat alone at the kitchen counter, phone in hand, face lit by the soft blue of the screen.
He’d been scrolling for ten minutes.
His DMs were flooded.
Most of them didn’t even bother pretending.
Girls from high school he hadn’t talked to in years. Girls from campus who’d seen him at practice, on the sideline, in someone’s story. Girls who didn’t use names—just emojis and intentions.
"You single for break or nah?"
"I know you saw me in that dress after the Ole Miss game
""Let me come thru and treat you right."
"You look like trouble. I’m tryna risk it."
Royce didn’t respond to any of them.
Didn’t even think about it.
He just scrolled.
Thumb dragging up the screen again and again, watching the names change, the photos blur together, the thirst stack like unread headlines in a paper he didn’t want to read.
There was a time he would’ve answered.
A time when the attention felt like something to earn. Something to flex.
But tonight?
He wasn’t hungry for it.
He wasn’t anything.
Just still.
Still in the same hoodie he’d pulled on after the gala. Still tasting Alix’s name at the back of his throat.
Still hearing the way her voice broke when she talked about needing someone.
He exhaled and locked his phone.
The screen went black.
His reflection looked back at him—tired eyes, unreadable face.
He moved quietly down the hall, the floor creaking once beneath his bare feet.
The bedroom door was already cracked. The light from the hallway spilled across the bed where Alix lay curled on her side, facing the wall. One arm stretched across the empty half of the bed like she’d reached for him in her sleep.
She was wearing one of his shirts now—an old one, soft with time, sleeves bunched around her elbows. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, messy and perfect in a way that made something squeeze in his chest.
Royce stood at the doorway for a second.
Just watching.
He didn’t know what to call this thing between them.
It wasn’t clean.
It wasn’t simple.
But it was here.
And tonight, it was the only thing that made sense.
He walked in, careful not to wake her, and slid into bed behind her.
The sheets were warm from her body, and as soon as he settled, she moved—instinctive, gentle—pressing her back into his chest, her hand finding his forearm and pulling it across her.
Like she’d done it a thousand times before.
Like her body already knew where he belonged.
Royce closed his eyes and let the sleep take over.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
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- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
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djp73
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Dying to Live
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