Nooticer slacking
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Noise Cancellation
The car rattled like it had seen better days—and probably better decades. The A/C sputtered out air that couldn’t quite beat the heat as it baked against the windshield. Baton Rouge shimmered under a July sun, but Poochie bounced his knee like they were headed to hell.
Shayla drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the driver-side window where her fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against the paint.
Neither of them spoke. Not at first.
The duffel bag sat between them, unzipped just enough to reveal the vacuum-sealed bricks packed tight like frozen dinners. Poochie had tried not to look at it too long when Meech handed it over. Tried not to think about how casually his cousin had said “just a soft drop—quick in and out” like it was pizza and not five figures’ worth of weight.
But Meech wasn’t the one making the drop. That was Poochie’s job now.
Shayla finally spoke as they turned into the apartment complex, her voice low and detached. “Unit 232. Upstairs, back balcony. Same as last time.”
Poochie nodded, licking his lips. “You staying in the car?”
Shayla shot him a look. “You want us both on camera?”
He didn’t say anything. Just reached for the bag.
As soon as he stepped out, the sun hit him like a punch. He squinted behind his sunglasses and took a long breath through his nose. The complex was quiet—too quiet. No kids. No music. Just the hum of window units and the flap of a tattered flag on a rusted pole.
Then he saw them.
Three BRPD cruisers parked side by side at the far edge of the lot, officers lingering by the hoods sipping from plastic cups and talking like they had nothing better to do.
Poochie’s stomach dropped.
He froze mid-step. One of the cops turned just slightly. Not toward him. Not exactly. But enough.
Poochie spun on his heel and walked—fast—back the way he came, heat prickling down his neck like a slap.
He rounded the far end of the complex, his brain on fire. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. His mouth was dry. He ducked behind a dumpster, peeked around the corner. No movement. No sirens. But still.
Instead of heading for the front door of Unit 232, he doubled back, taking the long path around the back of the building, past overgrown grass and a fence leaning too far into someone’s backyard. He spotted the balcony—the second one on the left—and pulled the bag close to his chest.
With a grunt, he tossed it.
The duffel landed hard but clean, bouncing once before settling against the sliding door.
Poochie turned and walked fast, half-jogging, half-tripping over broken concrete until he was back in the car. Shayla had the engine running. She watched him with eyes that didn’t blink.
He slammed the door shut, breathing hard. “They had cops in the lot.”
Shayla didn’t respond.
He looked over at her, still panting. “You saw them?”
“I saw them,” she said calmly.
Poochie wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. “So I looped around. Dropped it from the back.”
Shayla kept her eyes on the road. “You’re a football looking ass nigga. No one is going to look twice at you carrying a duffel bag,” she said.
Her mouth was tight, and her fingers gripped the wheel just a little too hard.
They rode in silence.
The kind that wasn’t peace. The kind that tasted like warning.
Shayla stared straight ahead as they pulled away from the complex, her mind already racing. She didn’t trust many people. Not in this game. Not in this life. And now, sitting beside Poochie—chest still heaving, nerves still fried—she wasn’t sure how much longer she could trust him either.
Because fear? Fear got people sloppy.
And sloppy got people caught.
~~~~~~~~~~
The heat outside had that cling-to-your-skin humidity that only Baton Rouge could deliver in July. Alix balanced a brown paper bag of Thai food in one hand and fumbled for Royce’s apartment key with the other. Her phone sat face-up on the passenger seat, still glowing from the text she’d sent twenty minutes ago.
Got dinner. Be there in 10. I have news
He hadn’t responded, but that was beginning to become normal.
She slid the key into the lock and let herself in, greeted by the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint smell of detergent and linen. Royce always kept the place immaculate—everything folded, wiped, squared off. A single pink Stanley cup, hers, sat by the sink. A silent placeholder.
She kicked off her sandals and placed the food on the counter, arranging it neatly while listening for signs of life from the back. Voices drifted in from Royce’s office—a deeper one she didn’t recognize and his, sharp and clipped in response.
She moved toward the sound just as Royce emerged, phone pressed to his ear.
“Yeah, no—I get that. Yeah. But they just sent that over last week, so it wasn’t some shit I was looking for. Right. No, I’m not saying I won’t go. I’m saying someone’s gotta block it off so I don’t miss lifts. I do play football, too, y’all know? Okay. I’ll come by there after conditioning tomorrow.”
He looked up, nodded once at her, then turned back into the room, still talking.
Alix leaned against the wall, letting her excitement slowly drain out of her posture.
She didn’t expect a parade. But a smile? A moment? Something?
She walked back to the kitchen, opened one of the takeout boxes, and spooned rice into a bowl out of habit. She left his sealed, waiting for him.
When Royce finally stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, he was still holding his phone like it might ring again.
“Hey,” he said absently, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.
“Hey,” Alix echoed, quieter. “I brought Thai.”
He nodded. “Smells good.”
“I got you green curry. Your favorite.”
“Thanks.”
She hesitated, watching him open a cabinet and grab a glass. He poured the water and took a sip without sitting down.
“So,” she said, voice lifting a little, “I got the internship.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“With Roux Interiors,” she said. “The design firm. The one I interviewed with last month.”
“Oh yeah? That’s what’s up,” he said, blinking like he was trying to remember the name. “Congrats. I’m proud of you. I know you were nervous about that.”
He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. He glanced at his phone again and thumbed through a few notifications.
Alix nodded slowly, pressing her lips together. “Thanks.”
There was a pause. Not awkward, just hollow.
Royce took a bite of rice straight from the carton, then set it down. “I gotta shower. Got sweat all over me from conditioning earlier.”
“Yeah, of course.”
He moved past her and disappeared down the hallway.
She stood still for a second longer, then gathered her things—the napkins she’d laid out, the bowl she’d filled—and put them all back in the bag, tossing it all into the garbage. She walked to the living room and grabbed her keys from the side table.
Royce emerged from the hallway just as she was slipping her sandals back on.
“You leaving?”
“I’m not feeling great,” she said, eyes fixed on the floor. “Headache.”
“You sure? I got some Tylenol or whatever in there.”
“Yeah.”
He nodded, towel over his shoulder. “Text me when you get home.”
She nodded back. “I will.”
She didn’t kiss him goodbye.
She didn’t remind him again what the news had meant to her.
She just let the door close softly behind her, muffling the sound of the shower starting, and walked to her car in the summer dark, one hand resting over the spot on her chest where pride had bloomed just a few hours earlier.
Now it just felt like static.
~~~~~~~~~~
The coffee shop wasn’t fancy—bare wood floors, mismatched chairs, a barista who looked like she ran a zine out of her dorm room—but it had become Arianna’s sanctuary.
It sat on the edge of downtown Lafayette, tucked between a consignment shop and a closed-for-renovation bookstore. On Tuesdays, the shop hosted open mics. On Thursdays, it belonged to the artists who didn’t need a mic to speak loudly—who gathered just to be, and to tell, and to listen.
Arianna sat cross-legged in a weathered armchair near the back, a nearly empty glass of iced chai sweating in her hand. The buzz of conversation around her was warm and low, rhythmic like a poem in motion. A few of them were sketching. One was editing a video clip. Another girl with short pink hair was adding lines to a notebook that was already thick with intent.
They were all storytellers. Not just writers—but people who knew that memory could rot if you didn’t pull it into the light once in a while.
Arianna smiled as she leaned forward, balancing her elbows on her knees.
“So, no lie—y’all ever had Popeyes with a bullet hole in the box?”
The question made the small circle around her pause, confused grins sliding across faces.
Keon, the guy who wrote poems about his mother’s cigarette burns and had the softest voice Arianna had ever heard, blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious,” she said, laughing. “Me and my cousin, Ro—he’s at LSU now, plays football—we were walking home from the store, just two middle school kids, right? We had this ten-piece box, and this crackhead comes sprinting up outta nowhere, talking bout, ‘Let me hold that real quick.’”
“Oh no,” said Jolie, sipping from her chipped mug.
“I said, ‘Hell nah.’ He reached for it. My cousin steps in front of me and pushes him back. Dude pulls out a knife—but not even a real knife. Like a butter knife. Still sharp enough to scare a kid, though.”
“What’d you do?” Keon asked.
“I swung the damn box,” Arianna said, bursting into a full laugh. “Smacked him right in the neck. Chicken flew everywhere.”
Jolie was doubled over. “You did not!”
“Girl, I swear. Royce grabs the box and we start running. Dude’s yelling behind us, throwing slurs like he got Tourette’s. We get home, and one of the wings has a hole straight through it. Like, through it. We didn’t know if it was from the fall or from a rock or what.”
Keon wiped his eyes. “Not the Popeyes bullet wing.”
“Deadass. We still ate that shit, though. We was po’.”
They were all laughing now. Not performative giggles, not polite chuckles—real, belly-deep laughter. Arianna sat back, her smile settling into something softer.
She didn’t always talk like this. She’d spent so long keeping those stories tight in her chest, buried behind pleasantries and practiced restraint. But lately—especially around these people, in this room—she felt lighter. Like she could set her story down without fear someone would stomp on it.
“I used to be embarrassed,” she said quietly. “About all that. About where I came from. I’d say ‘Houma’ then where at in Houma and people would look at me like I needed a rescue plan.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” Jolie said. “That’s survival. That’s rhythm. That’s culture.”
Arianna nodded slowly. “It’s funny, though. I’ve got family who went through the same shit, and they never talk about it. They act like it didn’t happen. But it did. It still matters.”
“You remember it,” Keon said. “That’s what makes you the writer.”
A silence settled in for a moment, not awkward—just full.
Outside the window, dusk was fading in, turning the sky the color of an old bruise. Inside, the air smelled like cinnamon and ink, and someone in the front started softly humming.
Arianna reached for her pen.
She didn’t know yet what she’d write.
But for once, she wasn’t afraid of saying too much.
The car rattled like it had seen better days—and probably better decades. The A/C sputtered out air that couldn’t quite beat the heat as it baked against the windshield. Baton Rouge shimmered under a July sun, but Poochie bounced his knee like they were headed to hell.
Shayla drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the driver-side window where her fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against the paint.
Neither of them spoke. Not at first.
The duffel bag sat between them, unzipped just enough to reveal the vacuum-sealed bricks packed tight like frozen dinners. Poochie had tried not to look at it too long when Meech handed it over. Tried not to think about how casually his cousin had said “just a soft drop—quick in and out” like it was pizza and not five figures’ worth of weight.
But Meech wasn’t the one making the drop. That was Poochie’s job now.
Shayla finally spoke as they turned into the apartment complex, her voice low and detached. “Unit 232. Upstairs, back balcony. Same as last time.”
Poochie nodded, licking his lips. “You staying in the car?”
Shayla shot him a look. “You want us both on camera?”
He didn’t say anything. Just reached for the bag.
As soon as he stepped out, the sun hit him like a punch. He squinted behind his sunglasses and took a long breath through his nose. The complex was quiet—too quiet. No kids. No music. Just the hum of window units and the flap of a tattered flag on a rusted pole.
Then he saw them.
Three BRPD cruisers parked side by side at the far edge of the lot, officers lingering by the hoods sipping from plastic cups and talking like they had nothing better to do.
Poochie’s stomach dropped.
He froze mid-step. One of the cops turned just slightly. Not toward him. Not exactly. But enough.
Poochie spun on his heel and walked—fast—back the way he came, heat prickling down his neck like a slap.
He rounded the far end of the complex, his brain on fire. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. His mouth was dry. He ducked behind a dumpster, peeked around the corner. No movement. No sirens. But still.
Instead of heading for the front door of Unit 232, he doubled back, taking the long path around the back of the building, past overgrown grass and a fence leaning too far into someone’s backyard. He spotted the balcony—the second one on the left—and pulled the bag close to his chest.
With a grunt, he tossed it.
The duffel landed hard but clean, bouncing once before settling against the sliding door.
Poochie turned and walked fast, half-jogging, half-tripping over broken concrete until he was back in the car. Shayla had the engine running. She watched him with eyes that didn’t blink.
He slammed the door shut, breathing hard. “They had cops in the lot.”
Shayla didn’t respond.
He looked over at her, still panting. “You saw them?”
“I saw them,” she said calmly.
Poochie wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. “So I looped around. Dropped it from the back.”
Shayla kept her eyes on the road. “You’re a football looking ass nigga. No one is going to look twice at you carrying a duffel bag,” she said.
Her mouth was tight, and her fingers gripped the wheel just a little too hard.
They rode in silence.
The kind that wasn’t peace. The kind that tasted like warning.
Shayla stared straight ahead as they pulled away from the complex, her mind already racing. She didn’t trust many people. Not in this game. Not in this life. And now, sitting beside Poochie—chest still heaving, nerves still fried—she wasn’t sure how much longer she could trust him either.
Because fear? Fear got people sloppy.
And sloppy got people caught.
~~~~~~~~~~
The heat outside had that cling-to-your-skin humidity that only Baton Rouge could deliver in July. Alix balanced a brown paper bag of Thai food in one hand and fumbled for Royce’s apartment key with the other. Her phone sat face-up on the passenger seat, still glowing from the text she’d sent twenty minutes ago.
Got dinner. Be there in 10. I have news
He hadn’t responded, but that was beginning to become normal.
She slid the key into the lock and let herself in, greeted by the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint smell of detergent and linen. Royce always kept the place immaculate—everything folded, wiped, squared off. A single pink Stanley cup, hers, sat by the sink. A silent placeholder.
She kicked off her sandals and placed the food on the counter, arranging it neatly while listening for signs of life from the back. Voices drifted in from Royce’s office—a deeper one she didn’t recognize and his, sharp and clipped in response.
She moved toward the sound just as Royce emerged, phone pressed to his ear.
“Yeah, no—I get that. Yeah. But they just sent that over last week, so it wasn’t some shit I was looking for. Right. No, I’m not saying I won’t go. I’m saying someone’s gotta block it off so I don’t miss lifts. I do play football, too, y’all know? Okay. I’ll come by there after conditioning tomorrow.”
He looked up, nodded once at her, then turned back into the room, still talking.
Alix leaned against the wall, letting her excitement slowly drain out of her posture.
She didn’t expect a parade. But a smile? A moment? Something?
She walked back to the kitchen, opened one of the takeout boxes, and spooned rice into a bowl out of habit. She left his sealed, waiting for him.
When Royce finally stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, he was still holding his phone like it might ring again.
“Hey,” he said absently, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.
“Hey,” Alix echoed, quieter. “I brought Thai.”
He nodded. “Smells good.”
“I got you green curry. Your favorite.”
“Thanks.”
She hesitated, watching him open a cabinet and grab a glass. He poured the water and took a sip without sitting down.
“So,” she said, voice lifting a little, “I got the internship.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“With Roux Interiors,” she said. “The design firm. The one I interviewed with last month.”
“Oh yeah? That’s what’s up,” he said, blinking like he was trying to remember the name. “Congrats. I’m proud of you. I know you were nervous about that.”
He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. He glanced at his phone again and thumbed through a few notifications.
Alix nodded slowly, pressing her lips together. “Thanks.”
There was a pause. Not awkward, just hollow.
Royce took a bite of rice straight from the carton, then set it down. “I gotta shower. Got sweat all over me from conditioning earlier.”
“Yeah, of course.”
He moved past her and disappeared down the hallway.
She stood still for a second longer, then gathered her things—the napkins she’d laid out, the bowl she’d filled—and put them all back in the bag, tossing it all into the garbage. She walked to the living room and grabbed her keys from the side table.
Royce emerged from the hallway just as she was slipping her sandals back on.
“You leaving?”
“I’m not feeling great,” she said, eyes fixed on the floor. “Headache.”
“You sure? I got some Tylenol or whatever in there.”
“Yeah.”
He nodded, towel over his shoulder. “Text me when you get home.”
She nodded back. “I will.”
She didn’t kiss him goodbye.
She didn’t remind him again what the news had meant to her.
She just let the door close softly behind her, muffling the sound of the shower starting, and walked to her car in the summer dark, one hand resting over the spot on her chest where pride had bloomed just a few hours earlier.
Now it just felt like static.
~~~~~~~~~~
The coffee shop wasn’t fancy—bare wood floors, mismatched chairs, a barista who looked like she ran a zine out of her dorm room—but it had become Arianna’s sanctuary.
It sat on the edge of downtown Lafayette, tucked between a consignment shop and a closed-for-renovation bookstore. On Tuesdays, the shop hosted open mics. On Thursdays, it belonged to the artists who didn’t need a mic to speak loudly—who gathered just to be, and to tell, and to listen.
Arianna sat cross-legged in a weathered armchair near the back, a nearly empty glass of iced chai sweating in her hand. The buzz of conversation around her was warm and low, rhythmic like a poem in motion. A few of them were sketching. One was editing a video clip. Another girl with short pink hair was adding lines to a notebook that was already thick with intent.
They were all storytellers. Not just writers—but people who knew that memory could rot if you didn’t pull it into the light once in a while.
Arianna smiled as she leaned forward, balancing her elbows on her knees.
“So, no lie—y’all ever had Popeyes with a bullet hole in the box?”
The question made the small circle around her pause, confused grins sliding across faces.
Keon, the guy who wrote poems about his mother’s cigarette burns and had the softest voice Arianna had ever heard, blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious,” she said, laughing. “Me and my cousin, Ro—he’s at LSU now, plays football—we were walking home from the store, just two middle school kids, right? We had this ten-piece box, and this crackhead comes sprinting up outta nowhere, talking bout, ‘Let me hold that real quick.’”
“Oh no,” said Jolie, sipping from her chipped mug.
“I said, ‘Hell nah.’ He reached for it. My cousin steps in front of me and pushes him back. Dude pulls out a knife—but not even a real knife. Like a butter knife. Still sharp enough to scare a kid, though.”
“What’d you do?” Keon asked.
“I swung the damn box,” Arianna said, bursting into a full laugh. “Smacked him right in the neck. Chicken flew everywhere.”
Jolie was doubled over. “You did not!”
“Girl, I swear. Royce grabs the box and we start running. Dude’s yelling behind us, throwing slurs like he got Tourette’s. We get home, and one of the wings has a hole straight through it. Like, through it. We didn’t know if it was from the fall or from a rock or what.”
Keon wiped his eyes. “Not the Popeyes bullet wing.”
“Deadass. We still ate that shit, though. We was po’.”
They were all laughing now. Not performative giggles, not polite chuckles—real, belly-deep laughter. Arianna sat back, her smile settling into something softer.
She didn’t always talk like this. She’d spent so long keeping those stories tight in her chest, buried behind pleasantries and practiced restraint. But lately—especially around these people, in this room—she felt lighter. Like she could set her story down without fear someone would stomp on it.
“I used to be embarrassed,” she said quietly. “About all that. About where I came from. I’d say ‘Houma’ then where at in Houma and people would look at me like I needed a rescue plan.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” Jolie said. “That’s survival. That’s rhythm. That’s culture.”
Arianna nodded slowly. “It’s funny, though. I’ve got family who went through the same shit, and they never talk about it. They act like it didn’t happen. But it did. It still matters.”
“You remember it,” Keon said. “That’s what makes you the writer.”
A silence settled in for a moment, not awkward—just full.
Outside the window, dusk was fading in, turning the sky the color of an old bruise. Inside, the air smelled like cinnamon and ink, and someone in the front started softly humming.
Arianna reached for her pen.
She didn’t know yet what she’d write.
But for once, she wasn’t afraid of saying too much.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13215
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Poochie bout to be disappeared, Royce about to be single and Arianna found her people 
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
You can't fool me brother.
Caesar wrote: ↑23 Apr 2025, 12:12Royce raised both eyebrows. “I was just gonna take a friend out. Thought maybe after a breakup, a night out would help.”
Effie leaned back, resting her arm across the edge of the seat. “That’s what you’d want?”
He nodded. “Sure. You feel like shit, you need to get out. Get distracted. Fuck something. Doesn’t have to be deep.”
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
This doesn’t disprove that he considers himself in a relationship with Alix. Just that he would fuck another woman while in a relationship with Alix. And since Black men don’t cheat… 1+1 equal what?!Soapy wrote: ↑24 Apr 2025, 10:40You can't fool me brother.
Caesar wrote: ↑23 Apr 2025, 12:12Royce raised both eyebrows. “I was just gonna take a friend out. Thought maybe after a breakup, a night out would help.”
Effie leaned back, resting her arm across the edge of the seat. “That’s what you’d want?”
He nodded. “Sure. You feel like shit, you need to get out. Get distracted. Fuck something. Doesn’t have to be deep.”
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Demand Respect
The restaurant was one of those unassuming spots tucked behind a gas station on Plank Road—half soul food joint, half political clubhouse, with chalk specials on the wall and framed news clippings that yellowed with age. The A/C buzzed against the Louisiana heat, and gospel music hummed soft and steady from a speaker mounted near the ceiling fan.
Royce followed Chance Delpit through the narrow corridor that led to the back dining room. Delpit wore his usual soft polo tucked into clean slacks, everything about him casual but precise. He never dressed like he was trying to impress—but he always did.
Royce, in joggers and a black hoodie with the LSU logo across the chest, felt underdressed but didn’t care enough to show it.
A small group of men stood around a table near the back, but one stood apart—tall, dark-skinned, mid-30s, clean-cut with an easy smile and eyes that didn’t miss much.
“That’s Councilman Rashad Trent,” Delpit said under his breath. “District 2. Youngest one on the council. Watch how he moves.”
Rashad turned just as they approached. “This must be the man of the hour,” he said, stepping forward and offering a firm handshake.
“Royce Lafitte,” Royce said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. I’ve seen you lay some motherfuckers out. Good form.”
Royce smiled, polite. “Appreciate that.”
Delpit clapped a hand on Royce’s shoulder. “Figured it was time y’all crossed paths. Royce is more than a linebacker—he’s a presence. And Baton Rouge, our Baton Rouge, needs presence.”
They took seats around the small table in the corner, plastic cups filled with sweet tea already sweating through the paper napkins underneath.
Trent leaned in slightly. “Let me ask you something, Royce. When was the last time you were in North Baton Rouge just… walking around?”
Royce tilted his head, unsure. “Walking around? I don’t know. Probably back in high school. I had a potna who people lived up here.”
“Me too,” Trent said with a chuckle. “Still got family off Foster. We both know what it’s like to come from places that get skipped when folks start talking about ‘revitalization.’ But here’s the thing—kids up there still know who you are.”
Royce shifted slightly in his seat.
“They don’t care about council meetings,” Trent continued. “Or zoning boards or development grants. But they care when they see someone with their skin tone, with their zip code, make it out. They care when that person looks back.”
Royce glanced over at Delpit, who just sipped his tea and stayed quiet.
“I ain’t saying start a nonprofit,” Trent went on. “I’m saying… if you ever wanted to use your name to shine a little light? There’s space for that. All these cameras and followers and reporters asking about your journey—don’t just let them use it. Decide what you want it to mean.”
Royce tapped a knuckle against the table. “I hear you. I just don’t know anything about all that… organizing. Programs. I don’t even know where I’d start.”
“You don’t need to know how to write a grant to know what it felt like growing up without trees over the sidewalks,” Trent said softly. “You’re not here because you’re perfect. You’re here because people see themselves in you. That’s currency.”
Royce didn’t have a response right away. Not because he didn’t understand—but because he did. Too well.
He thought about Roni. About the look in her eyes when she asked him what dying felt like.
He thought about the way Houma had moved on after Romeo’s funeral, except for the streets that looked exactly the same.
Trent stood, offering his hand again. “Think about it. That’s all I ask.”
Royce stood too, shaking his hand. “I will.”
Outside, the late afternoon sun smeared gold across the cars in the lot. Royce and Delpit walked back to the Range in silence, the cicadas screaming overhead like a warning or a dare.
As Delpit opened the passenger door, he said without looking up, “They shake hands with anybody. But they only take meetings with people who matter.”
Royce sat in the seat and pulled the door shut.
He didn’t say anything.
But he was still thinking about sidewalks without trees.
…
The morning heat hung over the LSU practice field like a dare. It wasn’t even 9 a.m., and the turf already shimmered with sweat and sunlight. The speakers thumped with trap beats, but they did little to distract from the burn in everyone’s lungs.
Conditioning day.
No helmets. No pads.
Just pain.
Royce was locked in. He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. The only noise he made was his breath, steady and controlled, as he drove the sled down the marked lane. Legs pumping. Cleats digging. Finish every rep. Beat the clock.
By the time he stepped aside, his chest was heaving, shirt soaked through. But he didn’t sit down. Didn’t bend over. That was rule number one—don’t let ‘em see you fold.
He turned, watching the next group take their marks. Langston, a freshman walk-on linebacker, was near the front of the line—long legs, good instincts, but soft in the core. On the second rep, Langston slowed halfway through the push, stumbling, hands dropping to his knees.
“Let’s go!” one of the strength coaches barked. “Keep moving!”
Langston didn’t.
Royce stepped forward before the coach could keep shouting.
“Yo,” Royce snapped, stopping in front of him. “You good?”
Langston nodded weakly. “Just—tired, man.”
Royce crouched low so only he could hear.
“You tired? This the SEC, bro. You tired after two reps, carry yo ass down the road to Hammond and play for them boys.”
Langston looked up, sweat running down the side of his face.
“You think this is about pushing sleds?” Royce continued, eyes sharp. “This is about showing them you won’t tap out when it’s ugly. This is about earning your name in a room full of grown men who already got theirs.”
Langston swallowed hard.
Royce stood, voice rising now—not to humiliate, but to reach everyone else who might’ve been thinking about folding too.
“This program don’t give out shit. Everything you want here—you gotta take it.”
He looked down at Langston, then pointed back at the sled.
“So get your ass up and stop being a fucking bitch.”
Langston blinked. Then nodded. He stepped up, took hold of the sled strap, and started moving. Slower than before—but all the way to the end.
Royce turned and walked back to his line. Didn’t say a word. Just nodded once to Demar, who watched the whole thing go down.
“You been listening to Lupoi too much,” Demar said under his breath. “You starting to sound like him.”
Royce cracked the smallest smile. “Man, I just want a championship before I leave this bitch, bro.”
After practice, as players dragged themselves toward the locker room, Coach Lanning pulled Royce aside near the edge of the field.
“That thing with the freshman,” Lanning said. “You handled it right. Didn’t break him. Didn’t coddle him.”
Royce nodded once, wiping his face with a towel. “He wants a jersey, he needs to act like it. Ain’t no charity here, right?”
Coach smiled, just barely. “You’re starting to figure it out.”
Royce didn’t respond. He just walked toward the tunnel with his towel over his shoulder.
Because he wasn’t here to inspire people.
He was here to set the standard. And the standard didn’t blink.
~~~~~~~~~~
The heat in Natchitoches wasn’t Houma hot, but it was still the kind that made your shirt cling to your spine before warmup stretches were over. The field at Northwestern State shimmered under a wide-open sky, and the air smelled like sweat, old grass, and Gatorade.
It was the first day of fall camp.
Mike stood near the back of the wide receiver group, bent over slightly, hands resting just above his knees as the whistle blew for another set of gassers.
They’d already run five.
Mike’s lungs were tight, his legs heavier than he wanted to admit. He’d coasted through the summer, showing up to lifting when he felt like it, spending more time on the phone with Laila or walking empty streets at night than actually putting in work.
He thought it wouldn’t matter.
He thought wrong.
“Let’s move!” barked Coach Seely, the receivers coach, voice hoarse from years of yelling across bad teams. “That rep was lazy, 8! Lazy don’t get you shit but splinters on the bench!”
Mike didn’t respond. He just dropped into the line and ran again, his cleats barely catching traction.
When the group reached the end zone, someone to his left—older, taller, with a gold chain tucked under his compression shirt—chuckled.
“Damn, Louisiana boy done forgot how to run,” Jermaine muttered, not quiet.
Mike turned, eyes sharp.
“What you say?”
Jermaine shrugged, hands out. “Ain’t personal. Just saying—thought y’all Southern boys had speed.”
Mike’s jaw clenched. He stepped forward once.
Then stopped himself.
He took a deep breath, nodded once—tight and cold—and turned away.
The upperclassman smirked but didn’t say anything else.
Mike lined up again, this time putting everything he had into the rep. His form wasn’t clean, and his drive was sloppy, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. When they called for a water break, he stayed on his feet, chest heaving like the wind had been wrung out of him.
After the final whistle, while most of the group headed toward the locker room, Coach Seely jogged up beside him.
“You looked cooked,” he said without malice, just observation.
Mike nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead with the edge of his sleeve.
“But you didn’t quit. That matters.”
Mike didn’t say anything.
The coach folded his arms across his chest, squinting in the sun. “Listen. I can’t make you fast. You either got that or you don’t. But I can make you reliable. And if you want to be here long-term, that better start meaning something to you.”
Mike nodded again, slower this time. “It does.”
“Then act like it. Every day.”
Coach Seely walked off, clipboard tucked under his arm, barking instructions at another group jogging toward the secondary field.
Mike looked around. The field was mostly clear now, the sun beginning to fall toward the tree line, long shadows crawling across the hash marks.
He didn’t follow the others inside.
Instead, he bent over, tightened the laces on his cleats, and started jogging laps around the field. Quiet, steady, breath still ragged.
He didn’t know if he’d catch up.
But he knew now he couldn’t fall further behind.
Not again.
~~~~~~~~~~
The restaurant sat just off Government Street, all string lights and reclaimed wood, the kind of place that served cocktails in jars and made fries out of vegetables that shouldn’t be fried. Madi had picked it, of course. She said it had “vibes,” and Simone had co-signed with a double-tap on the menu’s Instagram reel.
Alix sat at the far end of the patio table, her wine glass catching the glow of the Edison bulbs hanging above them. She wore a white linen top and gold hoops, her hair soft and undone, the way Royce said he liked it. Even though he wasn’t there.
“Okay!” Simone said, raising her glass as the waiter walked away. “To internships!”
“To paychecks that barely cover iced coffee,” Ashlee added, laughing.
“And to Ashlee and Alix,” Madi said, clinking her glass with the others. “The only two in this apartment who are actually doing something with their degrees. May me and Simone find a MRS instead!”
Alix smiled, cheeks warm. She clinked her glass, too. Said thank you. Let herself laugh.
They ordered truffle fries and sliders and expensive drinks they couldn’t afford twice in a week. The noise of the patio rose around them—first dates, girls' nights, the clatter of forks and the occasional shout of a server calling names over the bar.
Ashlee was already talking about the boutique firm she’d landed with—interior architecture, mostly kitchens and retail spaces. Madi peppered her with questions, feigning deep interest in backsplash trends while Simone scrolled through her phone, occasionally holding it up to show them something ridiculous.
When the conversation turned to Alix’s internship, they gave her the same energy. Madi even gasped theatrically. “Roux Interiors? Girl, that’s like the Pinterest board of Baton Rouge.”
Alix laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s mostly staging and small residential projects. Nothing glamorous.”
“Still,” Simone said, leaning across the table, “it’s a foot in the door. Don’t downplay that. You worked your ass off for it.”
“I know,” Alix said quietly. “Thanks.”
She sipped her drink.
Her phone was face-down beside her plate, but she didn’t need to check it. She already knew it was still blank.
She had texted Royce before they left.
We’re going out to celebrate the internship. Just dinner with the girls. Text me when you’re home
No reply.
No emoji.
Not even a thumbs-up.
She let her eyes drift from the table for a moment, out across the street where the trees swayed in the evening heat. It was supposed to feel like a big deal. This thing she’d worked for. This moment of being seen.
But she didn’t want applause from Madi. She didn’t want Simone’s champagne sarcasm or Ashlee’s earnest approval.
She just wanted him to look at her like she was more than someone to text between lifts and media prep. Like she mattered outside of his schedule.
Madi leaned in and nudged her. “You good?”
Alix blinked, startled back into the noise. “Yeah. Just spaced out.”
“You always do that when you’re happy,” Ashlee said, grinning.
“Something like that,” Alix replied, smiling again. This one didn’t reach her eyes.
The server brought the check. They split it down the middle, tip included. On the walk to the car, Simone linked arms with her, and Madi tried to get a picture in the parking lot while Alix held the bag of leftovers.
It was a good night. It was.
But as she climbed into the back seat and stared at the notifications that still hadn’t come, Alix felt something hollow slip beneath her ribs.
She had the win.
She just didn’t have the person she wanted to notice.
The restaurant was one of those unassuming spots tucked behind a gas station on Plank Road—half soul food joint, half political clubhouse, with chalk specials on the wall and framed news clippings that yellowed with age. The A/C buzzed against the Louisiana heat, and gospel music hummed soft and steady from a speaker mounted near the ceiling fan.
Royce followed Chance Delpit through the narrow corridor that led to the back dining room. Delpit wore his usual soft polo tucked into clean slacks, everything about him casual but precise. He never dressed like he was trying to impress—but he always did.
Royce, in joggers and a black hoodie with the LSU logo across the chest, felt underdressed but didn’t care enough to show it.
A small group of men stood around a table near the back, but one stood apart—tall, dark-skinned, mid-30s, clean-cut with an easy smile and eyes that didn’t miss much.
“That’s Councilman Rashad Trent,” Delpit said under his breath. “District 2. Youngest one on the council. Watch how he moves.”
Rashad turned just as they approached. “This must be the man of the hour,” he said, stepping forward and offering a firm handshake.
“Royce Lafitte,” Royce said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. I’ve seen you lay some motherfuckers out. Good form.”
Royce smiled, polite. “Appreciate that.”
Delpit clapped a hand on Royce’s shoulder. “Figured it was time y’all crossed paths. Royce is more than a linebacker—he’s a presence. And Baton Rouge, our Baton Rouge, needs presence.”
They took seats around the small table in the corner, plastic cups filled with sweet tea already sweating through the paper napkins underneath.
Trent leaned in slightly. “Let me ask you something, Royce. When was the last time you were in North Baton Rouge just… walking around?”
Royce tilted his head, unsure. “Walking around? I don’t know. Probably back in high school. I had a potna who people lived up here.”
“Me too,” Trent said with a chuckle. “Still got family off Foster. We both know what it’s like to come from places that get skipped when folks start talking about ‘revitalization.’ But here’s the thing—kids up there still know who you are.”
Royce shifted slightly in his seat.
“They don’t care about council meetings,” Trent continued. “Or zoning boards or development grants. But they care when they see someone with their skin tone, with their zip code, make it out. They care when that person looks back.”
Royce glanced over at Delpit, who just sipped his tea and stayed quiet.
“I ain’t saying start a nonprofit,” Trent went on. “I’m saying… if you ever wanted to use your name to shine a little light? There’s space for that. All these cameras and followers and reporters asking about your journey—don’t just let them use it. Decide what you want it to mean.”
Royce tapped a knuckle against the table. “I hear you. I just don’t know anything about all that… organizing. Programs. I don’t even know where I’d start.”
“You don’t need to know how to write a grant to know what it felt like growing up without trees over the sidewalks,” Trent said softly. “You’re not here because you’re perfect. You’re here because people see themselves in you. That’s currency.”
Royce didn’t have a response right away. Not because he didn’t understand—but because he did. Too well.
He thought about Roni. About the look in her eyes when she asked him what dying felt like.
He thought about the way Houma had moved on after Romeo’s funeral, except for the streets that looked exactly the same.
Trent stood, offering his hand again. “Think about it. That’s all I ask.”
Royce stood too, shaking his hand. “I will.”
Outside, the late afternoon sun smeared gold across the cars in the lot. Royce and Delpit walked back to the Range in silence, the cicadas screaming overhead like a warning or a dare.
As Delpit opened the passenger door, he said without looking up, “They shake hands with anybody. But they only take meetings with people who matter.”
Royce sat in the seat and pulled the door shut.
He didn’t say anything.
But he was still thinking about sidewalks without trees.
…
The morning heat hung over the LSU practice field like a dare. It wasn’t even 9 a.m., and the turf already shimmered with sweat and sunlight. The speakers thumped with trap beats, but they did little to distract from the burn in everyone’s lungs.
Conditioning day.
No helmets. No pads.
Just pain.
Royce was locked in. He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. The only noise he made was his breath, steady and controlled, as he drove the sled down the marked lane. Legs pumping. Cleats digging. Finish every rep. Beat the clock.
By the time he stepped aside, his chest was heaving, shirt soaked through. But he didn’t sit down. Didn’t bend over. That was rule number one—don’t let ‘em see you fold.
He turned, watching the next group take their marks. Langston, a freshman walk-on linebacker, was near the front of the line—long legs, good instincts, but soft in the core. On the second rep, Langston slowed halfway through the push, stumbling, hands dropping to his knees.
“Let’s go!” one of the strength coaches barked. “Keep moving!”
Langston didn’t.
Royce stepped forward before the coach could keep shouting.
“Yo,” Royce snapped, stopping in front of him. “You good?”
Langston nodded weakly. “Just—tired, man.”
Royce crouched low so only he could hear.
“You tired? This the SEC, bro. You tired after two reps, carry yo ass down the road to Hammond and play for them boys.”
Langston looked up, sweat running down the side of his face.
“You think this is about pushing sleds?” Royce continued, eyes sharp. “This is about showing them you won’t tap out when it’s ugly. This is about earning your name in a room full of grown men who already got theirs.”
Langston swallowed hard.
Royce stood, voice rising now—not to humiliate, but to reach everyone else who might’ve been thinking about folding too.
“This program don’t give out shit. Everything you want here—you gotta take it.”
He looked down at Langston, then pointed back at the sled.
“So get your ass up and stop being a fucking bitch.”
Langston blinked. Then nodded. He stepped up, took hold of the sled strap, and started moving. Slower than before—but all the way to the end.
Royce turned and walked back to his line. Didn’t say a word. Just nodded once to Demar, who watched the whole thing go down.
“You been listening to Lupoi too much,” Demar said under his breath. “You starting to sound like him.”
Royce cracked the smallest smile. “Man, I just want a championship before I leave this bitch, bro.”
After practice, as players dragged themselves toward the locker room, Coach Lanning pulled Royce aside near the edge of the field.
“That thing with the freshman,” Lanning said. “You handled it right. Didn’t break him. Didn’t coddle him.”
Royce nodded once, wiping his face with a towel. “He wants a jersey, he needs to act like it. Ain’t no charity here, right?”
Coach smiled, just barely. “You’re starting to figure it out.”
Royce didn’t respond. He just walked toward the tunnel with his towel over his shoulder.
Because he wasn’t here to inspire people.
He was here to set the standard. And the standard didn’t blink.
~~~~~~~~~~
The heat in Natchitoches wasn’t Houma hot, but it was still the kind that made your shirt cling to your spine before warmup stretches were over. The field at Northwestern State shimmered under a wide-open sky, and the air smelled like sweat, old grass, and Gatorade.
It was the first day of fall camp.
Mike stood near the back of the wide receiver group, bent over slightly, hands resting just above his knees as the whistle blew for another set of gassers.
They’d already run five.
Mike’s lungs were tight, his legs heavier than he wanted to admit. He’d coasted through the summer, showing up to lifting when he felt like it, spending more time on the phone with Laila or walking empty streets at night than actually putting in work.
He thought it wouldn’t matter.
He thought wrong.
“Let’s move!” barked Coach Seely, the receivers coach, voice hoarse from years of yelling across bad teams. “That rep was lazy, 8! Lazy don’t get you shit but splinters on the bench!”
Mike didn’t respond. He just dropped into the line and ran again, his cleats barely catching traction.
When the group reached the end zone, someone to his left—older, taller, with a gold chain tucked under his compression shirt—chuckled.
“Damn, Louisiana boy done forgot how to run,” Jermaine muttered, not quiet.
Mike turned, eyes sharp.
“What you say?”
Jermaine shrugged, hands out. “Ain’t personal. Just saying—thought y’all Southern boys had speed.”
Mike’s jaw clenched. He stepped forward once.
Then stopped himself.
He took a deep breath, nodded once—tight and cold—and turned away.
The upperclassman smirked but didn’t say anything else.
Mike lined up again, this time putting everything he had into the rep. His form wasn’t clean, and his drive was sloppy, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. When they called for a water break, he stayed on his feet, chest heaving like the wind had been wrung out of him.
After the final whistle, while most of the group headed toward the locker room, Coach Seely jogged up beside him.
“You looked cooked,” he said without malice, just observation.
Mike nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead with the edge of his sleeve.
“But you didn’t quit. That matters.”
Mike didn’t say anything.
The coach folded his arms across his chest, squinting in the sun. “Listen. I can’t make you fast. You either got that or you don’t. But I can make you reliable. And if you want to be here long-term, that better start meaning something to you.”
Mike nodded again, slower this time. “It does.”
“Then act like it. Every day.”
Coach Seely walked off, clipboard tucked under his arm, barking instructions at another group jogging toward the secondary field.
Mike looked around. The field was mostly clear now, the sun beginning to fall toward the tree line, long shadows crawling across the hash marks.
He didn’t follow the others inside.
Instead, he bent over, tightened the laces on his cleats, and started jogging laps around the field. Quiet, steady, breath still ragged.
He didn’t know if he’d catch up.
But he knew now he couldn’t fall further behind.
Not again.
~~~~~~~~~~
The restaurant sat just off Government Street, all string lights and reclaimed wood, the kind of place that served cocktails in jars and made fries out of vegetables that shouldn’t be fried. Madi had picked it, of course. She said it had “vibes,” and Simone had co-signed with a double-tap on the menu’s Instagram reel.
Alix sat at the far end of the patio table, her wine glass catching the glow of the Edison bulbs hanging above them. She wore a white linen top and gold hoops, her hair soft and undone, the way Royce said he liked it. Even though he wasn’t there.
“Okay!” Simone said, raising her glass as the waiter walked away. “To internships!”
“To paychecks that barely cover iced coffee,” Ashlee added, laughing.
“And to Ashlee and Alix,” Madi said, clinking her glass with the others. “The only two in this apartment who are actually doing something with their degrees. May me and Simone find a MRS instead!”
Alix smiled, cheeks warm. She clinked her glass, too. Said thank you. Let herself laugh.
They ordered truffle fries and sliders and expensive drinks they couldn’t afford twice in a week. The noise of the patio rose around them—first dates, girls' nights, the clatter of forks and the occasional shout of a server calling names over the bar.
Ashlee was already talking about the boutique firm she’d landed with—interior architecture, mostly kitchens and retail spaces. Madi peppered her with questions, feigning deep interest in backsplash trends while Simone scrolled through her phone, occasionally holding it up to show them something ridiculous.
When the conversation turned to Alix’s internship, they gave her the same energy. Madi even gasped theatrically. “Roux Interiors? Girl, that’s like the Pinterest board of Baton Rouge.”
Alix laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s mostly staging and small residential projects. Nothing glamorous.”
“Still,” Simone said, leaning across the table, “it’s a foot in the door. Don’t downplay that. You worked your ass off for it.”
“I know,” Alix said quietly. “Thanks.”
She sipped her drink.
Her phone was face-down beside her plate, but she didn’t need to check it. She already knew it was still blank.
She had texted Royce before they left.
We’re going out to celebrate the internship. Just dinner with the girls. Text me when you’re home
No reply.
No emoji.
Not even a thumbs-up.
She let her eyes drift from the table for a moment, out across the street where the trees swayed in the evening heat. It was supposed to feel like a big deal. This thing she’d worked for. This moment of being seen.
But she didn’t want applause from Madi. She didn’t want Simone’s champagne sarcasm or Ashlee’s earnest approval.
She just wanted him to look at her like she was more than someone to text between lifts and media prep. Like she mattered outside of his schedule.
Madi leaned in and nudged her. “You good?”
Alix blinked, startled back into the noise. “Yeah. Just spaced out.”
“You always do that when you’re happy,” Ashlee said, grinning.
“Something like that,” Alix replied, smiling again. This one didn’t reach her eyes.
The server brought the check. They split it down the middle, tip included. On the walk to the car, Simone linked arms with her, and Madi tried to get a picture in the parking lot while Alix held the bag of leftovers.
It was a good night. It was.
But as she climbed into the back seat and stared at the notifications that still hadn’t come, Alix felt something hollow slip beneath her ribs.
She had the win.
She just didn’t have the person she wanted to notice.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
ok my bad, he's just a terrible boyfriend
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7934
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
