Top Cat
The air was thick with heat and ego. Sweat clung to every jersey like glue, and the turf radiated up through the soles of cleats like it was trying to melt their legs off. It was full-contact day at LSU’s fall camp—Big Cat Saturday—the kind of day where names got made and reps didn’t lie.
Royce stood at the center of the first-team defense, shoulder pads tight, gloves already sticky from a morning’s worth of thudding collisions. His helmet sat tucked under his arm while coaches yelled alignments and trainers tossed towels from the sideline. The energy buzzed different today. This wasn’t just practice.
This was film.
This was bragging rights.
This was proof.
The mic pack clipped to the back of his pads felt strange at first—he wasn’t used to being recorded beyond game day—but the media team had insisted. “For the socials,” they said. “Let people see how the heartbeat of the defense really works.”
So he gave them something worth hearing.
“Let’s fucking go,” he barked to the huddle, eyes locked in. “First sound. Eyes right. Fly and die.”
They lined up against the offense—starters vs. starters. Pads popped with the kind of violence that echoed beyond the field, the sounds of cleats skidding and bodies colliding like thunder cracking through South Louisiana humidity.
On the third rep, the offense tried to sneak a counter play inside.
Royce read it before the ball even left the quarterback’s hand.
Caden planted and cut back toward the inside gap—and Royce met him there like a door slamming shut.
Crack.
It was textbook. Shoulder to chest. No helmet. No wasted motion.
Caden went down hard, the breath clearly knocked out of him as he rolled to his back, blinking up at the sky.
The sideline erupted.
“Woooo!” Demar shouted from behind the line. “That’s a grown man hit!”
Royce helped Caden up, patting his helmet once. “All love,” he said.
Caden just nodded, still trying to catch his wind.
Back in the defensive huddle, Royce didn’t flex. Didn’t grandstand.
“Y’all saw that alignment, right?” he asked. “They motion left, but the H-back trails. That’s your tell. Watch that every time. Don’t guess—read.”
Later, when Eric overran a zone drop and gave up a shallow curl, Royce pulled him aside after the whistle.
“Come here. Look—your depth’s too short. You gotta hit that landmark. Right now you’re floating. You float, he floats. Lock the base.”
Eric nodded, sweat dripping off his chin. “Got it.”
“Run it back in your head before next series,” Royce said. “You gotta be fast and smart. That’s what keeps you on the field.”
After the scrimmage wrapped, and the horn blew three sharp blasts, the players jogged off in staggered waves. Some were whooping. Some were limping. Coaches barked reminders about the next lift window and the ice tubs.
Royce peeled off his gloves and handed the mic pack back to the social media intern. She grinned as she unclipped it.
“Y’all got what you needed?” he asked.
“Oh yeah,” she said, tapping her phone. “You’re gonna get us a lot of engagement tonight.”
He gave a tired smile, more shoulder shrug than pride. “Cool.”
In the locker room, as the AC blasted over cooling pads and tape bins, Royce sat in front of his locker, helmet at his feet. He didn’t say much, but his teammates did. The ones who got coached up. The ones who saw him stand taller, move faster, know better than anyone else on that field.
That was the part they didn’t show in highlight clips.
The way presence became gravity.
And how when Royce spoke now, the room listened—even when he didn’t raise his voice.
~~~~~~~~~~
The ceiling fan hummed low in Royce’s apartment as golden afternoon light spilled in through the massive windows. The city moved lazily outside, but inside it was quiet, too quiet, with only the ticking sound of Royce’s phone vibrating against the glass of his dining table.
Alix sat on the couch, one knee pulled to her chest, hair twisted up in a soft clip, the sleeves of her LSU hoodie tugged over her hands. She was scrolling halfheartedly, her thumb idle more than moving, when she glanced up and cleared her throat.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Can I ask you something?”
Royce looked up from his phone, setting it face-down without reading the new notification. “Yeah. What’s up?”
Alix stood and crossed the room, stopping at the edge of the rug. There was a slight hesitation in her step, like she was bracing for a no before she even asked.
“I wanted to see if you’d have dinner with my parents.”
Royce blinked. “Yeah. Okay. Just let me know when.”
She smiled but didn’t relax completely. “I was thinking… maybe we could do it here. At your place.”
Royce tilted his head. “Why not just go to their house? That’s easier, right?”
“I know,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek, “but I’d feel better if it were here. Just… my mom’s fine, but Marc’s still Marc. He’s less likely to be passive-aggressive if he’s not at his own house. Plus… I want them to see that you’ve got your own place. That you’ve made a life for yourself.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “You think that’s gonna make a difference?”
“I think it’ll help,” she said. “Even if just a little.”
He sighed. “I mean, yeah. We can do it here. Just give me a date.”
Her face lit up, but before she could speak again, he held up a finger.
“But if your stepdad says something slick? I ain’t biting my tongue.”
Alix rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward. “Royce…”
“I’m serious,” he said, smirking now. “I’ll be respectful. But if he comes at me sideways, I’m gonna throw that n—motherfucker down the stairs.”
“I don’t want this to be some showdown.”
“Then tell him to chill.”
Alix shook her head, laughing under her breath. “God, y’all are the same sometimes.”
“That ain’t flattering,” Royce said, but the tension had broken.
She walked over and leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He stood still for a beat, then rested his chin lightly on her hair.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “For doing this.”
He nodded into her shoulder. “Just make sure we got real food. Don’t have me feeding your people some Trader Joe’s frozen dinner and thinking it’s gourmet. They already think I’m a hoodrat.”
“I’m cooking,” she said, swatting his chest. “I want it to be nice.”
He didn’t say anything else, but as she started listing ideas for the menu—some kind of pasta, definitely wine, maybe a dessert—he watched her face, bright with quiet hope.
And for a moment, he let himself believe it could go smoothly.
~~~~~~~~~~
Downtown Lafayette buzzed in its usual subdued way on a weekday afternoon—heat simmering off pavement, the murmur of traffic blending with the distant rhythm of someone’s Bluetooth speaker playing R&B from the sidewalk. The sun hung low but bright, casting sharp shadows through the spaces between buildings.
Toni walked alone, arms folded, her footsteps slow and measured. She hadn’t been out by herself without a destination in weeks—not since Arianna moved out and Deshawn moved in. The apartment felt smaller now. Tighter. Like the walls leaned in if she stood still for too long.
This outing wasn’t planned. She’d just needed to breathe. To move. To pretend for an hour that she wasn’t keeping track of how long she’d been gone.
She crossed the street near a café, its patio full of shaded tables and soft clinking silverware. A family sat at one of them—a couple in their thirties, maybe, with two little girls in sundresses playing with crayon-marked menus while their mother handed them napkins and their father refilled water from a sweating pitcher.
Toni slowed, letting her gaze linger a little too long.
She had no memory like that. No image in her head of her own parents. She didn’t know if she had siblings, not really. Her connection to her cousins was flimsy at best—frayed threads that only tugged tighter when something bad happened. And even then, not always.
She turned away before the ache got too big and walked into the boutique two doors down.
A bell jingled above her head as she entered. The inside was cool, dimly lit, and full of soft textures. Racks of blouses and dresses hung like delicate ornaments, the faint scent of lavender and clean linen perfuming the air.
Toni kept her arms close to her sides as she browsed. Her fingers trailed fabrics she’d never wear—silks, satins, lace-trimmed blouses—and stopped near the clearance rack in the back corner.
“Let me know if you need help,” a woman said brightly from behind the register. “We’ve got a flash sale going—anything on that rack’s an extra twenty percent off.”
Toni gave a polite nod, not expecting more.
But the woman came closer, peering over her shoulder. “That would look great on you,” she said, pointing toward a flowy sundress on the rack.
Toni shook her head, then slowly reached past it and pulled a different dress forward.
It was red.
Long-sleeved.
Simple but bold.
Her thumb brushed over the tag.
She looked at the worker, then back at the dress.
“What about this one?” she asked. “My boyfriend likes red.”
Her voice was casual, too casual, but her eyes didn’t leave the fabric.
The worker smiled. “That’s one of my favorites. Want to try it on?”
Toni hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll try it.”
She walked toward the fitting room with the dress pressed gently to her chest, the color catching in the light like something alive. Something burning.
And for a brief moment, alone in the quiet of the boutique, she could pretend that choice was still hers.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Calm Before
Royce pushed through the glass doors of the LSU Student Union with a takeout bag in one hand and a bottle of water tucked under his arm. The late afternoon sun caught him square in the face, and he squinted, exhaling like the heat was personal. The Parade Grounds stretched wide in front of him—dozens of students lounging on blankets, playing pickup soccer, reading, sleeping. It was too bright, too loud, too alive.
He started down the sidewalk, cutting across the grass toward the parking lot where his car waited. That’s when he saw her Effie.
Sitting in the grass near one of the oak trees, her knees bent, one boot flat against the earth, the other kicked out lazily. Her back was to the sun, face turned in shadow. A sketchpad rested across her lap, and a half-finished drink sat sweating in the grass beside her. She looked untouched by the motion around her, like she’d been there forever or like she could stay forever.
Royce slowed without thinking.
Then veered toward her.
She looked up as he approached, blinking once before registering him. “Didn’t peg you for a walker,” she said, her voice dry, but not unfriendly.
Royce gestured toward the food. “Union run.”
“Let me guess. Chicken and two sides of ego?”
He smirked. “Mac and cheese and cornbread. If I needed a therapist, they’d get me one.”
She tilted her head, not quite smiling.
He nodded toward her setup. “You always this chill, or just pretending not to be bothered by shit?”
Effie shrugged, eyes trailing back toward the horizon. “Shit keeps happening whether you care or not.”
Royce stood there a beat longer before dropping into the grass beside her, uninvited. The bag crinkled against his thigh.
She didn’t tell him to move.
He looked at the sketchpad and noticed the soft pencil lines forming a wide, loosely detailed scene—some frat guys tossing a frisbee underhand, the curve of a tree, someone lying back on a blanket with an open book.
“You draw and take pictures?” he asked, surprised at the calm intricacy of it.
Effie snorted, never looking at him. “Mostly people I can’t talk to. But not today.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “You trying to say something with that?”
She finally smiled, faint and unreadable. “You ever think about who you’d be if nobody expected anything from you?”
The question knocked the breath out of him—not because it was deep, but because it was true. Like she’d found a nerve he didn’t know was exposed.
He blinked. “Not really.”
“Yeah,” Effie said, nodding like she knew he’d say that. “Most people don’t.”
The sun moved higher above the tree line, casting slanted shadows across the grass. Around them, students kept laughing, yelling, throwing things. The world didn’t pause. But between them, a quiet formed—not awkward, not heavy, just full.
Royce shifted the food bag to his other hand.
“You know,” he said eventually, “you ain’t what I thought.”
Effie’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to the view ahead.
“What’d you think?”
But she didn’t wait for the answer. She stood, brushed the grass from her jeans, slid her sketchpad into her bag and hoisted it over one shoulder.
“I’ll let you decide.”
Then she walked off, her steps unhurried, her hair catching in the breeze like a signal that the conversation was over but not done.
Royce sat there a second longer, watching her go.
Then he sighed, stood up, and walked toward his car—his food cold, his thoughts louder than they’d been in days.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Nevada sun didn’t just shine—it punished. But Malik jogged off the field like it was nothing. Helmet in hand, jersey sticking to his back, he had a grin plastered across his face like he’d just won something. Maybe he had.
Donovan lobbed a water bottle at him from the sideline. Malik caught it in stride.
“You ran that like you had some pussy on the line,” Donovan said, smirking. “What was that, bro?”
Malik cracked the cap and poured half the bottle over his head before taking a swig. “Just tryna go viral one time before we get our ass bust by thirty.”
Donovan laughed so loud it turned a few heads. “Man, you ain’t shit.”
They walked toward the locker room, shoulders loose, not a worry between them. Behind them, the field buzzed with stragglers still wrapping up drills.
“I swear you treat practice like TikTok,” said Cam, catching up with them, peeling off his gloves. “Every rep gotta be a highlight.”
“Better than treating it like church,” Malik shot back. “You act like running a go route is a spiritual experience. All that damn prayer in your stance.”
Cam held up a hand like he was preaching. “Lord, deliver me from underthrows.”
Donovan wheezed. “Y’all wild.”
Aiden popped his AirPods out as they reached the locker room entrance. “Y’all talking about prayer? I prayed last night and still overslept. That’s why I missed reps this morning.”
“God got tired of waking your sorry ass up,” Malik said. “Even He needs rest.”
They all cracked up as they filed inside.
…
Later that night, the dorm common room was its usual mess—half-eaten pizza on the table, shoes kicked off near the couch, some guy from the D-line screaming at FIFA in the background.
Malik lounged on the couch with Donovan, Cam, and Aiden, all of them half-watching a true crime documentary none of them had started from the beginning.
Aiden had a Gatorade in one hand and a honey bun in the other. “Y’all ever eat a honey bun and feel your childhood trauma hit?”
Cam squinted at him. “Why would that be a thing?”
“Because it’s a breakfast pastry that tastes like poverty,” Aiden said solemnly.
Donovan spit out his drink laughing. “This dude.”
Malik was already scrolling through Instagram, eyes drifting. He paused at a clip from LSU’s practice.
Royce—mic’d up, barking calls, laying someone out. It was captioned: “Heart of the defense. #GeauxTigers.”
Malik watched the clip twice. No sound. Didn’t need it.
He liked the post, snorted once, and kept scrolling.
“Who you stalking over there?” Donovan asked.
“That nigga Royce,” Malik said, scrolling back up and turning the phone toward Donovan. “Remember when that nigga ain’t even talk? Now, he the king of BR while we out here trying not to die in this dry-ass air.”
“You jealous?”
Malik shook his head, lips curling into a grin. “Nah. I’m chillin’. Let bro have it.”
He tossed his phone face down on the table, leaned back, and stretched his arms behind his head.
This wasn’t the SEC.
This wasn’t national TV or College GameDay.
But it was real.
It was his.
And now, it was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
The AC in Royce’s apartment hummed like a lullaby against the late summer heat. The sun was down but the walls still held onto the warmth of the day, soft shadows stretching across polished floors and granite countertops. The living room smelled like takeout and sweat and the kind of worn leather that came from overstuffed couches no one bothered to clean properly.
A deck of cards lay scattered across the coffee table, chip bags pushed aside, a nearly empty bottle of Henny standing crooked beside an open Sprite. Shaq sat on the floor, legs out in front of him and chin resting on his knuckles as he studied his hand like it owed him money. Dorian sprawled out on the opposite end of the couch, socked feet kicked up on the table like he paid rent. Gio was already talking shit, his laugh big and stupid and infectious, while Demar just shook his head and pretended to be above it all.
Royce leaned against the arm of the couch, chewing on the strings of his hoodie, cards fanned in one hand.
"Bruh," Gio said, flicking a chip at him, “you really had the shades on for the whole shoot? In a suit?”
Royce grinned. “That was the look, man. I just do what I’m told.”
Shaq snorted. “Nah, I don’t want to hear that shit. That was you. You went full GQ linebacker mode on us.”
“You seen the one where he got his hand on his chin like he solving world hunger?” Dorian added. “Looked like he was about to drop a fragrance called Endzone Noir.”
The room cracked up.
Royce tried to keep a straight face, but it broke. He laughed, low and from the stomach. The kind of laugh he hadn’t felt in weeks.
“Y’all can have that shit,” he said, tossing his cards down. “All of it. I’m done with it.”
“You say that,” Demar replied, eyeing him. “But they already got you on that NIL treadmill. Giving a bad name to linebackers. They gonna start putting them white boys with the neckrolls back on TV because of you.”
Royce leaned his head back, rubbing his eyes. “Man, I’m tired. That shit sound good in theory, making money off your name. Then you learn that shit a whole fucking job. Makes you realize why them NFL motherfuckers got whole teams of people to do this shit. I just wanna hit somebody again.”
“Pause,” Gio muttered.
“I was talking about fucking on your mama, nigga,” Royce snapped back.
They all laughed again.
For a moment, the pressure slipped off his shoulders.
In here, he wasn’t a captain. Wasn’t a walking endorsement deal. Wasn’t someone trying to hold a relationship together with whatever scraps of attention he had left. He was just Royce—a college student, clowning around on a Tuesday night, breaking cards and cracking jokes with the only people who really understood how heavy the helmet got.
Outside the windows, the city buzzed quietly, headlights sliding across the wall.
~~~~~~~~~~
The boutique wasn’t fancy, not in the way the storefronts downtown were with marble floors and overpriced water. But it was quiet. The kind of place where the lights were soft and the dressing rooms had full-length mirrors that didn’t distort your reflection into something you didn’t recognize.
Alix wandered between racks, fingers brushing fabric like she was searching for something that could hold her together. She had already looped the store once without finding what she wanted—or maybe without even knowing what she wanted.
She just knew it had to be right.
She stopped in front of a small circular rack near the back. There it was. Deep green, satin, thin straps, a neckline that wasn’t too low but still made a statement. Soft pleating that wrapped at the waist, like the fabric had somewhere to be and had stopped just for you. Elegant. Grown. Effortless.
She pulled it off the rack gently and held it against her chest, looking down.
A salesgirl with curly hair and white sneakers popped her head out from the back room.
“Oh,” she said brightly. “That one’s new. It’s gorgeous on. Is it for a date?”
Alix’s lips curved, but only halfway. “Something like that.”
The girl smiled and disappeared again.
Alix stood there a beat longer, staring at the dress in her hands.
When she got back to her apartment, her roommates weren’t home. The silence greeted her like a sigh.
She placed the dress on her bed carefully, smoothing out the wrinkles like it was something fragile. Like it could break if she didn’t treat it right.
The apartment smelled faintly of the lavender spray Simone used on the couch pillows and the last trace of whatever takeout Madi had left in the fridge.
Alix stepped out of her sandals, peeled off her jeans, and unzipped the new dress.
She pulled it over her head, adjusting the straps, tugging at the hem until it rested right above her knees. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of her room and looked at herself.
It was a good dress. The kind you wear when you want to be seen but don’t want to beg for it.
She ran her hands down the sides of it, pressing it against her ribs, tilting her head like she was trying to see something in her reflection she wasn’t sure existed anymore.
Someone secure.
Someone chosen.
Someone worth showing off.
Alix let out a soft breath, one hand brushing her collarbone.
Then she slipped the dress off, careful not to stretch the straps. She folded it gently and placed it in the back of her closet behind an old winter coat she hadn’t worn since freshman year.
She didn’t hang it in plain sight.
Not yet.
Just in case.
But the act of folding it softly, tucking it behind something else—that was still hope. Not loud or obvious. Just enough.
Enough to keep pretending the dinner might be okay.
Enough to believe, for now, that Royce would show up.
Royce pushed through the glass doors of the LSU Student Union with a takeout bag in one hand and a bottle of water tucked under his arm. The late afternoon sun caught him square in the face, and he squinted, exhaling like the heat was personal. The Parade Grounds stretched wide in front of him—dozens of students lounging on blankets, playing pickup soccer, reading, sleeping. It was too bright, too loud, too alive.
He started down the sidewalk, cutting across the grass toward the parking lot where his car waited. That’s when he saw her Effie.
Sitting in the grass near one of the oak trees, her knees bent, one boot flat against the earth, the other kicked out lazily. Her back was to the sun, face turned in shadow. A sketchpad rested across her lap, and a half-finished drink sat sweating in the grass beside her. She looked untouched by the motion around her, like she’d been there forever or like she could stay forever.
Royce slowed without thinking.
Then veered toward her.
She looked up as he approached, blinking once before registering him. “Didn’t peg you for a walker,” she said, her voice dry, but not unfriendly.
Royce gestured toward the food. “Union run.”
“Let me guess. Chicken and two sides of ego?”
He smirked. “Mac and cheese and cornbread. If I needed a therapist, they’d get me one.”
She tilted her head, not quite smiling.
He nodded toward her setup. “You always this chill, or just pretending not to be bothered by shit?”
Effie shrugged, eyes trailing back toward the horizon. “Shit keeps happening whether you care or not.”
Royce stood there a beat longer before dropping into the grass beside her, uninvited. The bag crinkled against his thigh.
She didn’t tell him to move.
He looked at the sketchpad and noticed the soft pencil lines forming a wide, loosely detailed scene—some frat guys tossing a frisbee underhand, the curve of a tree, someone lying back on a blanket with an open book.
“You draw and take pictures?” he asked, surprised at the calm intricacy of it.
Effie snorted, never looking at him. “Mostly people I can’t talk to. But not today.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “You trying to say something with that?”
She finally smiled, faint and unreadable. “You ever think about who you’d be if nobody expected anything from you?”
The question knocked the breath out of him—not because it was deep, but because it was true. Like she’d found a nerve he didn’t know was exposed.
He blinked. “Not really.”
“Yeah,” Effie said, nodding like she knew he’d say that. “Most people don’t.”
The sun moved higher above the tree line, casting slanted shadows across the grass. Around them, students kept laughing, yelling, throwing things. The world didn’t pause. But between them, a quiet formed—not awkward, not heavy, just full.
Royce shifted the food bag to his other hand.
“You know,” he said eventually, “you ain’t what I thought.”
Effie’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to the view ahead.
“What’d you think?”
But she didn’t wait for the answer. She stood, brushed the grass from her jeans, slid her sketchpad into her bag and hoisted it over one shoulder.
“I’ll let you decide.”
Then she walked off, her steps unhurried, her hair catching in the breeze like a signal that the conversation was over but not done.
Royce sat there a second longer, watching her go.
Then he sighed, stood up, and walked toward his car—his food cold, his thoughts louder than they’d been in days.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Nevada sun didn’t just shine—it punished. But Malik jogged off the field like it was nothing. Helmet in hand, jersey sticking to his back, he had a grin plastered across his face like he’d just won something. Maybe he had.
Donovan lobbed a water bottle at him from the sideline. Malik caught it in stride.
“You ran that like you had some pussy on the line,” Donovan said, smirking. “What was that, bro?”
Malik cracked the cap and poured half the bottle over his head before taking a swig. “Just tryna go viral one time before we get our ass bust by thirty.”
Donovan laughed so loud it turned a few heads. “Man, you ain’t shit.”
They walked toward the locker room, shoulders loose, not a worry between them. Behind them, the field buzzed with stragglers still wrapping up drills.
“I swear you treat practice like TikTok,” said Cam, catching up with them, peeling off his gloves. “Every rep gotta be a highlight.”
“Better than treating it like church,” Malik shot back. “You act like running a go route is a spiritual experience. All that damn prayer in your stance.”
Cam held up a hand like he was preaching. “Lord, deliver me from underthrows.”
Donovan wheezed. “Y’all wild.”
Aiden popped his AirPods out as they reached the locker room entrance. “Y’all talking about prayer? I prayed last night and still overslept. That’s why I missed reps this morning.”
“God got tired of waking your sorry ass up,” Malik said. “Even He needs rest.”
They all cracked up as they filed inside.
…
Later that night, the dorm common room was its usual mess—half-eaten pizza on the table, shoes kicked off near the couch, some guy from the D-line screaming at FIFA in the background.
Malik lounged on the couch with Donovan, Cam, and Aiden, all of them half-watching a true crime documentary none of them had started from the beginning.
Aiden had a Gatorade in one hand and a honey bun in the other. “Y’all ever eat a honey bun and feel your childhood trauma hit?”
Cam squinted at him. “Why would that be a thing?”
“Because it’s a breakfast pastry that tastes like poverty,” Aiden said solemnly.
Donovan spit out his drink laughing. “This dude.”
Malik was already scrolling through Instagram, eyes drifting. He paused at a clip from LSU’s practice.
Royce—mic’d up, barking calls, laying someone out. It was captioned: “Heart of the defense. #GeauxTigers.”
Malik watched the clip twice. No sound. Didn’t need it.
He liked the post, snorted once, and kept scrolling.
“Who you stalking over there?” Donovan asked.
“That nigga Royce,” Malik said, scrolling back up and turning the phone toward Donovan. “Remember when that nigga ain’t even talk? Now, he the king of BR while we out here trying not to die in this dry-ass air.”
“You jealous?”
Malik shook his head, lips curling into a grin. “Nah. I’m chillin’. Let bro have it.”
He tossed his phone face down on the table, leaned back, and stretched his arms behind his head.
This wasn’t the SEC.
This wasn’t national TV or College GameDay.
But it was real.
It was his.
And now, it was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
The AC in Royce’s apartment hummed like a lullaby against the late summer heat. The sun was down but the walls still held onto the warmth of the day, soft shadows stretching across polished floors and granite countertops. The living room smelled like takeout and sweat and the kind of worn leather that came from overstuffed couches no one bothered to clean properly.
A deck of cards lay scattered across the coffee table, chip bags pushed aside, a nearly empty bottle of Henny standing crooked beside an open Sprite. Shaq sat on the floor, legs out in front of him and chin resting on his knuckles as he studied his hand like it owed him money. Dorian sprawled out on the opposite end of the couch, socked feet kicked up on the table like he paid rent. Gio was already talking shit, his laugh big and stupid and infectious, while Demar just shook his head and pretended to be above it all.
Royce leaned against the arm of the couch, chewing on the strings of his hoodie, cards fanned in one hand.
"Bruh," Gio said, flicking a chip at him, “you really had the shades on for the whole shoot? In a suit?”
Royce grinned. “That was the look, man. I just do what I’m told.”
Shaq snorted. “Nah, I don’t want to hear that shit. That was you. You went full GQ linebacker mode on us.”
“You seen the one where he got his hand on his chin like he solving world hunger?” Dorian added. “Looked like he was about to drop a fragrance called Endzone Noir.”
The room cracked up.
Royce tried to keep a straight face, but it broke. He laughed, low and from the stomach. The kind of laugh he hadn’t felt in weeks.
“Y’all can have that shit,” he said, tossing his cards down. “All of it. I’m done with it.”
“You say that,” Demar replied, eyeing him. “But they already got you on that NIL treadmill. Giving a bad name to linebackers. They gonna start putting them white boys with the neckrolls back on TV because of you.”
Royce leaned his head back, rubbing his eyes. “Man, I’m tired. That shit sound good in theory, making money off your name. Then you learn that shit a whole fucking job. Makes you realize why them NFL motherfuckers got whole teams of people to do this shit. I just wanna hit somebody again.”
“Pause,” Gio muttered.
“I was talking about fucking on your mama, nigga,” Royce snapped back.
They all laughed again.
For a moment, the pressure slipped off his shoulders.
In here, he wasn’t a captain. Wasn’t a walking endorsement deal. Wasn’t someone trying to hold a relationship together with whatever scraps of attention he had left. He was just Royce—a college student, clowning around on a Tuesday night, breaking cards and cracking jokes with the only people who really understood how heavy the helmet got.
Outside the windows, the city buzzed quietly, headlights sliding across the wall.
~~~~~~~~~~
The boutique wasn’t fancy, not in the way the storefronts downtown were with marble floors and overpriced water. But it was quiet. The kind of place where the lights were soft and the dressing rooms had full-length mirrors that didn’t distort your reflection into something you didn’t recognize.
Alix wandered between racks, fingers brushing fabric like she was searching for something that could hold her together. She had already looped the store once without finding what she wanted—or maybe without even knowing what she wanted.
She just knew it had to be right.
She stopped in front of a small circular rack near the back. There it was. Deep green, satin, thin straps, a neckline that wasn’t too low but still made a statement. Soft pleating that wrapped at the waist, like the fabric had somewhere to be and had stopped just for you. Elegant. Grown. Effortless.
She pulled it off the rack gently and held it against her chest, looking down.
A salesgirl with curly hair and white sneakers popped her head out from the back room.
“Oh,” she said brightly. “That one’s new. It’s gorgeous on. Is it for a date?”
Alix’s lips curved, but only halfway. “Something like that.”
The girl smiled and disappeared again.
Alix stood there a beat longer, staring at the dress in her hands.
When she got back to her apartment, her roommates weren’t home. The silence greeted her like a sigh.
She placed the dress on her bed carefully, smoothing out the wrinkles like it was something fragile. Like it could break if she didn’t treat it right.
The apartment smelled faintly of the lavender spray Simone used on the couch pillows and the last trace of whatever takeout Madi had left in the fridge.
Alix stepped out of her sandals, peeled off her jeans, and unzipped the new dress.
She pulled it over her head, adjusting the straps, tugging at the hem until it rested right above her knees. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of her room and looked at herself.
It was a good dress. The kind you wear when you want to be seen but don’t want to beg for it.
She ran her hands down the sides of it, pressing it against her ribs, tilting her head like she was trying to see something in her reflection she wasn’t sure existed anymore.
Someone secure.
Someone chosen.
Someone worth showing off.
Alix let out a soft breath, one hand brushing her collarbone.
Then she slipped the dress off, careful not to stretch the straps. She folded it gently and placed it in the back of her closet behind an old winter coat she hadn’t worn since freshman year.
She didn’t hang it in plain sight.
Not yet.
Just in case.
But the act of folding it softly, tucking it behind something else—that was still hope. Not loud or obvious. Just enough.
Enough to keep pretending the dinner might be okay.
Enough to believe, for now, that Royce would show up.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Empty
Alix had set the table with deliberate care—deep green plates, polished silverware, the single tapered candle burning down in slow inches. Royce’s apartment, usually sharp and bare, now carried hints of softness: a folded linen runner on the table, the smell of roasted garlic in the air, her favorite playlist humming low through the speakers.
She’d even opened the wine early. Let it breathe.
She wanted the night to go right.
When her mom and Marc arrived at seven sharp, Alix greeted them with a warm smile, trying to mask the nerves buzzing under her skin.
“Hey!” she said, stepping back. “Come in, come in.”
Her mom leaned in for a hug, kissed her cheek. “You look beautiful, baby.”
“Thanks. You both do, too.”
Marc stepped through behind her mom, giving the apartment a slow once-over.
“Swanky,” he said with a grunt. “All these windows, no curtains. Doesn’t feel very lived in.”
Alix forced a small laugh. “He likes it open. Natural light and all that.”
They settled around the table. She poured wine. Her mom commented on how nice the table looked. Marc lifted the glass, swirled the wine.
“So,” he said, “where is the man of the hour?”
“He’s on his way,” Alix replied, glancing at her phone. “He had a lift earlier, and then something with the media team. But he said he’d be here.”
…
Her mom gently unfolded her napkin. “We don’t have to wait for him to eat, do we?”
“No, of course not,” Alix said quickly. “He’ll be here any minute.”
She brought the plates out—pasta with lemon and roasted vegetables—and tried to keep the conversation light.
Marc took one bite and set his fork down. “So, this his place or did the school put him in a tower with the rest of the VIPs?”
“It’s his,” Alix said, bristling. “He pays for everything himself.”
“Hmm,” Marc said. “Still feels like a rental showroom.”
Alix didn’t reply. Her eyes flicked to the phone again. No texts.
…
Her mom wiped her mouth delicately with the cloth napkin. “So tell us about the internship, sweetheart. Is it going well?”
Alix sat up straighter. “Yeah, it’s been great so far. Really hands-on. We’ve been working on a full redesign for a house near the lakes. I even got to sit in on a materials meeting.”
Marc raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re doing now? Picking throw pillows?”
Alix forced a smile. “Picking palettes, lighting design, layout concepts... We do more than just decorate.”
Her mom gave her a soft smile. “That sounds wonderful.”
Marc cut in. “Does he—Royce—ever ask about it? What you’re working on?”
Alix hesitated. “Sometimes. He’s busy.”
“Clearly,” Marc muttered.
Alix looked down at her plate. The music from her phone buzzed into a new track—something mellow, something sad if you listened too closely.
…
She cleared the dinner plates. The silence in the kitchen pressed into her ribs as she stacked dishes in the sink. When she returned, her mother had topped off their wine glasses, trying to smooth things over with a smile too soft to be convincing.
Marc checked his watch and leaned back in his chair.
“He usually do this?”
“What?” Alix asked, already knowing.
“Say he’ll show and vanish?”
“He’s probably stuck. Or his phone died,” she offered, but her voice had lost momentum.
Marc scoffed. “The boy has enough money to pay for this fancy apartment and that fancy car he drives, all the fancy jewelry and clothes but can’t buy a power bank so his phone doesn’t die so he can let people know when he’s not going to do something?”
“Marc,” her mother said gently.
He held up his hands. “Just saying.”
…
Dessert sat untouched on the counter—a lemon tart she’d dressed up with a few mint leaves. No one brought it to the table.
“I’m sorry,” Alix finally said, quietly. “He said he’d be here.”
Her mother reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “It’s okay, baby. You did everything right.”
Marc stood, fixing the cuffs of his sleeves. “Tell him we said thanks for the hospitality. Real classy.”
Alix walked them to the door. Her mom hugged her again, longer this time. “Call me tomorrow, alright?”
Alix nodded.
Marc said nothing as he stepped into the hall.
Back inside, the apartment felt like a gallery again—too clean, too sharp, too untouched. She walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and caught her reflection in the mirror.
The eyeliner was still crisp. Her lipstick had faded.
She pulled a cotton pad from the drawer and wiped slowly, her motions mechanical. The foundation came off in soft smears, beige and pink staining the white.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t rage.
She just looked tired.
Not defeated.
Just worn.
The kind of tired that sets in when you’ve run out of explanations to give.
Behind her, the candle on the dining table flickered once and went out.
~~~~~~~~~~
The music pulsed low, all bass and blurred vocals, vibrating through the floors of Dorian’s apartment like a heartbeat too lazy to quicken. Someone had killed the lights except for the neon strip around the ceiling that bathed the whole room in a hazy purple glow. Beer cans littered the counters, and the air reeked of cheap tequila, weed, and sweat.
Royce leaned back on the couch, plastic cup in hand, legs stretched out in front of him, one heel tapping mindlessly to the rhythm. Gio sat on the adjacent chair, grinning like he lived there, some girl perched sideways across his lap, laughing at something he hadn’t even said yet.
“Yo,” Royce said, his voice low but clear over the music. “What time is it?”
Gio shrugged, not bothering to move. “Shit, I don’t know.”
Royce pulled his phone out of his pocket. The screen stayed black. Dead.
He sighed and tilted his head back, letting the cup rest on his chest. He knew he should’ve checked it earlier, but the night had gotten away from him—same as the last few, same as most of the summer.
He pushed himself up, wandered toward the kitchen looking for a charger, some reprieve from the noise in his own head. Halfway there, Dorian intercepted him, hand on his arm, eyes darting back toward the living room.
“Yo,” Dorian muttered, “you gotta help me out.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “With what?”
“I’m tryna close with this girl—Tiffany or Talia or some shit—but her friend won’t leave. She won’t stop talking.”
Royce looked past him and spotted the two girls leaning against the kitchen island. Dorian’s girl was laughing, hair falling over one shoulder, clearly into him. Her friend stood stiffly beside her, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like she wanted to be anywhere else.
Royce frowned. “So what that gotta do with me?”
Dorian grinned, leaning in. “Just run interference. For like five minutes. Just talk to her.”
Royce rubbed the back of his neck. “Why y’all even got a fat bitch at the get-together in the first place?”
Dorian smirked like they were sharing some inside joke, then nodded toward the girl. “She drove. And she ain’t that bad.”
“That bitch look like she can play a mean three-technique. Fuck you mean?”
“Bro, c’mon.”
Royce sighed, staring down at his dead phone again like it owed him an answer.
“Fine,” he muttered.
He followed Dorian back toward the island, letting the hum of the party fill the space between his thoughts. He wasn’t drunk, not really. Just numb. And that was more dangerous.
The girl barely looked at him as he approached.
Royce forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“What’s good? I’m Royce,” he said.
She glanced at him. “I know.”
And just like that, the weight of the evening—of all the nights like this—settled around him again.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was almost midnight when Royce keyed into the apartment. The hallway lights cast long shadows across the hardwood floor, and the place was quiet in that way that made his stomach twist before he even saw anything.
He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and turned toward the kitchen, expecting darkness.
But the light over the table was still on.
Alix was sitting there.
In silence.
She didn’t look up when he walked in.
Her back was straight, hands folded on the table in front of her. Her makeup was gone, but her earrings still hung, catching the overhead light like they were trying to distract from everything else.
In front of her, untouched, sat a single plate of pasta—now congealed, sauce thickened and noodles curled like question marks.
Another plate sat at the head of the table. His.
Royce’s brow furrowed. He moved closer, slow, unsure, until he reached the empty seat and hovered beside it. He reached down, plucked a piece of pasta from the plate, and popped it into his mouth.
Cold.
Sticky.
Still good.
“Did you make this?” he asked, chewing. “Or get it from somewhere?”
No answer.
That’s when it hit him.
The dinner.
The candle she asked him to light.
Her parents.
He blinked once, then twice. His throat went dry even as he reached for the water bottle sitting unopened at the edge of the table. He took a long pull, then set it down with a quiet thunk.
“I thought…” he started, trailing off before restarting. “I thought y’all were gonna reschedule or something. I should’ve called. That’s my fault.”
Still, she said nothing.
She just stood—slowly, like every motion cost her more than it should’ve. She walked past him without meeting his eyes, her steps quiet on the floor.
“I’m too tired to drive home,” she muttered, already halfway down the hall.
He didn’t answer.
There wasn’t anything to say that would make it better.
He stayed in the kitchen a few moments longer, staring at the plate, the burnt-down candle, the empty wine glasses—one with just a faint smudge of her lipstick still on the rim.
Eventually, he moved toward the bathroom, peeled off his shirt, and stepped into the shower, letting the water hit him like maybe it could wash away the shame clinging to his skin.
By the time he made it to the bedroom, Alix was lying on her side, back turned to him.
She hadn’t pulled the blanket over herself.
She was still in the same dress, her arms tucked under her head like she was bracing herself against a world that didn’t stop for disappointment.
Royce stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, unsure. Then he slid in slowly, the mattress barely shifting under his weight.
He reached out—fingers grazing her hip.
She flinched.
Subtle. Bare. But it was enough.
She shifted further away, curling tighter, a silent wall between them.
Royce froze, his hand still hovering in the space she’d just occupied.
Then he let it fall.
He lay back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
She faced the wall.
Neither of them said anything.
And the silence between them said more than either of them had the courage to name.
Alix had set the table with deliberate care—deep green plates, polished silverware, the single tapered candle burning down in slow inches. Royce’s apartment, usually sharp and bare, now carried hints of softness: a folded linen runner on the table, the smell of roasted garlic in the air, her favorite playlist humming low through the speakers.
She’d even opened the wine early. Let it breathe.
She wanted the night to go right.
When her mom and Marc arrived at seven sharp, Alix greeted them with a warm smile, trying to mask the nerves buzzing under her skin.
“Hey!” she said, stepping back. “Come in, come in.”
Her mom leaned in for a hug, kissed her cheek. “You look beautiful, baby.”
“Thanks. You both do, too.”
Marc stepped through behind her mom, giving the apartment a slow once-over.
“Swanky,” he said with a grunt. “All these windows, no curtains. Doesn’t feel very lived in.”
Alix forced a small laugh. “He likes it open. Natural light and all that.”
They settled around the table. She poured wine. Her mom commented on how nice the table looked. Marc lifted the glass, swirled the wine.
“So,” he said, “where is the man of the hour?”
“He’s on his way,” Alix replied, glancing at her phone. “He had a lift earlier, and then something with the media team. But he said he’d be here.”
…
Her mom gently unfolded her napkin. “We don’t have to wait for him to eat, do we?”
“No, of course not,” Alix said quickly. “He’ll be here any minute.”
She brought the plates out—pasta with lemon and roasted vegetables—and tried to keep the conversation light.
Marc took one bite and set his fork down. “So, this his place or did the school put him in a tower with the rest of the VIPs?”
“It’s his,” Alix said, bristling. “He pays for everything himself.”
“Hmm,” Marc said. “Still feels like a rental showroom.”
Alix didn’t reply. Her eyes flicked to the phone again. No texts.
…
Her mom wiped her mouth delicately with the cloth napkin. “So tell us about the internship, sweetheart. Is it going well?”
Alix sat up straighter. “Yeah, it’s been great so far. Really hands-on. We’ve been working on a full redesign for a house near the lakes. I even got to sit in on a materials meeting.”
Marc raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re doing now? Picking throw pillows?”
Alix forced a smile. “Picking palettes, lighting design, layout concepts... We do more than just decorate.”
Her mom gave her a soft smile. “That sounds wonderful.”
Marc cut in. “Does he—Royce—ever ask about it? What you’re working on?”
Alix hesitated. “Sometimes. He’s busy.”
“Clearly,” Marc muttered.
Alix looked down at her plate. The music from her phone buzzed into a new track—something mellow, something sad if you listened too closely.
…
She cleared the dinner plates. The silence in the kitchen pressed into her ribs as she stacked dishes in the sink. When she returned, her mother had topped off their wine glasses, trying to smooth things over with a smile too soft to be convincing.
Marc checked his watch and leaned back in his chair.
“He usually do this?”
“What?” Alix asked, already knowing.
“Say he’ll show and vanish?”
“He’s probably stuck. Or his phone died,” she offered, but her voice had lost momentum.
Marc scoffed. “The boy has enough money to pay for this fancy apartment and that fancy car he drives, all the fancy jewelry and clothes but can’t buy a power bank so his phone doesn’t die so he can let people know when he’s not going to do something?”
“Marc,” her mother said gently.
He held up his hands. “Just saying.”
…
Dessert sat untouched on the counter—a lemon tart she’d dressed up with a few mint leaves. No one brought it to the table.
“I’m sorry,” Alix finally said, quietly. “He said he’d be here.”
Her mother reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “It’s okay, baby. You did everything right.”
Marc stood, fixing the cuffs of his sleeves. “Tell him we said thanks for the hospitality. Real classy.”
Alix walked them to the door. Her mom hugged her again, longer this time. “Call me tomorrow, alright?”
Alix nodded.
Marc said nothing as he stepped into the hall.
Back inside, the apartment felt like a gallery again—too clean, too sharp, too untouched. She walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and caught her reflection in the mirror.
The eyeliner was still crisp. Her lipstick had faded.
She pulled a cotton pad from the drawer and wiped slowly, her motions mechanical. The foundation came off in soft smears, beige and pink staining the white.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t rage.
She just looked tired.
Not defeated.
Just worn.
The kind of tired that sets in when you’ve run out of explanations to give.
Behind her, the candle on the dining table flickered once and went out.
~~~~~~~~~~
The music pulsed low, all bass and blurred vocals, vibrating through the floors of Dorian’s apartment like a heartbeat too lazy to quicken. Someone had killed the lights except for the neon strip around the ceiling that bathed the whole room in a hazy purple glow. Beer cans littered the counters, and the air reeked of cheap tequila, weed, and sweat.
Royce leaned back on the couch, plastic cup in hand, legs stretched out in front of him, one heel tapping mindlessly to the rhythm. Gio sat on the adjacent chair, grinning like he lived there, some girl perched sideways across his lap, laughing at something he hadn’t even said yet.
“Yo,” Royce said, his voice low but clear over the music. “What time is it?”
Gio shrugged, not bothering to move. “Shit, I don’t know.”
Royce pulled his phone out of his pocket. The screen stayed black. Dead.
He sighed and tilted his head back, letting the cup rest on his chest. He knew he should’ve checked it earlier, but the night had gotten away from him—same as the last few, same as most of the summer.
He pushed himself up, wandered toward the kitchen looking for a charger, some reprieve from the noise in his own head. Halfway there, Dorian intercepted him, hand on his arm, eyes darting back toward the living room.
“Yo,” Dorian muttered, “you gotta help me out.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “With what?”
“I’m tryna close with this girl—Tiffany or Talia or some shit—but her friend won’t leave. She won’t stop talking.”
Royce looked past him and spotted the two girls leaning against the kitchen island. Dorian’s girl was laughing, hair falling over one shoulder, clearly into him. Her friend stood stiffly beside her, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like she wanted to be anywhere else.
Royce frowned. “So what that gotta do with me?”
Dorian grinned, leaning in. “Just run interference. For like five minutes. Just talk to her.”
Royce rubbed the back of his neck. “Why y’all even got a fat bitch at the get-together in the first place?”
Dorian smirked like they were sharing some inside joke, then nodded toward the girl. “She drove. And she ain’t that bad.”
“That bitch look like she can play a mean three-technique. Fuck you mean?”
“Bro, c’mon.”
Royce sighed, staring down at his dead phone again like it owed him an answer.
“Fine,” he muttered.
He followed Dorian back toward the island, letting the hum of the party fill the space between his thoughts. He wasn’t drunk, not really. Just numb. And that was more dangerous.
The girl barely looked at him as he approached.
Royce forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“What’s good? I’m Royce,” he said.
She glanced at him. “I know.”
And just like that, the weight of the evening—of all the nights like this—settled around him again.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was almost midnight when Royce keyed into the apartment. The hallway lights cast long shadows across the hardwood floor, and the place was quiet in that way that made his stomach twist before he even saw anything.
He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and turned toward the kitchen, expecting darkness.
But the light over the table was still on.
Alix was sitting there.
In silence.
She didn’t look up when he walked in.
Her back was straight, hands folded on the table in front of her. Her makeup was gone, but her earrings still hung, catching the overhead light like they were trying to distract from everything else.
In front of her, untouched, sat a single plate of pasta—now congealed, sauce thickened and noodles curled like question marks.
Another plate sat at the head of the table. His.
Royce’s brow furrowed. He moved closer, slow, unsure, until he reached the empty seat and hovered beside it. He reached down, plucked a piece of pasta from the plate, and popped it into his mouth.
Cold.
Sticky.
Still good.
“Did you make this?” he asked, chewing. “Or get it from somewhere?”
No answer.
That’s when it hit him.
The dinner.
The candle she asked him to light.
Her parents.
He blinked once, then twice. His throat went dry even as he reached for the water bottle sitting unopened at the edge of the table. He took a long pull, then set it down with a quiet thunk.
“I thought…” he started, trailing off before restarting. “I thought y’all were gonna reschedule or something. I should’ve called. That’s my fault.”
Still, she said nothing.
She just stood—slowly, like every motion cost her more than it should’ve. She walked past him without meeting his eyes, her steps quiet on the floor.
“I’m too tired to drive home,” she muttered, already halfway down the hall.
He didn’t answer.
There wasn’t anything to say that would make it better.
He stayed in the kitchen a few moments longer, staring at the plate, the burnt-down candle, the empty wine glasses—one with just a faint smudge of her lipstick still on the rim.
Eventually, he moved toward the bathroom, peeled off his shirt, and stepped into the shower, letting the water hit him like maybe it could wash away the shame clinging to his skin.
By the time he made it to the bedroom, Alix was lying on her side, back turned to him.
She hadn’t pulled the blanket over herself.
She was still in the same dress, her arms tucked under her head like she was bracing herself against a world that didn’t stop for disappointment.
Royce stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, unsure. Then he slid in slowly, the mattress barely shifting under his weight.
He reached out—fingers grazing her hip.
She flinched.
Subtle. Bare. But it was enough.
She shifted further away, curling tighter, a silent wall between them.
Royce froze, his hand still hovering in the space she’d just occupied.
Then he let it fall.
He lay back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
She faced the wall.
Neither of them said anything.
And the silence between them said more than either of them had the courage to name.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7921
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Goddamn.. throw this dude out 
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
a man’s phone dies and all of a sudden he’s the worst human being in the world
-
djp73
- Posts: 13199
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
What a dink
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Heart Stopper
The buzz around Tiger Stadium crackled hotter than the late August sun. Fans flooded the parking lots and tree-lined medians, decked out in purple and gold, faces painted, flags whipping in the humid breeze. Grills smoked, speakers blared country music and New Orleans bounce, and everywhere you turned, there was the glint of aluminum beer cans clinking together.
It was the first game of the season, and LSU versus Clemson wasn’t just a kickoff—it was a statement.
At a folding table littered with jello shots, crawfish dip, and a half-empty fifth of Crown, Alix laughed—loud, careless, a little too sharp—at something a guy in a backwards LSU cap said. He was tall, buzzed already, and full of easy compliments. She leaned into him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest when she laughed. He grinned wider and handed her another drink.
“Only way to survive this heat is with a little liquid courage,” he joked, handing her a plastic cup.
She took it without hesitation, her fingertips grazing his for a second longer than necessary.
Across the lot, Ashlee, Madi, and Simone watched in varying degrees of confusion and concern. It wasn’t that Alix had never flirted before—they all had their wild nights—but this was different.
It wasn’t playful.
It wasn’t light.
It was... performative.
Simone leaned into Madi, whispering, “When did Alix turn into a sorority TikTok star?”
Madi frowned, arms crossed over her Tigers crop top. “Maybe she’s just having fun?”
But even she sounded like she didn’t believe it.
Ashlee didn’t hesitate. She weaved through the tailgaters, dodging a couple playing flip cup, and pulled Alix gently by the wrist away from the table.
“Come here for a sec,” Ashlee said, forcing a smile.
Alix blinked up at her, surprised but obliging. She let herself be led a few steps away, the sound of the party swelling around them.
Ashlee crossed her arms, not bothering to hide the worry in her voice. “What’s up with you?”
Alix’s smile didn’t falter at first—it held like a stretched rubber band.
“Nothing,” she said easily. “Just drinking. Tailgating. Same as everybody else.”
Ashlee gave her a look. “You’re not just drinking. You’re—” she hesitated, glancing back toward the table where the guy in the LSU cap watched them with a sloppy grin. “You’re flirting.”
Alix tilted her head like she hadn’t considered that. Then she shrugged.
“So?”
Ashlee frowned. “You’ve been all over that dude for the last half hour.”
Alix looked past her, watching the crowd with glassy eyes. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, twirling a piece of her hair around her finger absentmindedly.
“I’m just doing what everyone else is doing,” she said. “Drinking. Having fun before a football game.”
There was a hollowness to her voice. The same emptiness Ashlee had seen once before—after Alix’s dad left when they were sophomores. That brittle way of acting fine when everything inside was splintering.
Ashlee hesitated, lowering her voice. “Did something happen? With Royce?”
Alix’s eyes flickered—barely. A tiny shift, a crack in the wall.
But then she smiled, wide and too bright. “Nope. We’re great. Amazing.”
Ashlee didn’t believe it for a second.
“Alix—”
“I’m good, Ash. Seriously.”
Before Ashlee could press her, Alix turned and walked back toward the table, her stride purposeful, her plastic cup raised in a mock toast. The guy in the LSU cap cheered her return, pulling her back into conversation. She laughed again—loud and reckless—and this time, when she leaned into him, she let her hand graze his chest. Just a second longer than a joke would’ve allowed.
Simone watched from the edge of the tent, her lips pressed into a line.
“She’s spiraling,” Simone muttered.
Madi shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. But what can we do?”
Nothing.
Not today.
Ashlee watched as Alix tossed her head back in another laugh, let the guy’s hand settle lightly at the small of her back.
All she could do was hope that whatever Alix was trying to drown out wasn’t bigger than she could swim through.
Because it was only the first game of the season.
And Alix already looked exhausted from pretending she was fine.
~~~~~~~~~~
The lights of Tiger Stadium burned so bright it looked like noon inside the bowl. But it wasn’t noon—it was Saturday night in Baton Rouge. The first Saturday night of the season. And Death Valley was alive.
Eighty thousand fans packed tight, a sea of purple and gold, shaking the rafters with chants and fists and beer cans held aloft. The smell of sweat, gumbo, and fresh-cut grass filled the air, heavy and humid like only a Louisiana summer could manage.
Music thundered through the loudspeakers, basslines rattling the bleachers. The Golden Band from Tigerland marched down the sideline, horns blaring, every note slicing through the humid night air with military precision.
On the field, the energy was different.
Sharper. Hungrier.
Royce bounced on the balls of his feet just past the thirty-yard line, his helmet tucked under his arm, gloved hands flexing and clenching in time with the music. His heart slammed against his ribs, not from fear but from the itch—that raw, clawing anticipation before the first snap. Before the first hit.
Jay and Earl shoved each other near midfield, trading light punches to the shoulder pads, barking like dogs ready to be cut loose.
"You feel that shit?" Jay shouted over the noise, grinning so wide his mouthpiece almost fell out.
Earl laughed, slapping the side of Royce's helmet. "I’m boutta catch a body tonight, son! Feel it in my bones!"
Dorian jogged up behind them, slapping Royce on the back hard enough to jolt him forward. “Hey! We ‘bout to really put something on they ass tonight!”
Royce grinned, adrenaline pouring through him, a pressure that had been building for weeks—no, months—finally cresting. He tucked his helmet on, the world narrowing instantly to a black-and-white tunnel through his facemask.
"You already know," Royce said, nodding toward the Clemson sideline where their players warmed up in tight little groups, trying to drown out the noise. "Them sorry ass niggas ain’t about that shit."
"Already," Dorian cracked, bouncing on his toes.
Jay whooped, throwing his arms up toward the crowd behind them. The noise swelled instantly, a tsunami of sound crashing down on the field.
Royce closed his eyes for half a second and let it hit him—the noise, the lights, the pressure, the weight of it all pressing against his chest.
This was the only place he felt right.
This was the only thing that made sense.
Coach Lanning barked from the sideline, signaling the defense over.
Royce shoved Jay’s shoulder as they jogged to the huddle.
“Let’s set the fucking tone,” he growled, voice low enough that only they could hear him.
Jay nodded, helmet tilting forward.
Earl cracked his knuckles inside his gloves.
Dorian tapped his chest twice.
And then they broke the huddle, spread across the field, helmets gleaming under the brutal white lights, ready to start the war.
Tiger Stadium roared.
And the season began.
…
The first clang of the cowbells and the first crack of helmets meeting echoed through Tiger Stadium as Clemson trotted out their offense.
Royce tightened his chin strap, crouching low, his fingers twitching just above the turf.
Vizzina, Clemson’s quarterback, lined up in shotgun, clapping for the snap. Their running back shifted nervously behind him, adjusting his stance like he already felt the pressure coming.
Good.
Royce could feel Jay to his left, bouncing on his toes, and Earl to his right, talking trash under his breath. Dorian pointed across the formation, eyes locked on the slot receiver.
The ball snapped.
Christopher Vizzina faked the handoff—play action.
Royce didn’t bite. He powered forward, throwing his shoulder into the right guard’s chest, knocking him back a half step. Vizzina hesitated just long enough.
Jay blitzed untouched off the edge, forcing Vizzina to step up.
Earl beat his man inside, crashing into the quarterback just as Vizzina let the ball fly.
A wounded duck of a pass fluttered toward the sideline.
Incomplete.
The stadium exploded—a roar so loud it shook Royce's facemask.
Second down.
Royce jogged back to the huddle, chest heaving.
Jay slapped the back of his helmet. "Pressure bust pipes, son!"
Dorian barked out a laugh. “They scared already!”
The call came in fast from the sideline—tight coverage, spy on the quarterback.
Royce licked his lips, the taste of blood and Gatorade mixing.
…
This time, Clemson handed it off. Straight dive.
Royce read it instantly, crashing downhill.
Jay Haynes knifed through the gap first, jamming the running back up high. Royce wrapped around his waist, driving him backward into the pile.
Thud.
Minimal gain.
Third and long.
The stadium noise ratcheted up another level, every LSU fan on their feet, rattling the metal bleachers, stomping, screaming.
Royce pointed across the line at the center, grinning under his helmet.
"You ain't ready, boy!"
Vizzina barked out the cadence, trying to calm the chaos.
Snap.
Drop back.
Pressure immediate—Jay coming off the blindside again. Vizzina had no choice but to dump it short to the tight end leaking out underneath.
Royce broke on it like a missile.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, shoulder first, smashing into the tight end’s chest and dragging him down four yards short of the sticks.
Fourth down.
The sideline erupted.
Royce popped up, flexed both arms above his head, and roared toward the student section.
Dorian sprinted up behind him, bumping him sideways. Earl chest-bumped Jay.
Kolaj shouted from the interior: "Bitch, this Death Valley for real!"
The Clemson offense shuffled toward the sideline, heads down, punting unit already trotting onto the field.
Three and out.
First drive.
First statement.
Royce jogged off the field with the rest of the defense, heart pounding, adrenaline flooding every vein.
Tonight wasn't about finesse.
Tonight was about who could bleed and still stand up.
And Royce was ready to bleed all night long.
…
"Collins in the gun, two receivers left, one right, Caden Durham in the backfield… snap to Collins... hands off to Durham—no hesitation, right up the gut—he drags a defender across the thirty! That’s a hard-fought seven-yard gain to open the season, and you can feel the energy already."
…
"Here we go—tempo picking up now—Collins in the shotgun, Durham offset right—snap—hands to Durham—ohhh, he finds a crease! Durham breaking loose across the fifty—forty-five—lowering the shoulder into the safety! Down to the Clemson forty-two! That’s eight tough yards!"
…
"Rickie Collins with a strong command of this offense early—takes the snap—drops back—five-step drop—looking—looking—fires deep down the seam—ohhhh just off the fingertips of Jelani Watkins inside the five-yard line! Nearly six points right there, folks!"
…
"Short yardage, heavy set—Collins under center for once—sneak! Rickie keeps it himself! Big push from the O-line! And the chains are moving! First down, LSU!"
…
"Listen to this crowd, folks! Deafening!"
"Collins claps—takes the snap—hands to Durham—RIGHT SIDE—fighting! Durham down to the five, still driving! Down to the three before they wrestle him out of bounds!"
…
"Collins again—snap—play action—rolls left—eyes in the back of the endzone—fires—TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!!! JELANI WATKINS WITH THE CATCH!"
"WHAT. A. DRIVE."
"Death Valley is absolutely losing its mind right now! Collins looked poised, confident, sharp, and LSU draws first blood in this heavyweight fight! 6–0 Tigers pending the extra point!"
…
"Vizzina in the shotgun, three wideouts—snap—handoff to Jay Haynes—big hole off left tackle! Haynes explodes through it across the thirty-five! Finally dragged down at the forty! Huge gain to open the drive for the Tigers from South Carolina!"
…
"LSU crowd trying to get loud—snap to Vizzina—delayed draw—Haynes finds another crease—sheds a tackle—and he’s down inside the forty before Tylen Singleton drags him down! Another first down Clemson—offense clicking early."
…
"Crowd roaring but Vizzina unfazed—snap—quick hitter over the middle—Antonio Williams snatches it at the fifteen—jukes a man—down to the nine-yard line! It’s first and goal Clemson!"
…
"Vizzina hands off—Haynes following his blockers—slips through the middle—FALLS INTO THE ENDZONE! TOUCHDOWN CLEMSON!"
"And just like that, folks, we are tied here in Death Valley—pending the extra point, it’s 7–7!"
"What an answer by Clemson’s offense—sharp, methodical, and just like that, we’ve got ourselves a ballgame under the lights!"
…
The moment the extra point sailed through the uprights, Royce ripped off his helmet and slammed it against his thigh, stalking the sideline like a caged animal.
7–7.
The scoreboard glared down at him, daring him to do something about it.
Around him, the defensive unit trickled toward the benches—helmets dangling from hands, faces tight. Tylen shook his head. Jyaire popped his chinstrap loose with a sharp snap. Dorian cursed under his breath.
Coach Lupoi bellowed from behind the defense, but Royce barely heard him over the blood pounding in his ears.
He turned, planting himself in the center of the group, his voice cutting sharp through the noise.
"Yo!"
Heads snapped up.
Royce pointed toward the field, eyes burning.
"That's how they think it's gonna be all night?"
No one answered. Royce didn’t expect them to.
He shoved his helmet back onto his head, jaw clenched.
"So fucking what they scored?" he barked. "Y’all ain’t no bitches, huh? Drop a nigga where they stand."
Jay nodded, thumping his chest twice.
Royce scanned the group—Singleton, Dorian, Jyaire, Kolaj, Ashton, Whit. All of them. Eyes locked. Waiting.
"They can’t breathe when we breathing down they necks!" Royce shouted. "They wanna go tempo? Fine! We live for this shit! We built for this shit!"
The defense roared back, slapping pads, fists thudding into palms.
Coach Lupoi pointed to the sideline. "Defense up! Let’s go!"
Royce slapped Jay’s helmet as they jogged toward the numbers.
"Bring the fucking pain!" he barked.
Tiger Stadium buzzed louder, sensing the shift—the fight coming back into the Tigers' defense.
Royce lowered into his stance as Clemson broke the huddle again.
…
The crowd swelled behind him—one long, rumbling heartbeat—as Royce crouched low over his cleats, shoulders twitching with energy.
Clemson came out heavy—tight end tight to the formation, two backs in the backfield.
First down.
Run look all the way.
Royce’s fingers drummed lightly against his thigh pad as he stared through his facemask at the right guard.
Showtime.
Vizzina called for the snap, and the world snapped into motion.
The offensive line surged forward, bodies crashing into bodies, the mass of orange and white jerseys trying to shove LSU backward.
Royce didn’t hesitate.
He fired downhill like a bullet, slipping just outside the guard’s shoulder, ducking under an attempted block.
The running back—Haynes—saw the crease open between the right tackle and tight end, eyes widening, ball tucked tight against his ribs.
Royce closed the distance like a predator sensing blood.
Haynes planted his outside foot, trying to cut back inside.
Too late.
Royce met him square, dipping his hips and driving through the tackle. The hit popped loud enough to cut through the roar of the crowd—pads crashing, cleats skidding against the turf.
Haynes folded backward, the ball almost popping loose on impact.
Royce wrapped him up tight, legs churning, driving him two full steps backward before slamming him into the ground.
Boom.
The pile collapsed around them, but Royce was already peeling off, popping to his feet, adrenaline roaring in his ears.
He flexed both arms toward the LSU sideline, roaring from deep in his chest.
“Don’t bring that fucking weak shit on my mother. fucking. field!” he bellowed, pointing back at the Clemson line.
…
"Tempo still high—snap—quick toss left to Sampson, Jr.—he’s got blockers—turns the corner! Sampson at the five—dives for the pylon—TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!"
"Sampson takes it in and LSU is lighting up the scoreboard early! 13–7 LSU pending the extra point! And this crowd is on their FEET!"
"Rickie Collins orchestrated that drive like a veteran, and the Tigers smell blood in the water now!"
…
The stadium shook like a living thing, rattling with every stomp, every scream, every slap of hands against metal bleachers.
Fireworks burst overhead in brilliant arcs of purple and gold as Jelani Watkins jogged off the field, grinning, tapping his helmet toward the student section.
On the sideline, players chest-bumped, helmets crashed together, and coaches slapped backs.
Royce barely moved.
Helmet resting on his hip, mouthguard dangling from his facemask, he stood a few yards behind the bench, watching the celebration like it was happening underwater. His heart still hammered from the last defensive series, adrenaline burning under his skin like a low-grade fever.
Jay jogged over, tapping his knuckles against Royce’s shoulder pad.
"That’s two, baby! They can't keep up!" he shouted over the roar.
Royce nodded, but his eyes never left the field where the special teams unit lined up for the kickoff.
He wasn’t celebrating yet.
Not while Clemson still had time on the clock. Not while they still had blood in their mouth.
He watched the Clemson sideline, their players gathering tight, helmets on, bouncing on their toes. No panic yet. No sagging shoulders.
Royce finally pulled his helmet on, tapping it twice with his hand.
…
"Vizzina claps—takes the snap—another give to Haynes—this time off the left side—he’s got a crease! Jay Haynes breaks a tackle at the 10—five—TOUCHDOWN CLEMSON!"
"Jay Haynes with a powerful run! And just like that, the Tigers from South Carolina answer LSU’s haymaker with one of their own! 14–14 the score pending the extra point!"
"Folks, it’s gonna be that kind of night—we are trading blows under the lights in Baton Rouge!"
…
Royce ripped his helmet back on before the ball even crossed the goal line.
He didn’t need to see the extra point.
Didn’t need to hear the celebration from the Clemson sideline.
He felt it in his gut—the slip, the lost grip on momentum.
Around him, the defense clustered near the benches, heads down, hands on hips, sucking wind.
Royce stayed standing.
Jaw clenched.
Eyes locked across the field at Clemson's linemen chest-bumping like they owned the place.
He smacked his hands together once, loud enough to turn a few heads.
"Lock the fuck back in," he snapped.
…
"First and goal, Tigers at the six-yard line—Collins in the gun—Jackson behind him—snap—give to Durham—lowers his shoulder—pushing—piling into the end zone! TOUCHDOWN LSU!"
"The big man, Kaleb, muscles it across the goal line! LSU takes the lead right back, 20–14 pending the PAT!"
…
"Clemson responds with a beautiful drive—Vizzina orchestrating it perfectly—first and goal now at the LSU five—snap—handoff to Haynes—stretching left—dives for the pylon—TOUCHDOWN CLEMSON!"
"We are tied again, folks! Jay Haynes putting the team on his back for the Tigers from South Carolina!"
…
"Third down and goal at the Clemson two-yard line—heavy package for LSU—Collins under center—fakes the dive—rolls out left—wide open! Toss to Markway—caught! TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!"
"Markway sneaks out the back door and finds paydirt! LSU right back on top, 27–21!"
…
"And Clemson not going away—second and six at the LSU twenty-five—snap to Vizzina—blitz picked up—fires deep toward the end zone—T.J. Moore! Makes the catch over the top! TOUCHDOWN CLEMSON!"
"T.J. Moore goes upstairs and brings it down! And just like that, we’re tied again at 28 apiece as we head toward the fourth quarter!"
…
"First and ten at the Clemson thirty—Collins in the shotgun—two tight ends—snap—play action—Collins firing deep down the seam—caught! Shelton Sampson inside the ten—Sampson spinning—reaches—TOUCHDOWN LSU!"
"Sampson breaking ankles after the catch and LSU retakes the lead! 34–28 pending the extra point! This kid is electric!"
…
"And Clemson will not go away—second and goal at the LSU six—Vizzina in the gun—snap—draw play—Haynes takes it to the outside—dives across the plane—TOUCHDOWN CLEMSON!"
"Tie ballgame again, folks! That’s 35–35 and both these teams trading haymakers under the lights here at Death Valley!"
…
"Alright, LSU ball—big third down here at their own forty—third and seven—Collins in the gun—snap—pressure coming—steps up—fires—AND IT'S INCOMPLETE! Tight coverage downfield!"
"Tigers' drive stalls for the first time tonight—Clemson bringing the heat, and LSU will have to punt it away here late in the fourth quarter with the score still tied!"
"And suddenly, folks, you can feel that tension creep into this stadium. Whoever blinks next might lose this war."
…
The scoreboard glared down from the north endzone like an open wound.
35–35.
Just over two minutes left. Clemson ball.
Royce crouched at midfield, heart pounding against his ribs, sweat dripping off his chinstrap, dripping into his gloves. The roar of Tiger Stadium pressed in around him—a wall of noise, tense and desperate.
Vizzina lined up in the shotgun, calm, too calm for a freshman this deep into a war.
Snap.
Royce took one step forward, reading run, then saw it—the offensive line dropping into pass pro, Vizzina’s eyes flicking downfield.
Royce sank into his zone, staying low, eyes darting between the tight end and the slot receiver.
Vizzina scanned once, twice—and then turned his shoulders left.
Royce caught the flash of Markus Dixon breaking across the middle, slipping behind the linebacker’s depth.
Vizzina stepped into his throw.
The ball flew, a tight spiral humming through the thick night air.
Royce drove toward it, but it was too late.
Dixon caught it in stride at the LSU forty, cut outside, broke a weak tackle attempt by Ashton Stamps, and surged down the sideline.
The stadium gasped, thousands of voices caught in their throats.
Royce turned and sprinted—chasing—but Dixon was already inside the fifteen before he was finally wrestled out of bounds by Whit, who lunged and clipped his ankles from behind.
Royce stopped near the twenty-yard line, chest heaving, hands on his hips.
Damn it.
The LSU sideline barked at each other. Coaches waved frantic signals as Clemson hurried to the line, looking to build off the big play. Fans screamed, pleaded.
Royce shook his head once, clearing it.
Next play. Next play.
Vizzina handed it to David Eziomume—a blur of orange slicing off left tackle.
Royce burst downhill, slipping past a block, but too late.
Eziomume churned through an arm tackle and dove headfirst into the endzone.
Touchdown Clemson.
Just over a minute left.
The Clemson sideline erupted, helmets flying into the air, players piling into the endzone like they'd won the damn national championship.
Royce stood frozen near the ten-yard line, staring at the celebration, the lump hardening in his throat.
The noise in Tiger Stadium wasn’t a roar anymore.
It was a stunned, hollow rumble.
He looked up at the scoreboard, the new numbers flashing:
Clemson 42, LSU 35.
1:03 left.
Royce turned toward the LSU sideline, jogging back slow, his chest heavy.
…
Royce stood on the sideline, helmet still strapped tight, his chest rising and falling like he was sprinting in place.
One minute left.
Down seven.
The LSU offense jogged onto the field, Rickie calm in the pocket of chaos, clapping his hands for the snap.
Royce leaned forward, hands on his thighs, every muscle in his body tight, the crowd buzzing in his ears like a swarm of bees.
…
Rickie dropped back—pressure coming—sidestepped a rusher, darted forward and dumped it off to Caden out of the backfield.
Caden caught it low, turned upfield, broke one tackle, and spun out of bounds after a seven-yard gain.
Tick, tick, tick.
Royce shook his head, mouthing silently, "Move, move, move!"
…
Rickie barked signals—snap.
Quick throw to Shelton on a deep comeback route.
Caught at midfield!
First down.
The chains moved, but the clock kept bleeding.
:42.
The crowd roared for the hurry-up, LSU sprinting to the line.
…
Snap.
Rickie—pressure—slides right.
Keeps his eyes downfield.
Zavion broke open late on a crossing route.
Rickie launched it on the run—tight spiral—Thomas caught it on the move at the Clemson 30.
Royce punched the air as Zavion ducked out of bounds.
:29 left.
…
Coach Lanning screamed signals from the sideline, the offense huddling fast.
Royce paced behind the bench, head down, murmuring under his breath.
"Come on, Rickie. Come on, come on, come on."
…
Snap.
Rickie—clean pocket—surveys—nothing.
Takes off, sprinting left.
Gets the edge, steps out at the 24.
Smart play. Stop the clock.
:18 left.
…
Rickie clapped his hands, urgency bleeding off him.
Snap.
Four-man rush.
Pocket collapsing.
He backpedaled, kept cool.
Zavion streaked up the seam, slicing between two safeties.
Rickie planted.
Let it fly.
The ball sailed high—perfect trajectory—cutting a tight line under the lights.
Time slowed.
Royce barely breathed.
Zavion leapt—hands snatching the ball clean out of the air, dragging it into his chest as he tumbled backward across the goal line.
TOUCHDOWN.
Tiger Stadium exploded—a bomb of sound shaking the foundations of the earth.
Royce let out a strangled yell, slamming his hands into the shoulder pads of the player next to him, sprinting two steps down the sideline before stopping himself.
Touchdown.
Tie game.
42–42.
…
Rickie jogged back to the sideline, helmet off, face unreadable.
Business.
Like he knew the war wasn’t over yet.
Royce grinned through the chaos, heart hammering, blood roaring in his ears.
…
The coin hit the turf and bounced once.
Tails.
Clemson won the toss.
Of course they did.
Royce stood on the sideline, helmet tucked under his arm, heart thudding steady and hard.
Clemson deferred.
LSU would get the ball first.
Rickie jogged out onto the field, helmet strapped, mouthpiece clamped tight. The offense huddled up fast, clapping hands, slapping shoulder pads.
Royce tightened his jaw.
Gotta score.
No choice.
…
Rickie lined up in the gun, Caden offset to his right.
Snap.
Hand-off to Caden.
He bulldozed into the line, dragging a linebacker two yards downfield.
Second and eight.
Royce rocked on his heels, standing just past the white stripe, hands on hips, watching.
The noise around him was thick, muffled, like cotton stuffed in his ears.
…
Rickie play-actioned—Caden picked up the blitzer—Rickie scrambled left, nobody open, tucked it and took off.
Inside the twenty.
Inside the fifteen.
Laid a shoulder into a safety before getting run out at the twelve.
Royce felt his chest loosen a fraction.
They're close.
…
Hand-off to Caden—this time stuffed at the line for no gain.
Second down.
Rickie tapped his helmet, glancing at the sideline for the next play.
Royce bounced in place, heart hammering.
…
Rickie faked the give, rolled right—nothing there.
Pressure.
He cut back inside, tucked it.
Sprint to the edge.
Linebacker coming downhill—
Rickie lowered his shoulder and launched himself at the pylon.
The two crashed together right at the goal line.
The referee’s hands shot up.
TOUCHDOWN LSU!
Tiger Stadium exploded—purple and gold fireworks slicing into the dark Baton Rouge sky.
Royce threw both fists overhead, roaring, his voice swallowed by the storm of sound.
…
Extra point good.
Royce pulled his helmet on, sprinting toward the defensive huddle.
The job wasn't done yet.
…
Royce crouched low, cleats digging into the battered turf, helmet rattling with the noise still spilling from the stands.
Clemson lined up at the twenty-five.
Down six.
Four cracks at the endzone.
Not tonight.
Royce barked a quick adjustment to Tylen, tapping his hand against his thigh pad, signaling blitz pickup in case the back leaked out.
The ball snapped.
Hand-off to Haynes, trying to find daylight off the right tackle.
Kolaj crashed down hard, chopping him low.
Tylen cleaned it up, wrapping Haynes up and dragging him down after a two-yard gain.
Royce jogged back into position, chest heaving.
…
Vizzina took the snap fast, LSU bringing four.
Play-action fake.
Royce dropped into zone, scanning.
Vizzina wanted the slant, pump-faked, hesitated.
Pressure collapsed around him—Da'Shawn Womack shoving the left tackle into Vizzina’s lap.
The quarterback ducked and scrambled forward, picking up maybe three before Demar swallowed him whole.
Third and five.
Tiger Stadium erupted, sensing the kill coming.
Royce smacked his hands together once, eyes blazing behind his visor.
…
Vizzina dropped back, this time rattled, his feet jittery.
He stared down the slot receiver Markus Dixon, locked in too long.
Jyaire read it the second the quarterback’s front shoulder opened.
Royce saw it unfolding in real time—the desperate stare, the rushed throw.
Vizzina fired toward the inside seam.
Bad ball.
Too late.
Jyaire undercut the route like he knew the play was coming before the snap.
Clean pick.
The stadium didn't roar at first—it screamed. Detonated.
Royce pumped both fists, screaming even though he couldn't hear his own voice.
Jyaire tucked the ball tight and tried to sprint down the sideline, but Clemson’s tight end dove and clipped his ankle. Jyaire stumbled and went down just shy of midfield, ball secured against his ribs.
Tiger Stadium exploded into madness—helmets thrown into the air, players piling into the endzone, coaches bear-hugging anyone in reach.
Royce stopped short of the dogpile, standing near the middle of the field, helmet off, chest rising and falling like he’d just finished a fistfight.
He tilted his head back, staring up at the dark sky lit with fireworks.
The buzz around Tiger Stadium crackled hotter than the late August sun. Fans flooded the parking lots and tree-lined medians, decked out in purple and gold, faces painted, flags whipping in the humid breeze. Grills smoked, speakers blared country music and New Orleans bounce, and everywhere you turned, there was the glint of aluminum beer cans clinking together.
It was the first game of the season, and LSU versus Clemson wasn’t just a kickoff—it was a statement.
At a folding table littered with jello shots, crawfish dip, and a half-empty fifth of Crown, Alix laughed—loud, careless, a little too sharp—at something a guy in a backwards LSU cap said. He was tall, buzzed already, and full of easy compliments. She leaned into him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest when she laughed. He grinned wider and handed her another drink.
“Only way to survive this heat is with a little liquid courage,” he joked, handing her a plastic cup.
She took it without hesitation, her fingertips grazing his for a second longer than necessary.
Across the lot, Ashlee, Madi, and Simone watched in varying degrees of confusion and concern. It wasn’t that Alix had never flirted before—they all had their wild nights—but this was different.
It wasn’t playful.
It wasn’t light.
It was... performative.
Simone leaned into Madi, whispering, “When did Alix turn into a sorority TikTok star?”
Madi frowned, arms crossed over her Tigers crop top. “Maybe she’s just having fun?”
But even she sounded like she didn’t believe it.
Ashlee didn’t hesitate. She weaved through the tailgaters, dodging a couple playing flip cup, and pulled Alix gently by the wrist away from the table.
“Come here for a sec,” Ashlee said, forcing a smile.
Alix blinked up at her, surprised but obliging. She let herself be led a few steps away, the sound of the party swelling around them.
Ashlee crossed her arms, not bothering to hide the worry in her voice. “What’s up with you?”
Alix’s smile didn’t falter at first—it held like a stretched rubber band.
“Nothing,” she said easily. “Just drinking. Tailgating. Same as everybody else.”
Ashlee gave her a look. “You’re not just drinking. You’re—” she hesitated, glancing back toward the table where the guy in the LSU cap watched them with a sloppy grin. “You’re flirting.”
Alix tilted her head like she hadn’t considered that. Then she shrugged.
“So?”
Ashlee frowned. “You’ve been all over that dude for the last half hour.”
Alix looked past her, watching the crowd with glassy eyes. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, twirling a piece of her hair around her finger absentmindedly.
“I’m just doing what everyone else is doing,” she said. “Drinking. Having fun before a football game.”
There was a hollowness to her voice. The same emptiness Ashlee had seen once before—after Alix’s dad left when they were sophomores. That brittle way of acting fine when everything inside was splintering.
Ashlee hesitated, lowering her voice. “Did something happen? With Royce?”
Alix’s eyes flickered—barely. A tiny shift, a crack in the wall.
But then she smiled, wide and too bright. “Nope. We’re great. Amazing.”
Ashlee didn’t believe it for a second.
“Alix—”
“I’m good, Ash. Seriously.”
Before Ashlee could press her, Alix turned and walked back toward the table, her stride purposeful, her plastic cup raised in a mock toast. The guy in the LSU cap cheered her return, pulling her back into conversation. She laughed again—loud and reckless—and this time, when she leaned into him, she let her hand graze his chest. Just a second longer than a joke would’ve allowed.
Simone watched from the edge of the tent, her lips pressed into a line.
“She’s spiraling,” Simone muttered.
Madi shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. But what can we do?”
Nothing.
Not today.
Ashlee watched as Alix tossed her head back in another laugh, let the guy’s hand settle lightly at the small of her back.
All she could do was hope that whatever Alix was trying to drown out wasn’t bigger than she could swim through.
Because it was only the first game of the season.
And Alix already looked exhausted from pretending she was fine.
~~~~~~~~~~
The lights of Tiger Stadium burned so bright it looked like noon inside the bowl. But it wasn’t noon—it was Saturday night in Baton Rouge. The first Saturday night of the season. And Death Valley was alive.
Eighty thousand fans packed tight, a sea of purple and gold, shaking the rafters with chants and fists and beer cans held aloft. The smell of sweat, gumbo, and fresh-cut grass filled the air, heavy and humid like only a Louisiana summer could manage.
Music thundered through the loudspeakers, basslines rattling the bleachers. The Golden Band from Tigerland marched down the sideline, horns blaring, every note slicing through the humid night air with military precision.
On the field, the energy was different.
Sharper. Hungrier.
Royce bounced on the balls of his feet just past the thirty-yard line, his helmet tucked under his arm, gloved hands flexing and clenching in time with the music. His heart slammed against his ribs, not from fear but from the itch—that raw, clawing anticipation before the first snap. Before the first hit.
Jay and Earl shoved each other near midfield, trading light punches to the shoulder pads, barking like dogs ready to be cut loose.
"You feel that shit?" Jay shouted over the noise, grinning so wide his mouthpiece almost fell out.
Earl laughed, slapping the side of Royce's helmet. "I’m boutta catch a body tonight, son! Feel it in my bones!"
Dorian jogged up behind them, slapping Royce on the back hard enough to jolt him forward. “Hey! We ‘bout to really put something on they ass tonight!”
Royce grinned, adrenaline pouring through him, a pressure that had been building for weeks—no, months—finally cresting. He tucked his helmet on, the world narrowing instantly to a black-and-white tunnel through his facemask.
"You already know," Royce said, nodding toward the Clemson sideline where their players warmed up in tight little groups, trying to drown out the noise. "Them sorry ass niggas ain’t about that shit."
"Already," Dorian cracked, bouncing on his toes.
Jay whooped, throwing his arms up toward the crowd behind them. The noise swelled instantly, a tsunami of sound crashing down on the field.
Royce closed his eyes for half a second and let it hit him—the noise, the lights, the pressure, the weight of it all pressing against his chest.
This was the only place he felt right.
This was the only thing that made sense.
Coach Lanning barked from the sideline, signaling the defense over.
Royce shoved Jay’s shoulder as they jogged to the huddle.
“Let’s set the fucking tone,” he growled, voice low enough that only they could hear him.
Jay nodded, helmet tilting forward.
Earl cracked his knuckles inside his gloves.
Dorian tapped his chest twice.
And then they broke the huddle, spread across the field, helmets gleaming under the brutal white lights, ready to start the war.
Tiger Stadium roared.
And the season began.
…
The first clang of the cowbells and the first crack of helmets meeting echoed through Tiger Stadium as Clemson trotted out their offense.
Royce tightened his chin strap, crouching low, his fingers twitching just above the turf.
Vizzina, Clemson’s quarterback, lined up in shotgun, clapping for the snap. Their running back shifted nervously behind him, adjusting his stance like he already felt the pressure coming.
Good.
Royce could feel Jay to his left, bouncing on his toes, and Earl to his right, talking trash under his breath. Dorian pointed across the formation, eyes locked on the slot receiver.
The ball snapped.
Christopher Vizzina faked the handoff—play action.
Royce didn’t bite. He powered forward, throwing his shoulder into the right guard’s chest, knocking him back a half step. Vizzina hesitated just long enough.
Jay blitzed untouched off the edge, forcing Vizzina to step up.
Earl beat his man inside, crashing into the quarterback just as Vizzina let the ball fly.
A wounded duck of a pass fluttered toward the sideline.
Incomplete.
The stadium exploded—a roar so loud it shook Royce's facemask.
Second down.
Royce jogged back to the huddle, chest heaving.
Jay slapped the back of his helmet. "Pressure bust pipes, son!"
Dorian barked out a laugh. “They scared already!”
The call came in fast from the sideline—tight coverage, spy on the quarterback.
Royce licked his lips, the taste of blood and Gatorade mixing.
…
This time, Clemson handed it off. Straight dive.
Royce read it instantly, crashing downhill.
Jay Haynes knifed through the gap first, jamming the running back up high. Royce wrapped around his waist, driving him backward into the pile.
Thud.
Minimal gain.
Third and long.
The stadium noise ratcheted up another level, every LSU fan on their feet, rattling the metal bleachers, stomping, screaming.
Royce pointed across the line at the center, grinning under his helmet.
"You ain't ready, boy!"
Vizzina barked out the cadence, trying to calm the chaos.
Snap.
Drop back.
Pressure immediate—Jay coming off the blindside again. Vizzina had no choice but to dump it short to the tight end leaking out underneath.
Royce broke on it like a missile.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, shoulder first, smashing into the tight end’s chest and dragging him down four yards short of the sticks.
Fourth down.
The sideline erupted.
Royce popped up, flexed both arms above his head, and roared toward the student section.
Dorian sprinted up behind him, bumping him sideways. Earl chest-bumped Jay.
Kolaj shouted from the interior: "Bitch, this Death Valley for real!"
The Clemson offense shuffled toward the sideline, heads down, punting unit already trotting onto the field.
Three and out.
First drive.
First statement.
Royce jogged off the field with the rest of the defense, heart pounding, adrenaline flooding every vein.
Tonight wasn't about finesse.
Tonight was about who could bleed and still stand up.
And Royce was ready to bleed all night long.
…
"Collins in the gun, two receivers left, one right, Caden Durham in the backfield… snap to Collins... hands off to Durham—no hesitation, right up the gut—he drags a defender across the thirty! That’s a hard-fought seven-yard gain to open the season, and you can feel the energy already."
…
"Here we go—tempo picking up now—Collins in the shotgun, Durham offset right—snap—hands to Durham—ohhh, he finds a crease! Durham breaking loose across the fifty—forty-five—lowering the shoulder into the safety! Down to the Clemson forty-two! That’s eight tough yards!"
…
"Rickie Collins with a strong command of this offense early—takes the snap—drops back—five-step drop—looking—looking—fires deep down the seam—ohhhh just off the fingertips of Jelani Watkins inside the five-yard line! Nearly six points right there, folks!"
…
"Short yardage, heavy set—Collins under center for once—sneak! Rickie keeps it himself! Big push from the O-line! And the chains are moving! First down, LSU!"
…
"Listen to this crowd, folks! Deafening!"
"Collins claps—takes the snap—hands to Durham—RIGHT SIDE—fighting! Durham down to the five, still driving! Down to the three before they wrestle him out of bounds!"
…
"Collins again—snap—play action—rolls left—eyes in the back of the endzone—fires—TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!!! JELANI WATKINS WITH THE CATCH!"
"WHAT. A. DRIVE."
"Death Valley is absolutely losing its mind right now! Collins looked poised, confident, sharp, and LSU draws first blood in this heavyweight fight! 6–0 Tigers pending the extra point!"
…
"Vizzina in the shotgun, three wideouts—snap—handoff to Jay Haynes—big hole off left tackle! Haynes explodes through it across the thirty-five! Finally dragged down at the forty! Huge gain to open the drive for the Tigers from South Carolina!"
…
"LSU crowd trying to get loud—snap to Vizzina—delayed draw—Haynes finds another crease—sheds a tackle—and he’s down inside the forty before Tylen Singleton drags him down! Another first down Clemson—offense clicking early."
…
"Crowd roaring but Vizzina unfazed—snap—quick hitter over the middle—Antonio Williams snatches it at the fifteen—jukes a man—down to the nine-yard line! It’s first and goal Clemson!"
…
"Vizzina hands off—Haynes following his blockers—slips through the middle—FALLS INTO THE ENDZONE! TOUCHDOWN CLEMSON!"
"And just like that, folks, we are tied here in Death Valley—pending the extra point, it’s 7–7!"
"What an answer by Clemson’s offense—sharp, methodical, and just like that, we’ve got ourselves a ballgame under the lights!"
…
The moment the extra point sailed through the uprights, Royce ripped off his helmet and slammed it against his thigh, stalking the sideline like a caged animal.
7–7.
The scoreboard glared down at him, daring him to do something about it.
Around him, the defensive unit trickled toward the benches—helmets dangling from hands, faces tight. Tylen shook his head. Jyaire popped his chinstrap loose with a sharp snap. Dorian cursed under his breath.
Coach Lupoi bellowed from behind the defense, but Royce barely heard him over the blood pounding in his ears.
He turned, planting himself in the center of the group, his voice cutting sharp through the noise.
"Yo!"
Heads snapped up.
Royce pointed toward the field, eyes burning.
"That's how they think it's gonna be all night?"
No one answered. Royce didn’t expect them to.
He shoved his helmet back onto his head, jaw clenched.
"So fucking what they scored?" he barked. "Y’all ain’t no bitches, huh? Drop a nigga where they stand."
Jay nodded, thumping his chest twice.
Royce scanned the group—Singleton, Dorian, Jyaire, Kolaj, Ashton, Whit. All of them. Eyes locked. Waiting.
"They can’t breathe when we breathing down they necks!" Royce shouted. "They wanna go tempo? Fine! We live for this shit! We built for this shit!"
The defense roared back, slapping pads, fists thudding into palms.
Coach Lupoi pointed to the sideline. "Defense up! Let’s go!"
Royce slapped Jay’s helmet as they jogged toward the numbers.
"Bring the fucking pain!" he barked.
Tiger Stadium buzzed louder, sensing the shift—the fight coming back into the Tigers' defense.
Royce lowered into his stance as Clemson broke the huddle again.
…
The crowd swelled behind him—one long, rumbling heartbeat—as Royce crouched low over his cleats, shoulders twitching with energy.
Clemson came out heavy—tight end tight to the formation, two backs in the backfield.
First down.
Run look all the way.
Royce’s fingers drummed lightly against his thigh pad as he stared through his facemask at the right guard.
Showtime.
Vizzina called for the snap, and the world snapped into motion.
The offensive line surged forward, bodies crashing into bodies, the mass of orange and white jerseys trying to shove LSU backward.
Royce didn’t hesitate.
He fired downhill like a bullet, slipping just outside the guard’s shoulder, ducking under an attempted block.
The running back—Haynes—saw the crease open between the right tackle and tight end, eyes widening, ball tucked tight against his ribs.
Royce closed the distance like a predator sensing blood.
Haynes planted his outside foot, trying to cut back inside.
Too late.
Royce met him square, dipping his hips and driving through the tackle. The hit popped loud enough to cut through the roar of the crowd—pads crashing, cleats skidding against the turf.
Haynes folded backward, the ball almost popping loose on impact.
Royce wrapped him up tight, legs churning, driving him two full steps backward before slamming him into the ground.
Boom.
The pile collapsed around them, but Royce was already peeling off, popping to his feet, adrenaline roaring in his ears.
He flexed both arms toward the LSU sideline, roaring from deep in his chest.
“Don’t bring that fucking weak shit on my mother. fucking. field!” he bellowed, pointing back at the Clemson line.
…
"Tempo still high—snap—quick toss left to Sampson, Jr.—he’s got blockers—turns the corner! Sampson at the five—dives for the pylon—TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!"
"Sampson takes it in and LSU is lighting up the scoreboard early! 13–7 LSU pending the extra point! And this crowd is on their FEET!"
"Rickie Collins orchestrated that drive like a veteran, and the Tigers smell blood in the water now!"
…
The stadium shook like a living thing, rattling with every stomp, every scream, every slap of hands against metal bleachers.
Fireworks burst overhead in brilliant arcs of purple and gold as Jelani Watkins jogged off the field, grinning, tapping his helmet toward the student section.
On the sideline, players chest-bumped, helmets crashed together, and coaches slapped backs.
Royce barely moved.
Helmet resting on his hip, mouthguard dangling from his facemask, he stood a few yards behind the bench, watching the celebration like it was happening underwater. His heart still hammered from the last defensive series, adrenaline burning under his skin like a low-grade fever.
Jay jogged over, tapping his knuckles against Royce’s shoulder pad.
"That’s two, baby! They can't keep up!" he shouted over the roar.
Royce nodded, but his eyes never left the field where the special teams unit lined up for the kickoff.
He wasn’t celebrating yet.
Not while Clemson still had time on the clock. Not while they still had blood in their mouth.
He watched the Clemson sideline, their players gathering tight, helmets on, bouncing on their toes. No panic yet. No sagging shoulders.
Royce finally pulled his helmet on, tapping it twice with his hand.
…
"Vizzina claps—takes the snap—another give to Haynes—this time off the left side—he’s got a crease! Jay Haynes breaks a tackle at the 10—five—TOUCHDOWN CLEMSON!"
"Jay Haynes with a powerful run! And just like that, the Tigers from South Carolina answer LSU’s haymaker with one of their own! 14–14 the score pending the extra point!"
"Folks, it’s gonna be that kind of night—we are trading blows under the lights in Baton Rouge!"
…
Royce ripped his helmet back on before the ball even crossed the goal line.
He didn’t need to see the extra point.
Didn’t need to hear the celebration from the Clemson sideline.
He felt it in his gut—the slip, the lost grip on momentum.
Around him, the defense clustered near the benches, heads down, hands on hips, sucking wind.
Royce stayed standing.
Jaw clenched.
Eyes locked across the field at Clemson's linemen chest-bumping like they owned the place.
He smacked his hands together once, loud enough to turn a few heads.
"Lock the fuck back in," he snapped.
…
"First and goal, Tigers at the six-yard line—Collins in the gun—Jackson behind him—snap—give to Durham—lowers his shoulder—pushing—piling into the end zone! TOUCHDOWN LSU!"
"The big man, Kaleb, muscles it across the goal line! LSU takes the lead right back, 20–14 pending the PAT!"
…
"Clemson responds with a beautiful drive—Vizzina orchestrating it perfectly—first and goal now at the LSU five—snap—handoff to Haynes—stretching left—dives for the pylon—TOUCHDOWN CLEMSON!"
"We are tied again, folks! Jay Haynes putting the team on his back for the Tigers from South Carolina!"
…
"Third down and goal at the Clemson two-yard line—heavy package for LSU—Collins under center—fakes the dive—rolls out left—wide open! Toss to Markway—caught! TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!"
"Markway sneaks out the back door and finds paydirt! LSU right back on top, 27–21!"
…
"And Clemson not going away—second and six at the LSU twenty-five—snap to Vizzina—blitz picked up—fires deep toward the end zone—T.J. Moore! Makes the catch over the top! TOUCHDOWN CLEMSON!"
"T.J. Moore goes upstairs and brings it down! And just like that, we’re tied again at 28 apiece as we head toward the fourth quarter!"
…
"First and ten at the Clemson thirty—Collins in the shotgun—two tight ends—snap—play action—Collins firing deep down the seam—caught! Shelton Sampson inside the ten—Sampson spinning—reaches—TOUCHDOWN LSU!"
"Sampson breaking ankles after the catch and LSU retakes the lead! 34–28 pending the extra point! This kid is electric!"
…
"And Clemson will not go away—second and goal at the LSU six—Vizzina in the gun—snap—draw play—Haynes takes it to the outside—dives across the plane—TOUCHDOWN CLEMSON!"
"Tie ballgame again, folks! That’s 35–35 and both these teams trading haymakers under the lights here at Death Valley!"
…
"Alright, LSU ball—big third down here at their own forty—third and seven—Collins in the gun—snap—pressure coming—steps up—fires—AND IT'S INCOMPLETE! Tight coverage downfield!"
"Tigers' drive stalls for the first time tonight—Clemson bringing the heat, and LSU will have to punt it away here late in the fourth quarter with the score still tied!"
"And suddenly, folks, you can feel that tension creep into this stadium. Whoever blinks next might lose this war."
…
The scoreboard glared down from the north endzone like an open wound.
35–35.
Just over two minutes left. Clemson ball.
Royce crouched at midfield, heart pounding against his ribs, sweat dripping off his chinstrap, dripping into his gloves. The roar of Tiger Stadium pressed in around him—a wall of noise, tense and desperate.
Vizzina lined up in the shotgun, calm, too calm for a freshman this deep into a war.
Snap.
Royce took one step forward, reading run, then saw it—the offensive line dropping into pass pro, Vizzina’s eyes flicking downfield.
Royce sank into his zone, staying low, eyes darting between the tight end and the slot receiver.
Vizzina scanned once, twice—and then turned his shoulders left.
Royce caught the flash of Markus Dixon breaking across the middle, slipping behind the linebacker’s depth.
Vizzina stepped into his throw.
The ball flew, a tight spiral humming through the thick night air.
Royce drove toward it, but it was too late.
Dixon caught it in stride at the LSU forty, cut outside, broke a weak tackle attempt by Ashton Stamps, and surged down the sideline.
The stadium gasped, thousands of voices caught in their throats.
Royce turned and sprinted—chasing—but Dixon was already inside the fifteen before he was finally wrestled out of bounds by Whit, who lunged and clipped his ankles from behind.
Royce stopped near the twenty-yard line, chest heaving, hands on his hips.
Damn it.
The LSU sideline barked at each other. Coaches waved frantic signals as Clemson hurried to the line, looking to build off the big play. Fans screamed, pleaded.
Royce shook his head once, clearing it.
Next play. Next play.
Vizzina handed it to David Eziomume—a blur of orange slicing off left tackle.
Royce burst downhill, slipping past a block, but too late.
Eziomume churned through an arm tackle and dove headfirst into the endzone.
Touchdown Clemson.
Just over a minute left.
The Clemson sideline erupted, helmets flying into the air, players piling into the endzone like they'd won the damn national championship.
Royce stood frozen near the ten-yard line, staring at the celebration, the lump hardening in his throat.
The noise in Tiger Stadium wasn’t a roar anymore.
It was a stunned, hollow rumble.
He looked up at the scoreboard, the new numbers flashing:
Clemson 42, LSU 35.
1:03 left.
Royce turned toward the LSU sideline, jogging back slow, his chest heavy.
…
Royce stood on the sideline, helmet still strapped tight, his chest rising and falling like he was sprinting in place.
One minute left.
Down seven.
The LSU offense jogged onto the field, Rickie calm in the pocket of chaos, clapping his hands for the snap.
Royce leaned forward, hands on his thighs, every muscle in his body tight, the crowd buzzing in his ears like a swarm of bees.
…
Rickie dropped back—pressure coming—sidestepped a rusher, darted forward and dumped it off to Caden out of the backfield.
Caden caught it low, turned upfield, broke one tackle, and spun out of bounds after a seven-yard gain.
Tick, tick, tick.
Royce shook his head, mouthing silently, "Move, move, move!"
…
Rickie barked signals—snap.
Quick throw to Shelton on a deep comeback route.
Caught at midfield!
First down.
The chains moved, but the clock kept bleeding.
:42.
The crowd roared for the hurry-up, LSU sprinting to the line.
…
Snap.
Rickie—pressure—slides right.
Keeps his eyes downfield.
Zavion broke open late on a crossing route.
Rickie launched it on the run—tight spiral—Thomas caught it on the move at the Clemson 30.
Royce punched the air as Zavion ducked out of bounds.
:29 left.
…
Coach Lanning screamed signals from the sideline, the offense huddling fast.
Royce paced behind the bench, head down, murmuring under his breath.
"Come on, Rickie. Come on, come on, come on."
…
Snap.
Rickie—clean pocket—surveys—nothing.
Takes off, sprinting left.
Gets the edge, steps out at the 24.
Smart play. Stop the clock.
:18 left.
…
Rickie clapped his hands, urgency bleeding off him.
Snap.
Four-man rush.
Pocket collapsing.
He backpedaled, kept cool.
Zavion streaked up the seam, slicing between two safeties.
Rickie planted.
Let it fly.
The ball sailed high—perfect trajectory—cutting a tight line under the lights.
Time slowed.
Royce barely breathed.
Zavion leapt—hands snatching the ball clean out of the air, dragging it into his chest as he tumbled backward across the goal line.
TOUCHDOWN.
Tiger Stadium exploded—a bomb of sound shaking the foundations of the earth.
Royce let out a strangled yell, slamming his hands into the shoulder pads of the player next to him, sprinting two steps down the sideline before stopping himself.
Touchdown.
Tie game.
42–42.
…
Rickie jogged back to the sideline, helmet off, face unreadable.
Business.
Like he knew the war wasn’t over yet.
Royce grinned through the chaos, heart hammering, blood roaring in his ears.
…
The coin hit the turf and bounced once.
Tails.
Clemson won the toss.
Of course they did.
Royce stood on the sideline, helmet tucked under his arm, heart thudding steady and hard.
Clemson deferred.
LSU would get the ball first.
Rickie jogged out onto the field, helmet strapped, mouthpiece clamped tight. The offense huddled up fast, clapping hands, slapping shoulder pads.
Royce tightened his jaw.
Gotta score.
No choice.
…
Rickie lined up in the gun, Caden offset to his right.
Snap.
Hand-off to Caden.
He bulldozed into the line, dragging a linebacker two yards downfield.
Second and eight.
Royce rocked on his heels, standing just past the white stripe, hands on hips, watching.
The noise around him was thick, muffled, like cotton stuffed in his ears.
…
Rickie play-actioned—Caden picked up the blitzer—Rickie scrambled left, nobody open, tucked it and took off.
Inside the twenty.
Inside the fifteen.
Laid a shoulder into a safety before getting run out at the twelve.
Royce felt his chest loosen a fraction.
They're close.
…
Hand-off to Caden—this time stuffed at the line for no gain.
Second down.
Rickie tapped his helmet, glancing at the sideline for the next play.
Royce bounced in place, heart hammering.
…
Rickie faked the give, rolled right—nothing there.
Pressure.
He cut back inside, tucked it.
Sprint to the edge.
Linebacker coming downhill—
Rickie lowered his shoulder and launched himself at the pylon.
The two crashed together right at the goal line.
The referee’s hands shot up.
TOUCHDOWN LSU!
Tiger Stadium exploded—purple and gold fireworks slicing into the dark Baton Rouge sky.
Royce threw both fists overhead, roaring, his voice swallowed by the storm of sound.
…
Extra point good.
Royce pulled his helmet on, sprinting toward the defensive huddle.
The job wasn't done yet.
…
Royce crouched low, cleats digging into the battered turf, helmet rattling with the noise still spilling from the stands.
Clemson lined up at the twenty-five.
Down six.
Four cracks at the endzone.
Not tonight.
Royce barked a quick adjustment to Tylen, tapping his hand against his thigh pad, signaling blitz pickup in case the back leaked out.
The ball snapped.
Hand-off to Haynes, trying to find daylight off the right tackle.
Kolaj crashed down hard, chopping him low.
Tylen cleaned it up, wrapping Haynes up and dragging him down after a two-yard gain.
Royce jogged back into position, chest heaving.
…
Vizzina took the snap fast, LSU bringing four.
Play-action fake.
Royce dropped into zone, scanning.
Vizzina wanted the slant, pump-faked, hesitated.
Pressure collapsed around him—Da'Shawn Womack shoving the left tackle into Vizzina’s lap.
The quarterback ducked and scrambled forward, picking up maybe three before Demar swallowed him whole.
Third and five.
Tiger Stadium erupted, sensing the kill coming.
Royce smacked his hands together once, eyes blazing behind his visor.
…
Vizzina dropped back, this time rattled, his feet jittery.
He stared down the slot receiver Markus Dixon, locked in too long.
Jyaire read it the second the quarterback’s front shoulder opened.
Royce saw it unfolding in real time—the desperate stare, the rushed throw.
Vizzina fired toward the inside seam.
Bad ball.
Too late.
Jyaire undercut the route like he knew the play was coming before the snap.
Clean pick.
The stadium didn't roar at first—it screamed. Detonated.
Royce pumped both fists, screaming even though he couldn't hear his own voice.
Jyaire tucked the ball tight and tried to sprint down the sideline, but Clemson’s tight end dove and clipped his ankle. Jyaire stumbled and went down just shy of midfield, ball secured against his ribs.
Tiger Stadium exploded into madness—helmets thrown into the air, players piling into the endzone, coaches bear-hugging anyone in reach.
Royce stopped short of the dogpile, standing near the middle of the field, helmet off, chest rising and falling like he’d just finished a fistfight.
He tilted his head back, staring up at the dark sky lit with fireworks.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7921
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Only five tackles? 
Solid shit though. That was a movie.
Solid shit though. That was a movie.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13199
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Hell of a way to kick off the season!!-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16925
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
They knew better than to bring that shit my way
Why we play the game!