If you too busy to text your girl back at all, she shouldn't be your girl fr.
Dying to Live
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7930
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
The shift from Alix being the one in the wrong in the U High days to Royce being the one in the wrong now is CRAZY. Yall switched up on our guy, Ro. And for what?????Captain Canada wrote: ↑24 Apr 2025, 11:38If you too busy to text your girl back at all, she shouldn't be your girl fr.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7930
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
He's been on demon time since stepping foot on campus, we all see it 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
No+One
The valet line crawled beneath the amber glow of the hotel’s entryway. Royce tapped his fingers against the leather-wrapped steering wheel, watching a woman in pearls step out of a Porsche in front of them. Her husband—or maybe date—climbed out behind her, already smiling toward the door host like they were regulars. Like they were important.
Alix sat beside him in the passenger seat, a navy silk dress smoothing across her legs, her lips glossed, earrings delicate. Everything about her was styled with intention. It was one of the rare nights she’d tried for both of them.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I hate these things,” she murmured, watching the valet rush toward their car. “Everyone’s fake. Like, aggressively fake. It’s all about who can out-donate who and who’s using who to get closer to the program.”
Royce’s jaw flexed once, but he didn’t look over.
“It is fake,” he said. “But I’m here for something too.”
Her eyes flicked toward him.
He offered a wry smile. “A bigger bag. Ain’t like I’m showing up for the ambiance. Can’t stand being around these stuck-up ass white people.”
Alix gave a small exhale, more air than laughter. “Right.”
He didn’t reach for her hand.
…
The air inside the hotel event space was heavy with cologne and wealth. Suits moved like chess pieces. Laughter hung in the air like expensive smoke.
Royce adjusted the cuff of his shirt, the watch on his wrist catching the light just right. His face relaxed into the look he’d practiced—confident, neutral, not too eager. Delpit would’ve called it media face. He called it masking up.
“Royce,” someone called out, voice deep and familiar. “There’s the man!”
It started quickly. A handshake here, a joke there. A conversation about LSU’s title chances. Questions about the defense. Praise disguised as flattery, always with a subtle nudge: Don’t forget who writes the checks.
One man compared him to Devin White.
Another asked if he was thinking about declaring early.
Royce played the game like a vet. Eyes on each speaker, smile tight, answers short but charismatic. The truth was he didn’t hate the people—he hated what they wanted. He hated the hollow warmth in their greetings. The way they knew his stats better than his story.
He looked across the room once and saw Alix near the bar. Alone. Her hands wrapped loosely around a glass of wine, posture just barely pulled in. She looked like someone trying not to look abandoned.
He thought about walking over.
But a state senator caught his elbow. A local car dealer wanted a photo. Another alumnus waved him into a conversation.
He stayed where he was.
…
The bar was dimly lit, the marble counter reflecting amber flecks from the chandelier above. Alix sat on a high stool with one leg crossed over the other, sipping from her wine slowly, letting the cold glass sting her hand. Her dress felt tighter now, her heels louder every time she shifted in place.
She watched Royce from afar, half-visible in the crowd, surrounded by a circle of laughter and tailored suits. He looked good—polished, self-assured—but there was distance in how he carried himself. A distance that used to close when she walked into a room.
He didn’t glance over. Not once.
To her right, a woman in her thirties stood with her phone half-hidden behind her clutch, whispering into the receiver.
“No, he hasn’t looked over here once,” the woman said. Her voice was clipped. Measured. “It’s like I disappeared the second we walked in.”
Alix stilled.
“I smiled through dinner. Through introductions. Through three different conversations where I wasn’t even acknowledged. And you know what he said to me tonight? Don’t make a scene.”
The woman laughed, brittle and exhausted. “It’s fine. This is what it is. I dress up, I show up, and I vanish when he doesn’t need the visual anymore.”
Alix stared at the wall, her throat tight.
“I used to think it’d change,” the woman finished. “It doesn’t.”
She hung up. Slipped her phone into her bag. Sipped her wine.
Alix’s eyes drifted back to Royce.
That’s when she saw the woman—blonde, probably ten years younger than the rest of the wives in the room—laughing beside him. She reached for her phone, said something with a giggle. Royce leaned in for the picture. He smiled. She touched his shoulder.
Alix set her drink down gently.
And walked out without a sound.
…
It took Royce almost fifteen minutes to notice.
The crowd had shifted. The conversations grew thinner. And finally, the booster who had pulled him into the latest circle left to shake another hand.
Royce checked the bar.
Empty.
He scanned the room, searching for navy silk and gold hoops, but found none.
He pulled out his phone.
No texts.
Where you at?
He waited.
Nothing.
You leave?
Still nothing.
He moved toward the exit, stepping into the humid Baton Rouge night, the valet loop buzzing with murmured goodbyes and perfume-slick air.
No sign of her.
He refreshed his phone. Again.
A knot curled in his stomach, the kind he hadn’t felt in months. Not even during games.
She was gone.
And he hadn’t even noticed.
…
The Uber was cool inside, cleaner than expected. The driver, a middle-aged man in a Saints cap, smiled at her through the rearview mirror.
“Damn,” he said casually. “Someone let a pretty girl all dressed up go home alone?”
Alix didn’t answer at first. She looked out the window, her arms crossed over her lap, fingers tightening around her clutch.
“Guess they did,” she said finally.
The driver hummed in sympathy and turned up the radio.
Her phone vibrated once.
Royce.
She didn’t open it. Didn’t read it. She knew what it would say, and more importantly, what it wouldn’t.
The city lights blurred outside her window. Baton Rouge, all brass and heat and almosts.
Alix leaned her head back and let the silence say what she didn’t.
~~~~~~~~~~
The venue was small—just a converted art space with mismatched folding chairs and a single mic stand planted center stage under a soft orange bulb. The walls were bare except for a hand-painted sign that read: The Mouth Opens, The Soul Speaks. It wasn’t Lafayette’s biggest venue, but in the world Arianna had found herself orbiting, it meant something.
And tonight, it was sold out.
She stood in the green room—which was more of a storage closet behind the stage—with her palms pressed flat against the utility sink. Her breath came steady, but her fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. On the table beside her sat the notecards she hadn’t used. She didn’t need them. The words were already in her.
She just hadn’t known until now if she’d have the guts to say them.
“Arianna?” a voice called through the half-cracked door. “You’re up in two.”
She turned, straightened the hem of her shirt, and slipped her earrings back into place. No makeup. No heels. Just her voice.
And for the first time, that felt like enough.
The applause for the last act hadn’t even fully settled when the host stepped up to the mic, full of warmth and bounce.
“Y’all,” he said, “we’ve got someone real special to open for our feature tonight. She’s been on this stage before, but tonight she’s stepping out front with something new. Give it up for Arianna D!”
The room clapped. Not polite—real. Familiar. Expectant.
Arianna stepped out, back straight. She gripped the mic stand like it might anchor her, like letting go would mean unraveling in front of all of them.
The lights warmed her face.
She didn’t read from her phone.
She didn’t look down.
She looked them in the eye—and began.
“My mama told me silence is safer than honesty.
That if I keep my mouth shut, I’ll come home whole.
That noise draws bullets.
That truth draws hands.
That attention is dangerous when you ain’t got enough armor stitched into your name.
But I’m tired of carrying ghosts just to keep peace.”
Her voice was low but unwavering. There was a hush in the crowd—the kind that only came when every single person was listening, not just hearing.
She moved from guilt—about the cousin she couldn’t save, the one she couldn’t help, the neighborhood she had to outgrow just to survive—to survival.
To power.
To choosing to speak even when everything in her past taught her not to.
“I’ve stitched too many apologies into the hems of my silence.
Swallowed screams that should’ve been warnings.
Stayed quiet in rooms that smelled like rot just to keep breathing.
But silence is a choice too.
And sometimes silence gets you killed.”
She paused. Not for effect—but because her throat tightened. She could feel it. The wave.
But she didn’t stop.
She let it rise, let her chest shake once—and kept going.
She didn’t cry. Not tonight.
When she finished, the last line landed like a punch wrapped in velvet.
And for a moment, no one moved.
Then a single clap.
Then another.
Then the room roared—not loud like a concert, but deep. The kind of applause that said thank you without needing to say it.
Arianna stepped back from the mic.
And exhaled.
Later, someone would tell her it was the most honest thing they’d heard in months. That her voice shook the walls in a way music couldn’t.
But in that moment, as she sat backstage alone, palms still damp, chest still tight—what mattered was this:
She had told the truth.
Her truth.
And for once, it hadn’t destroyed her.
It had set her free.
The valet line crawled beneath the amber glow of the hotel’s entryway. Royce tapped his fingers against the leather-wrapped steering wheel, watching a woman in pearls step out of a Porsche in front of them. Her husband—or maybe date—climbed out behind her, already smiling toward the door host like they were regulars. Like they were important.
Alix sat beside him in the passenger seat, a navy silk dress smoothing across her legs, her lips glossed, earrings delicate. Everything about her was styled with intention. It was one of the rare nights she’d tried for both of them.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I hate these things,” she murmured, watching the valet rush toward their car. “Everyone’s fake. Like, aggressively fake. It’s all about who can out-donate who and who’s using who to get closer to the program.”
Royce’s jaw flexed once, but he didn’t look over.
“It is fake,” he said. “But I’m here for something too.”
Her eyes flicked toward him.
He offered a wry smile. “A bigger bag. Ain’t like I’m showing up for the ambiance. Can’t stand being around these stuck-up ass white people.”
Alix gave a small exhale, more air than laughter. “Right.”
He didn’t reach for her hand.
…
The air inside the hotel event space was heavy with cologne and wealth. Suits moved like chess pieces. Laughter hung in the air like expensive smoke.
Royce adjusted the cuff of his shirt, the watch on his wrist catching the light just right. His face relaxed into the look he’d practiced—confident, neutral, not too eager. Delpit would’ve called it media face. He called it masking up.
“Royce,” someone called out, voice deep and familiar. “There’s the man!”
It started quickly. A handshake here, a joke there. A conversation about LSU’s title chances. Questions about the defense. Praise disguised as flattery, always with a subtle nudge: Don’t forget who writes the checks.
One man compared him to Devin White.
Another asked if he was thinking about declaring early.
Royce played the game like a vet. Eyes on each speaker, smile tight, answers short but charismatic. The truth was he didn’t hate the people—he hated what they wanted. He hated the hollow warmth in their greetings. The way they knew his stats better than his story.
He looked across the room once and saw Alix near the bar. Alone. Her hands wrapped loosely around a glass of wine, posture just barely pulled in. She looked like someone trying not to look abandoned.
He thought about walking over.
But a state senator caught his elbow. A local car dealer wanted a photo. Another alumnus waved him into a conversation.
He stayed where he was.
…
The bar was dimly lit, the marble counter reflecting amber flecks from the chandelier above. Alix sat on a high stool with one leg crossed over the other, sipping from her wine slowly, letting the cold glass sting her hand. Her dress felt tighter now, her heels louder every time she shifted in place.
She watched Royce from afar, half-visible in the crowd, surrounded by a circle of laughter and tailored suits. He looked good—polished, self-assured—but there was distance in how he carried himself. A distance that used to close when she walked into a room.
He didn’t glance over. Not once.
To her right, a woman in her thirties stood with her phone half-hidden behind her clutch, whispering into the receiver.
“No, he hasn’t looked over here once,” the woman said. Her voice was clipped. Measured. “It’s like I disappeared the second we walked in.”
Alix stilled.
“I smiled through dinner. Through introductions. Through three different conversations where I wasn’t even acknowledged. And you know what he said to me tonight? Don’t make a scene.”
The woman laughed, brittle and exhausted. “It’s fine. This is what it is. I dress up, I show up, and I vanish when he doesn’t need the visual anymore.”
Alix stared at the wall, her throat tight.
“I used to think it’d change,” the woman finished. “It doesn’t.”
She hung up. Slipped her phone into her bag. Sipped her wine.
Alix’s eyes drifted back to Royce.
That’s when she saw the woman—blonde, probably ten years younger than the rest of the wives in the room—laughing beside him. She reached for her phone, said something with a giggle. Royce leaned in for the picture. He smiled. She touched his shoulder.
Alix set her drink down gently.
And walked out without a sound.
…
It took Royce almost fifteen minutes to notice.
The crowd had shifted. The conversations grew thinner. And finally, the booster who had pulled him into the latest circle left to shake another hand.
Royce checked the bar.
Empty.
He scanned the room, searching for navy silk and gold hoops, but found none.
He pulled out his phone.
No texts.
Where you at?
He waited.
Nothing.
You leave?
Still nothing.
He moved toward the exit, stepping into the humid Baton Rouge night, the valet loop buzzing with murmured goodbyes and perfume-slick air.
No sign of her.
He refreshed his phone. Again.
A knot curled in his stomach, the kind he hadn’t felt in months. Not even during games.
She was gone.
And he hadn’t even noticed.
…
The Uber was cool inside, cleaner than expected. The driver, a middle-aged man in a Saints cap, smiled at her through the rearview mirror.
“Damn,” he said casually. “Someone let a pretty girl all dressed up go home alone?”
Alix didn’t answer at first. She looked out the window, her arms crossed over her lap, fingers tightening around her clutch.
“Guess they did,” she said finally.
The driver hummed in sympathy and turned up the radio.
Her phone vibrated once.
Royce.
She didn’t open it. Didn’t read it. She knew what it would say, and more importantly, what it wouldn’t.
The city lights blurred outside her window. Baton Rouge, all brass and heat and almosts.
Alix leaned her head back and let the silence say what she didn’t.
~~~~~~~~~~
The venue was small—just a converted art space with mismatched folding chairs and a single mic stand planted center stage under a soft orange bulb. The walls were bare except for a hand-painted sign that read: The Mouth Opens, The Soul Speaks. It wasn’t Lafayette’s biggest venue, but in the world Arianna had found herself orbiting, it meant something.
And tonight, it was sold out.
She stood in the green room—which was more of a storage closet behind the stage—with her palms pressed flat against the utility sink. Her breath came steady, but her fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. On the table beside her sat the notecards she hadn’t used. She didn’t need them. The words were already in her.
She just hadn’t known until now if she’d have the guts to say them.
“Arianna?” a voice called through the half-cracked door. “You’re up in two.”
She turned, straightened the hem of her shirt, and slipped her earrings back into place. No makeup. No heels. Just her voice.
And for the first time, that felt like enough.
The applause for the last act hadn’t even fully settled when the host stepped up to the mic, full of warmth and bounce.
“Y’all,” he said, “we’ve got someone real special to open for our feature tonight. She’s been on this stage before, but tonight she’s stepping out front with something new. Give it up for Arianna D!”
The room clapped. Not polite—real. Familiar. Expectant.
Arianna stepped out, back straight. She gripped the mic stand like it might anchor her, like letting go would mean unraveling in front of all of them.
The lights warmed her face.
She didn’t read from her phone.
She didn’t look down.
She looked them in the eye—and began.
“My mama told me silence is safer than honesty.
That if I keep my mouth shut, I’ll come home whole.
That noise draws bullets.
That truth draws hands.
That attention is dangerous when you ain’t got enough armor stitched into your name.
But I’m tired of carrying ghosts just to keep peace.”
Her voice was low but unwavering. There was a hush in the crowd—the kind that only came when every single person was listening, not just hearing.
She moved from guilt—about the cousin she couldn’t save, the one she couldn’t help, the neighborhood she had to outgrow just to survive—to survival.
To power.
To choosing to speak even when everything in her past taught her not to.
“I’ve stitched too many apologies into the hems of my silence.
Swallowed screams that should’ve been warnings.
Stayed quiet in rooms that smelled like rot just to keep breathing.
But silence is a choice too.
And sometimes silence gets you killed.”
She paused. Not for effect—but because her throat tightened. She could feel it. The wave.
But she didn’t stop.
She let it rise, let her chest shake once—and kept going.
She didn’t cry. Not tonight.
When she finished, the last line landed like a punch wrapped in velvet.
And for a moment, no one moved.
Then a single clap.
Then another.
Then the room roared—not loud like a concert, but deep. The kind of applause that said thank you without needing to say it.
Arianna stepped back from the mic.
And exhaled.
Later, someone would tell her it was the most honest thing they’d heard in months. That her voice shook the walls in a way music couldn’t.
But in that moment, as she sat backstage alone, palms still damp, chest still tight—what mattered was this:
She had told the truth.
Her truth.
And for once, it hadn’t destroyed her.
It had set her free.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16765
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
snowbunnies never nigga, don't put that smut on Dr. Umar's name
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Chalk Talk
The linebackers' film room was cold enough to bite through sweat-soaked shirts. The lights were dimmed, the only glow coming from the projector throwing clips across the whiteboard. Pads and cleats sat in a heap by the door. Bodies hunched forward in folding chairs, heads bobbing as the same play looped again.
The room held its breath.
Coach Lupoi stood near the front, arms crossed, eyes squinting at the screen like he was trying to will the mistake into something forgivable.
“Run that back,” he said.
The play rewound. Snap. Motion. The backfield shifted. Then—contact, or the lack of it.
The opposing back hit the B-gap clean. Nobody touched him.
Lupoi turned, eyebrow raised. “Somebody wanna tell me what the hell happened here?”
Silence.
Royce sat in the second row, notebook open, pen already tapping. He didn’t wait.
“That’s the edge,” he said flatly. “He bit too hard on the motion. Didn’t contain.”
Kolaj turned halfway in his seat. “He was trying to collapse the lane.”
Royce didn’t blink. “He collapsed too early. Gave up the outside. And if the safety’s late like he is there, we’re cooked.”
Lupoi looked at Kolaj. “You see that?”
Kolaj exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. He’s right.”
Royce leaned forward, voice sharper now. “And Earl missed his depth drop on the tight end. That drag should’ve been eaten up. You give a quarterback that much underneath, he’s gonna live off that shit.”
Another silence.
Lupoi nodded. “Keep it rolling.”
The next play started. Another misread. More slippage in coverage. Royce watched it unravel before the snap even hit the quarterback’s hand.
“Y’all gotta clean this shit the fuck up before we get to Clemson.”
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.
But it cut through the room like it belonged there.
A couple of freshmen shifted in their seats, embarrassed but not defensive. The vets kept their eyes forward.
Coach Lupoi paused the film. “He’s not wrong.”
He turned around slowly. “If this was Saturday night and y’all pulled that weak-ass pursuit, we’d be down fourteen before the first TV timeout. And don’t look at me like you didn’t know. You know. He knows. That’s why he’s speaking up.”
He pointed to Royce.
“This is your standard now. All of you.”
…
Royce rarely texted Delpit first.
Their working relationship had always been more passive on his end—Chance Delpit reached out, Royce either replied or didn’t, showed up when necessary, nodded through the business talk. Delpit always played the long game, never pressing too hard, always waiting for Royce to take the next step himself.
Royce sat in the locker room, cleats still unlaced, scrolling through his email. Two new brand offers had come in—one for an energy drink trying to shoot a social campaign in the middle of camp, another for a low-tier clothing brand that wanted him to wear their logo on a hoodie during a postgame presser.
He read them twice, then tossed his phone on the bench.
He didn’t like the sound of either. The drink deal felt corny, and the clothing brand looked like it hadn’t updated its website since high school. Both were offering decent money, but it wasn’t just about the check.
He didn’t want to look like a sellout. Worse—he didn’t want to look small.
He picked up his phone again, opened Delpit’s number, and typed:
Got a couple deals I don’t know if I should touch. You free?
The response came fast.
Swing by the office in an hour. Bring the details.
Delpit’s office was in a mid-rise building off Perkins Road, all glass windows and quiet elevators. Royce rode up alone, eyes fixed on his reflection in the brushed steel of the door. His backpack hung low on his shoulder. His hoodie still had sweat salt along the collar.
Inside, the space was minimalist—cool grays, subtle art, shelves filled with books about media law and sports economics. A framed photo of Delpit at some kind of summit—standing next to a senator—hung behind the desk. Not flashy. Just intentional.
Delpit stood when Royce entered. “Glad you hit me up.”
Royce dropped into the seat across from him. “Didn’t really wanna make a dumb move.”
“Good instinct,” Delpit said, taking the printouts Royce slid across the desk.
He read them quietly, making small notes on a yellow legal pad with the kind of pen that clicked too sharply.
“The drink campaign wants a two-day shoot,” Royce said, tapping his foot. “They talking about a gym setup, voiceover, content edits. All that for less than fifteen hundred.”
Delpit raised an eyebrow. “And they want rights to your name on anything performance-related for six months.”
Royce tilted his head. “I didn’t catch that.”
“That’s why you don’t sign things you don’t read three times.”
He flipped the page. “This one’s worse. They’re offering half that and want you to wear their hoodie in a postgame interview, but if the camera catches it, they get to use your likeness in promotions.”
Royce scoffed. “For six hundred fucking dollars? American dollars?”
Delpit leaned back in his chair. “These companies aren’t dumb. They know you’re building momentum. The uniform’s starting to fit a little tighter, your name’s trending. What they want is a discount before the market corrects.”
Royce let the words sit. “So what do I do?”
Delpit folded his hands.
“This is where you decide what kind of player you’re going to be off the field. You can take the check and let them control the image, or you can start deciding what your image is—and only say yes to things that match that.”
Royce was quiet.
Delpit leaned forward. “They don’t run you, Royce. Not unless you let them. Control the story, or you’ll end up just being a character in theirs.”
Royce nodded slowly, absorbing it. “So pass on both?”
Delpit shrugged. “Up to you. You’ve earned the right to say no.”
That stuck. You’ve earned the right to say no.
Royce sat with that. Sat with the knowledge that for once, he wasn’t just the talent.
He was the decision-maker now.
“I’ll pass,” he said. “But I need to start looking at bigger ones. Real ones. Ones that don’t make me look like some goofy-ass freshman doing promo for free shoes.”
Delpit cracked a small smile. “You know Billy is going to love hearing that shit.”
Royce stood, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“You watch all that coverage from the media days?” Delpit asked as Royce opened the door.
Royce shook his head. “Nah, did it and called it a day.”
Delpit didn’t press. He just watched him leave, satisfied.
In the elevator, Royce leaned back against the mirrored wall and let the silence wash over him.
He was learning.
And more than that—he was starting to care.
Not about the cameras or the likes.
But about who he got to be before they tried to make him into something else.
~~~~~~~~~~
The car rolled up to the gas station under a flickering canopy light, the kind that buzzed with tired electricity and mosquitoes. The place was half-dead—no other cars, just a humming soda machine and a register window lit by dull fluorescent blues.
Meech drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers tapping like he was keeping time only he could hear. Poochie sat stiff in the passenger seat, bouncing his knee, chewing his bottom lip raw.
They’d been silent the whole ride over the Basin Bridge toward some middle-of-nowhere backwater. Poochie assumed they were just making a quick run, maybe meeting someone or picking up cash. Nothing had been said.
Until Meech pulled into the far corner of the lot and cut the engine.
Poochie reached for the door handle.
Meech grabbed his wrist.
“Nah,” he said, calm. “Hold up.”
Poochie looked at him, confused. “What?”
Meech leaned back in his seat, eyes locked on the storefront.
“You see that clerk in there?”
Poochie followed his gaze. The guy behind the counter looked half asleep, scrolling on his phone, sipping something from a white foam cup.
Meech turned to him, tone still easy. “Go rob him.”
Poochie blinked. “What?”
Meech reached under the seat and pulled out a small, rusted pistol. It looked older than both of them, the metal dulled with time and wear.
He held it out, butt-first.
“Time to bust your cherry if you wanna be a street nigga, lil’ cuz.”
Poochie’s hands stayed frozen. “Meech…”
“You been talkin’ like you ready,” Meech said, voice still quiet, still level. “But I ain’t seen nothing but baby steps. You scared of a lil’ dope drop. You damn near ran when BRPD showed up last week.”
“That was different—”
“This ain’t different,” Meech cut in. “It’s real. You either in this shit or you not.”
Poochie stared at the pistol.
“Go in there,” Meech said, “get the cash, don’t overthink it. He don’t look strapped. Just move quick. In and out.”
The pistol was in his hand before he realized it. It felt heavier than it should’ve.
He opened the door.
The bell over the gas station door jingled as Poochie stepped inside. His heart was pounding so loud it drowned out the buzz of the coolers. The clerk didn’t look up from his phone.
Poochie tugged his hoodie over his face, pulled the gun and pointed it, arms stiff, hands shaking.
“Empty the register.”
The clerk looked up again, startled. “What?”
“I said empty the fucking register, man!” Poochie shouted, voice cracking.
The clerk moved—slow. Too slow.
Poochie stepped closer. “Move faster! You think I’m playing?”
He adjusted his grip, finger twitching—but the hammer was down. The gun hadn’t been cocked. He realized it too late. His panic surged.
“Don’t make me shoot you,” Poochie snapped, louder now, trying to cover up his mistake.
The clerk hesitated.
In that instant, all the fear cracked open inside Poochie like a dam breaking. He reached over the counter, snatched the small cash bag the clerk had started to fill, knocking over a cup and a phone in the process. Then he ran.
Out the door.
Into the humid night.
Back to the car.
He slammed the passenger door shut, chest heaving.
Meech looked at him, unbothered, almost amused.
“You cock the gun?”
Poochie stared at him. “What?”
Meech smiled, teeth gleaming. “You ain't even cock the gun.”
Poochie looked down at the pistol in his lap, realizing it all over again.
Meech pulled out of the lot slow, casual.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, voice low. “Everybody fucks up their first time. Just like the first time you get some pussy.”
Poochie didn’t say anything.
He just stared out the window, jaw tight, shame burning his skin hotter than the pistol still trembling in his lap.
~~~~~~~~~~
The grocery bags were heavier than they should’ve been, the straps biting into Alix’s fingers as she made her way up the sidewalk, juggling a half-dozen plastic sacks and a rising irritation at herself for skipping the delivery option. Baton Rouge heat clung to her skin, thick and unrelenting, and the paper sack holding her oat milk was already starting to buckle under the weight of condensation.
She rounded the corner by the leasing office just as Co stepped out, locking the door behind him with his elbow while balancing a to-go coffee and a worn black backpack.
He grinned as soon as he saw her.
“You again,” he said, eyeing the bags. “You grocery shopping for the whole building?”
Alix rolled her eyes, but her smile came easy. “Just for me. And maybe the ghost of my motivation.”
Co laughed. “I was gonna say, you better not be hoarding chips and microwave taquitos. I got a Hippocratic oath to uphold.”
She blinked. “You’re really checking me for what’s in my grocery bags?”
“Gotta make sure the community stays heart-healthy,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I take my job very seriously.”
“Uh huh.” Alix adjusted her grip, setting one of the bags down on the bench beside them. “Okay, nurse. Go ahead. Judge me.”
He peered into the top bag dramatically, brows lifting. “Is that kale?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, okay. I see you. Balance. I respect that.”
“Also bought a pint of cookie dough ice cream,” she added.
Co put a hand over his heart like she’d just confessed a felony. “That’s gonna be a write-up.”
Alix laughed, a real one, not just polite. It was warm and caught her by surprise—how easy it was to smile around him, how much space he left for her to just exist without proving anything.
He nodded toward the stairs. “You sure you don’t want help?”
“I’m sure.”
“I mean, I’m off today,” he said. “No patients. No paperwork. Just vibes.”
She gave him a look. “I got it.”
He held up a hand. “Alright. You’re the boss.”
She lifted the bags again, shoulders straining under the weight, but something felt lighter. As she turned to leave, he called after her.
“Next time I’m bringing a clipboard and grading your groceries.”
“Next time,” she said over her shoulder, “I’m ordering takeout.”
Later that night, Alix was curled on the couch in the apartment, scrolling through Spotify while Simone stood in front of the fridge, rearranging leftovers and debating whether or not half a slice of pizza counted as dinner.
Simone looked over her shoulder. “What’s got you smiling?”
“Goofy men,” Alix said casually.
Simone looked up from behind the fridge door. “Oh, that nurse. What’d he say?”
“He inspected my groceries. Said he was doing his duty as a nurse.”
Simone raised an eyebrow. “He always this nosy or just when you look extra cute?”
Alix rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. “I think he’s just being friendly.”
“Friendly in a ‘can I carry your bags and make you laugh’ way?”
Alix gave a soft laugh. “He’s nice. That’s all. I’m with Royce.”
Simone closed the fridge and leaned against it, arms folded. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”
Alix didn’t answer right away. She pulled her blanket tighter and looked down at her phone, thumb brushing the edge of the screen without unlocking it.
She didn’t say she was happy.
She didn’t say she felt seen.
She just stared at the lock screen, the quiet between them settling in like fog, and let the weight of that brief moment with Co linger just a little longer than it should have.
The linebackers' film room was cold enough to bite through sweat-soaked shirts. The lights were dimmed, the only glow coming from the projector throwing clips across the whiteboard. Pads and cleats sat in a heap by the door. Bodies hunched forward in folding chairs, heads bobbing as the same play looped again.
The room held its breath.
Coach Lupoi stood near the front, arms crossed, eyes squinting at the screen like he was trying to will the mistake into something forgivable.
“Run that back,” he said.
The play rewound. Snap. Motion. The backfield shifted. Then—contact, or the lack of it.
The opposing back hit the B-gap clean. Nobody touched him.
Lupoi turned, eyebrow raised. “Somebody wanna tell me what the hell happened here?”
Silence.
Royce sat in the second row, notebook open, pen already tapping. He didn’t wait.
“That’s the edge,” he said flatly. “He bit too hard on the motion. Didn’t contain.”
Kolaj turned halfway in his seat. “He was trying to collapse the lane.”
Royce didn’t blink. “He collapsed too early. Gave up the outside. And if the safety’s late like he is there, we’re cooked.”
Lupoi looked at Kolaj. “You see that?”
Kolaj exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. He’s right.”
Royce leaned forward, voice sharper now. “And Earl missed his depth drop on the tight end. That drag should’ve been eaten up. You give a quarterback that much underneath, he’s gonna live off that shit.”
Another silence.
Lupoi nodded. “Keep it rolling.”
The next play started. Another misread. More slippage in coverage. Royce watched it unravel before the snap even hit the quarterback’s hand.
“Y’all gotta clean this shit the fuck up before we get to Clemson.”
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.
But it cut through the room like it belonged there.
A couple of freshmen shifted in their seats, embarrassed but not defensive. The vets kept their eyes forward.
Coach Lupoi paused the film. “He’s not wrong.”
He turned around slowly. “If this was Saturday night and y’all pulled that weak-ass pursuit, we’d be down fourteen before the first TV timeout. And don’t look at me like you didn’t know. You know. He knows. That’s why he’s speaking up.”
He pointed to Royce.
“This is your standard now. All of you.”
…
Royce rarely texted Delpit first.
Their working relationship had always been more passive on his end—Chance Delpit reached out, Royce either replied or didn’t, showed up when necessary, nodded through the business talk. Delpit always played the long game, never pressing too hard, always waiting for Royce to take the next step himself.
Royce sat in the locker room, cleats still unlaced, scrolling through his email. Two new brand offers had come in—one for an energy drink trying to shoot a social campaign in the middle of camp, another for a low-tier clothing brand that wanted him to wear their logo on a hoodie during a postgame presser.
He read them twice, then tossed his phone on the bench.
He didn’t like the sound of either. The drink deal felt corny, and the clothing brand looked like it hadn’t updated its website since high school. Both were offering decent money, but it wasn’t just about the check.
He didn’t want to look like a sellout. Worse—he didn’t want to look small.
He picked up his phone again, opened Delpit’s number, and typed:
Got a couple deals I don’t know if I should touch. You free?
The response came fast.
Swing by the office in an hour. Bring the details.
Delpit’s office was in a mid-rise building off Perkins Road, all glass windows and quiet elevators. Royce rode up alone, eyes fixed on his reflection in the brushed steel of the door. His backpack hung low on his shoulder. His hoodie still had sweat salt along the collar.
Inside, the space was minimalist—cool grays, subtle art, shelves filled with books about media law and sports economics. A framed photo of Delpit at some kind of summit—standing next to a senator—hung behind the desk. Not flashy. Just intentional.
Delpit stood when Royce entered. “Glad you hit me up.”
Royce dropped into the seat across from him. “Didn’t really wanna make a dumb move.”
“Good instinct,” Delpit said, taking the printouts Royce slid across the desk.
He read them quietly, making small notes on a yellow legal pad with the kind of pen that clicked too sharply.
“The drink campaign wants a two-day shoot,” Royce said, tapping his foot. “They talking about a gym setup, voiceover, content edits. All that for less than fifteen hundred.”
Delpit raised an eyebrow. “And they want rights to your name on anything performance-related for six months.”
Royce tilted his head. “I didn’t catch that.”
“That’s why you don’t sign things you don’t read three times.”
He flipped the page. “This one’s worse. They’re offering half that and want you to wear their hoodie in a postgame interview, but if the camera catches it, they get to use your likeness in promotions.”
Royce scoffed. “For six hundred fucking dollars? American dollars?”
Delpit leaned back in his chair. “These companies aren’t dumb. They know you’re building momentum. The uniform’s starting to fit a little tighter, your name’s trending. What they want is a discount before the market corrects.”
Royce let the words sit. “So what do I do?”
Delpit folded his hands.
“This is where you decide what kind of player you’re going to be off the field. You can take the check and let them control the image, or you can start deciding what your image is—and only say yes to things that match that.”
Royce was quiet.
Delpit leaned forward. “They don’t run you, Royce. Not unless you let them. Control the story, or you’ll end up just being a character in theirs.”
Royce nodded slowly, absorbing it. “So pass on both?”
Delpit shrugged. “Up to you. You’ve earned the right to say no.”
That stuck. You’ve earned the right to say no.
Royce sat with that. Sat with the knowledge that for once, he wasn’t just the talent.
He was the decision-maker now.
“I’ll pass,” he said. “But I need to start looking at bigger ones. Real ones. Ones that don’t make me look like some goofy-ass freshman doing promo for free shoes.”
Delpit cracked a small smile. “You know Billy is going to love hearing that shit.”
Royce stood, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“You watch all that coverage from the media days?” Delpit asked as Royce opened the door.
Royce shook his head. “Nah, did it and called it a day.”
Delpit didn’t press. He just watched him leave, satisfied.
In the elevator, Royce leaned back against the mirrored wall and let the silence wash over him.
He was learning.
And more than that—he was starting to care.
Not about the cameras or the likes.
But about who he got to be before they tried to make him into something else.
~~~~~~~~~~
The car rolled up to the gas station under a flickering canopy light, the kind that buzzed with tired electricity and mosquitoes. The place was half-dead—no other cars, just a humming soda machine and a register window lit by dull fluorescent blues.
Meech drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers tapping like he was keeping time only he could hear. Poochie sat stiff in the passenger seat, bouncing his knee, chewing his bottom lip raw.
They’d been silent the whole ride over the Basin Bridge toward some middle-of-nowhere backwater. Poochie assumed they were just making a quick run, maybe meeting someone or picking up cash. Nothing had been said.
Until Meech pulled into the far corner of the lot and cut the engine.
Poochie reached for the door handle.
Meech grabbed his wrist.
“Nah,” he said, calm. “Hold up.”
Poochie looked at him, confused. “What?”
Meech leaned back in his seat, eyes locked on the storefront.
“You see that clerk in there?”
Poochie followed his gaze. The guy behind the counter looked half asleep, scrolling on his phone, sipping something from a white foam cup.
Meech turned to him, tone still easy. “Go rob him.”
Poochie blinked. “What?”
Meech reached under the seat and pulled out a small, rusted pistol. It looked older than both of them, the metal dulled with time and wear.
He held it out, butt-first.
“Time to bust your cherry if you wanna be a street nigga, lil’ cuz.”
Poochie’s hands stayed frozen. “Meech…”
“You been talkin’ like you ready,” Meech said, voice still quiet, still level. “But I ain’t seen nothing but baby steps. You scared of a lil’ dope drop. You damn near ran when BRPD showed up last week.”
“That was different—”
“This ain’t different,” Meech cut in. “It’s real. You either in this shit or you not.”
Poochie stared at the pistol.
“Go in there,” Meech said, “get the cash, don’t overthink it. He don’t look strapped. Just move quick. In and out.”
The pistol was in his hand before he realized it. It felt heavier than it should’ve.
He opened the door.
The bell over the gas station door jingled as Poochie stepped inside. His heart was pounding so loud it drowned out the buzz of the coolers. The clerk didn’t look up from his phone.
Poochie tugged his hoodie over his face, pulled the gun and pointed it, arms stiff, hands shaking.
“Empty the register.”
The clerk looked up again, startled. “What?”
“I said empty the fucking register, man!” Poochie shouted, voice cracking.
The clerk moved—slow. Too slow.
Poochie stepped closer. “Move faster! You think I’m playing?”
He adjusted his grip, finger twitching—but the hammer was down. The gun hadn’t been cocked. He realized it too late. His panic surged.
“Don’t make me shoot you,” Poochie snapped, louder now, trying to cover up his mistake.
The clerk hesitated.
In that instant, all the fear cracked open inside Poochie like a dam breaking. He reached over the counter, snatched the small cash bag the clerk had started to fill, knocking over a cup and a phone in the process. Then he ran.
Out the door.
Into the humid night.
Back to the car.
He slammed the passenger door shut, chest heaving.
Meech looked at him, unbothered, almost amused.
“You cock the gun?”
Poochie stared at him. “What?”
Meech smiled, teeth gleaming. “You ain't even cock the gun.”
Poochie looked down at the pistol in his lap, realizing it all over again.
Meech pulled out of the lot slow, casual.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, voice low. “Everybody fucks up their first time. Just like the first time you get some pussy.”
Poochie didn’t say anything.
He just stared out the window, jaw tight, shame burning his skin hotter than the pistol still trembling in his lap.
~~~~~~~~~~
The grocery bags were heavier than they should’ve been, the straps biting into Alix’s fingers as she made her way up the sidewalk, juggling a half-dozen plastic sacks and a rising irritation at herself for skipping the delivery option. Baton Rouge heat clung to her skin, thick and unrelenting, and the paper sack holding her oat milk was already starting to buckle under the weight of condensation.
She rounded the corner by the leasing office just as Co stepped out, locking the door behind him with his elbow while balancing a to-go coffee and a worn black backpack.
He grinned as soon as he saw her.
“You again,” he said, eyeing the bags. “You grocery shopping for the whole building?”
Alix rolled her eyes, but her smile came easy. “Just for me. And maybe the ghost of my motivation.”
Co laughed. “I was gonna say, you better not be hoarding chips and microwave taquitos. I got a Hippocratic oath to uphold.”
She blinked. “You’re really checking me for what’s in my grocery bags?”
“Gotta make sure the community stays heart-healthy,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I take my job very seriously.”
“Uh huh.” Alix adjusted her grip, setting one of the bags down on the bench beside them. “Okay, nurse. Go ahead. Judge me.”
He peered into the top bag dramatically, brows lifting. “Is that kale?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, okay. I see you. Balance. I respect that.”
“Also bought a pint of cookie dough ice cream,” she added.
Co put a hand over his heart like she’d just confessed a felony. “That’s gonna be a write-up.”
Alix laughed, a real one, not just polite. It was warm and caught her by surprise—how easy it was to smile around him, how much space he left for her to just exist without proving anything.
He nodded toward the stairs. “You sure you don’t want help?”
“I’m sure.”
“I mean, I’m off today,” he said. “No patients. No paperwork. Just vibes.”
She gave him a look. “I got it.”
He held up a hand. “Alright. You’re the boss.”
She lifted the bags again, shoulders straining under the weight, but something felt lighter. As she turned to leave, he called after her.
“Next time I’m bringing a clipboard and grading your groceries.”
“Next time,” she said over her shoulder, “I’m ordering takeout.”
Later that night, Alix was curled on the couch in the apartment, scrolling through Spotify while Simone stood in front of the fridge, rearranging leftovers and debating whether or not half a slice of pizza counted as dinner.
Simone looked over her shoulder. “What’s got you smiling?”
“Goofy men,” Alix said casually.
Simone looked up from behind the fridge door. “Oh, that nurse. What’d he say?”
“He inspected my groceries. Said he was doing his duty as a nurse.”
Simone raised an eyebrow. “He always this nosy or just when you look extra cute?”
Alix rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. “I think he’s just being friendly.”
“Friendly in a ‘can I carry your bags and make you laugh’ way?”
Alix gave a soft laugh. “He’s nice. That’s all. I’m with Royce.”
Simone closed the fridge and leaned against it, arms folded. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”
Alix didn’t answer right away. She pulled her blanket tighter and looked down at her phone, thumb brushing the edge of the screen without unlocking it.
She didn’t say she was happy.
She didn’t say she felt seen.
She just stared at the lock screen, the quiet between them settling in like fog, and let the weight of that brief moment with Co linger just a little longer than it should have.
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djp73
- Posts: 13209
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7930
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Dying to Live
We've almost got her freed 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
why are we celebrating this?!
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47