therapy needs him like fish need water.Dying to Live
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7888
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
This guy just STAYS fucking on something therapy needs him like fish need water.
therapy needs him like fish need water.-
djp73
- Posts: 13187
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Royce about to be laid up like Reg
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16883
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Bulldog Split
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djp73
- Posts: 13187
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
not the splashiest statline tbqh
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16883
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16883
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Locking In
The event was hosted in a park off Plank Road, where the grass was just starting to brown at the edges and folding tables lined the walkway like someone had built a festival out of borrowed things. Royce didn’t like the way the cameras lingered near the edges, waiting to catch a smile that felt real. Still, he showed up. Billy said it was a “low-impact community touch,” and Delpit had put it plain: “It’s not always about the money. You plant roots, people remember that.”
Royce was tugging at the edge of the event tee when he spotted Zay near the bottled water station—tall, lean, face open in a way that made people walk up and talk to him without hesitation. He looked like Baton Rouge. Not the polished version Royce saw at NIL mixers, but the kind that stood on porches and talked until midnight.
Zay walked over with a half-smile. “Lafitte, right?”
Royce gave a short nod, shook his hand. “Yeah.”
“I knew I wasn’t trippin’,” Zay said. “You was at U High, right? I was a sophomore at Scotlandville. We ain’t play y’all, but I remember the buzz.”
“There wasn’t much buzz,” Royce said flatly. “I was fucked up all that year.”
Zay’s face softened. “Yeah, yeah. That was after your brother, right?”
Royce didn’t answer right away. He just looked off at the bounce house inflating in the corner of the park, watched it rise slow and unnatural, like lungs trying to remember how to breathe.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Same night.”
“My bad if that’s—” Zay started, but Royce waved it off.
“Nah, it’s straight,” he muttered.
Zay nodded. “You heading to the league after this year?”
Royce shrugged. “I don’t know. People keep talking like it’s a done deal, but I ain’t really made that call yet.”
Zay let out a sharp laugh. “Man, must be nice. You got people assuming you going first or second day. Meanwhile I could throw for five hunnid every night and they still gon’ ask if I can return punts.”
Royce cracked a half-smile.
Zay shook his head, grinning. “Nah, for real. My baby mama’d throw a damn parade if I got a camp invite. She told me if I don’t get a check soon, she gon’ start charging me rent for seeing my kid.”
Royce snorted. “Sound like you need another baby mama.”
“Yeah, she honest, though” Zay said with a shrug. “But I get it. I ain’t never had noise. You? You got noise. And not just ‘cause of football.”
Royce stiffened slightly at that. Zay noticed, but didn’t push.
He just clapped Royce on the shoulder, friendly, easy. “Real talk? Don’t let all this—” he gestured to the cameras, the signs, the brand logos—“make you forget where you from. Baton Rouge been starving for somebody to really put on. If it’s you, then do it right. Make it count.”
Royce didn’t respond right away. But he held Zay’s gaze a second longer than he needed to.
Then he nodded, slow. “Appreciate it, lil’ brudda.”
Zay dapped him up and walked off to where a kid wanted a picture. Royce stayed where he was, eyes drifting past the camera crews to the horizon.
Delpit pulled Royce aside once the camera crew called for a lighting reset. The portable softbox flickered, and a tech crouched behind the diffuser, fiddling with wires. Billy was talking to someone from the foundation, laughing a little too hard at something not funny. Zay was still chopping it up with a couple of volunteers by the food table.
Royce stood off to the side, his arms crossed, jaw set. His chain kept catching the light, and he kept glancing toward the door like he had somewhere else to be. Maybe he did.
Delpit leaned in, voice calm, not confrontational. “You ever think about what it means if they remember the image but forget your name?”
Royce gave him a half-smirk. “Long as the check clears.”
Delpit’s eyes didn’t blink. He gave a tight smile, more disappointed than amused. “That’s thinking like a player,” he said, nodding once. “I want you thinking like a partner.”
He stepped back and swept his hand toward the makeshift set—folding table draped in a vinyl banner, cameras on tripods, a backdrop with neighborhood kids drawing with markers beside a cutout of Royce’s face. “This—this is the picture of a man who’s ready to own something,” Delpit said. His voice stayed level, like he was explaining a weather pattern. “But if that ain’t true yet, we better get there quick.”
Royce shifted his weight, one sneaker squeaking against the polished gym floor. He didn’t answer, not really. Just looked out toward the banner where his image smiled back at him—grinning, polished, fixed.
Delpit let the silence stretch. He didn’t need Royce to say anything right now. He just needed him to feel the weight of what was unsaid.
~~~~~~~~~~
The air was sharp with the kind of cold that settled into your sleeves no matter how tightly you wrapped them. Mike hunched into his hoodie, earbuds in, legs stretched across the steps outside the Northwestern State fieldhouse. Practice had been rough—more mental than physical. Every dropped pass, every busted assignment echoed louder in a program like this, where winning seasons were rare and reps felt like borrowed time.
He cued up the LSU–Mississippi State game on his phone. Royce flashed across the screen making a tackle near the sideline, helmet popping off the runner. The commentators were praising his explosiveness. The crowd roared. Mike didn’t smile. He just watched.
“Yo,” a voice said from nearby. It was Jordan, one of the walk-ons from Natchitoches. Local kid. Hustled hard, even if the coaches barely looked at him.
Mike pulled out one earbud. “What’s up?”
Jordan nodded at the phone screen. “That’s your people, right? That linebacker from LSU?”
Mike tilted the screen toward him, Royce pausing mid-stride on replay. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s my big cousin.”
Jordan’s eyes widened. “Damn. That’s wild.” He shoved his hands deeper into his fleece. “He a dog. I mean, I seen him on the Gram and stuff, but I ain’t realize y’all was family like that.”
Mike just nodded again. “Yeah.”
Jordan didn’t press. “Cool, man. See you tomorrow.”
When he was gone, Mike put his earbud back in, but he wasn’t watching the game anymore. He just stared at the pause screen for a while before finally locking the phone.
Later that night, he lay on his twin XL mattress, scrolling through old texts when Laila's name lit up his screen. He hit FaceTime, shifting the pillow behind his head.
Her face filled the frame, soft lighting behind her. She had her legs tucked under her, painting her nails with one AirPod in. “Hey, stranger,” she said, smiling.
“Hey.”
“I was starting to think you forgot about me,” she teased, blowing on a nail. “You been ghost this whole week.”
“Practice. Classes. You know how it is.”
“I don’t, actually,” she said with a small grin. “I’m not the one trying to run a 4.4 forty and graduate with a 2.5.”
Mike chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. “It’s more like a 4.6 right now.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Slipping.”
They talked a little about school. About her roommate getting food poisoning from dollar sushi and how her biology lab smelled like feet. Laila always had a way of making the mundane feel like a sitcom. She paused between stories, her eyes narrowing.
“You okay?”
Mike didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“I saw the weather there today. Y’all got that creepy fog going. Like something outta a horror movie.”
“Yeah. Whole campus quiet. It’s weird.”
“Well,” she said, setting the nail polish aside. “I miss you. It’s quiet without you here.”
Mike didn’t say anything for a beat, then: “You too.”
She smiled again, softer this time. “I’m serious. The bed feels bigger.”
“I’m still the same size.”
“Your absence isn’t,” she said, tapping her heart with two fingers.
They stayed on the call a while longer, trading stories and silence. After they hung up, Mike pulled on a sweatshirt and stepped outside. The chill hit his lungs clean. He walked beneath the tall pine trees near the quad. A sign nearby read “Quiet Zone” in faded letters.
He stopped, hands in his pockets. The quiet wasn’t loud tonight. It wasn’t empty. It just was.
And for the first time since he got there, he didn’t mind it.
The event was hosted in a park off Plank Road, where the grass was just starting to brown at the edges and folding tables lined the walkway like someone had built a festival out of borrowed things. Royce didn’t like the way the cameras lingered near the edges, waiting to catch a smile that felt real. Still, he showed up. Billy said it was a “low-impact community touch,” and Delpit had put it plain: “It’s not always about the money. You plant roots, people remember that.”
Royce was tugging at the edge of the event tee when he spotted Zay near the bottled water station—tall, lean, face open in a way that made people walk up and talk to him without hesitation. He looked like Baton Rouge. Not the polished version Royce saw at NIL mixers, but the kind that stood on porches and talked until midnight.
Zay walked over with a half-smile. “Lafitte, right?”
Royce gave a short nod, shook his hand. “Yeah.”
“I knew I wasn’t trippin’,” Zay said. “You was at U High, right? I was a sophomore at Scotlandville. We ain’t play y’all, but I remember the buzz.”
“There wasn’t much buzz,” Royce said flatly. “I was fucked up all that year.”
Zay’s face softened. “Yeah, yeah. That was after your brother, right?”
Royce didn’t answer right away. He just looked off at the bounce house inflating in the corner of the park, watched it rise slow and unnatural, like lungs trying to remember how to breathe.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Same night.”
“My bad if that’s—” Zay started, but Royce waved it off.
“Nah, it’s straight,” he muttered.
Zay nodded. “You heading to the league after this year?”
Royce shrugged. “I don’t know. People keep talking like it’s a done deal, but I ain’t really made that call yet.”
Zay let out a sharp laugh. “Man, must be nice. You got people assuming you going first or second day. Meanwhile I could throw for five hunnid every night and they still gon’ ask if I can return punts.”
Royce cracked a half-smile.
Zay shook his head, grinning. “Nah, for real. My baby mama’d throw a damn parade if I got a camp invite. She told me if I don’t get a check soon, she gon’ start charging me rent for seeing my kid.”
Royce snorted. “Sound like you need another baby mama.”
“Yeah, she honest, though” Zay said with a shrug. “But I get it. I ain’t never had noise. You? You got noise. And not just ‘cause of football.”
Royce stiffened slightly at that. Zay noticed, but didn’t push.
He just clapped Royce on the shoulder, friendly, easy. “Real talk? Don’t let all this—” he gestured to the cameras, the signs, the brand logos—“make you forget where you from. Baton Rouge been starving for somebody to really put on. If it’s you, then do it right. Make it count.”
Royce didn’t respond right away. But he held Zay’s gaze a second longer than he needed to.
Then he nodded, slow. “Appreciate it, lil’ brudda.”
Zay dapped him up and walked off to where a kid wanted a picture. Royce stayed where he was, eyes drifting past the camera crews to the horizon.
Delpit pulled Royce aside once the camera crew called for a lighting reset. The portable softbox flickered, and a tech crouched behind the diffuser, fiddling with wires. Billy was talking to someone from the foundation, laughing a little too hard at something not funny. Zay was still chopping it up with a couple of volunteers by the food table.
Royce stood off to the side, his arms crossed, jaw set. His chain kept catching the light, and he kept glancing toward the door like he had somewhere else to be. Maybe he did.
Delpit leaned in, voice calm, not confrontational. “You ever think about what it means if they remember the image but forget your name?”
Royce gave him a half-smirk. “Long as the check clears.”
Delpit’s eyes didn’t blink. He gave a tight smile, more disappointed than amused. “That’s thinking like a player,” he said, nodding once. “I want you thinking like a partner.”
He stepped back and swept his hand toward the makeshift set—folding table draped in a vinyl banner, cameras on tripods, a backdrop with neighborhood kids drawing with markers beside a cutout of Royce’s face. “This—this is the picture of a man who’s ready to own something,” Delpit said. His voice stayed level, like he was explaining a weather pattern. “But if that ain’t true yet, we better get there quick.”
Royce shifted his weight, one sneaker squeaking against the polished gym floor. He didn’t answer, not really. Just looked out toward the banner where his image smiled back at him—grinning, polished, fixed.
Delpit let the silence stretch. He didn’t need Royce to say anything right now. He just needed him to feel the weight of what was unsaid.
~~~~~~~~~~
The air was sharp with the kind of cold that settled into your sleeves no matter how tightly you wrapped them. Mike hunched into his hoodie, earbuds in, legs stretched across the steps outside the Northwestern State fieldhouse. Practice had been rough—more mental than physical. Every dropped pass, every busted assignment echoed louder in a program like this, where winning seasons were rare and reps felt like borrowed time.
He cued up the LSU–Mississippi State game on his phone. Royce flashed across the screen making a tackle near the sideline, helmet popping off the runner. The commentators were praising his explosiveness. The crowd roared. Mike didn’t smile. He just watched.
“Yo,” a voice said from nearby. It was Jordan, one of the walk-ons from Natchitoches. Local kid. Hustled hard, even if the coaches barely looked at him.
Mike pulled out one earbud. “What’s up?”
Jordan nodded at the phone screen. “That’s your people, right? That linebacker from LSU?”
Mike tilted the screen toward him, Royce pausing mid-stride on replay. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s my big cousin.”
Jordan’s eyes widened. “Damn. That’s wild.” He shoved his hands deeper into his fleece. “He a dog. I mean, I seen him on the Gram and stuff, but I ain’t realize y’all was family like that.”
Mike just nodded again. “Yeah.”
Jordan didn’t press. “Cool, man. See you tomorrow.”
When he was gone, Mike put his earbud back in, but he wasn’t watching the game anymore. He just stared at the pause screen for a while before finally locking the phone.
Later that night, he lay on his twin XL mattress, scrolling through old texts when Laila's name lit up his screen. He hit FaceTime, shifting the pillow behind his head.
Her face filled the frame, soft lighting behind her. She had her legs tucked under her, painting her nails with one AirPod in. “Hey, stranger,” she said, smiling.
“Hey.”
“I was starting to think you forgot about me,” she teased, blowing on a nail. “You been ghost this whole week.”
“Practice. Classes. You know how it is.”
“I don’t, actually,” she said with a small grin. “I’m not the one trying to run a 4.4 forty and graduate with a 2.5.”
Mike chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. “It’s more like a 4.6 right now.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Slipping.”
They talked a little about school. About her roommate getting food poisoning from dollar sushi and how her biology lab smelled like feet. Laila always had a way of making the mundane feel like a sitcom. She paused between stories, her eyes narrowing.
“You okay?”
Mike didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“I saw the weather there today. Y’all got that creepy fog going. Like something outta a horror movie.”
“Yeah. Whole campus quiet. It’s weird.”
“Well,” she said, setting the nail polish aside. “I miss you. It’s quiet without you here.”
Mike didn’t say anything for a beat, then: “You too.”
She smiled again, softer this time. “I’m serious. The bed feels bigger.”
“I’m still the same size.”
“Your absence isn’t,” she said, tapping her heart with two fingers.
They stayed on the call a while longer, trading stories and silence. After they hung up, Mike pulled on a sweatshirt and stepped outside. The chill hit his lungs clean. He walked beneath the tall pine trees near the quad. A sign nearby read “Quiet Zone” in faded letters.
He stopped, hands in his pockets. The quiet wasn’t loud tonight. It wasn’t empty. It just was.
And for the first time since he got there, he didn’t mind it.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16883
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
The Mirror
The Union smelled like waffle fries and sweat—packed with bodies in hoodies, backpacks sagging from overuse, sneakers squeaking across the linoleum. It was late afternoon and the Chick-fil-A line stretched past the condiment bar, curving toward the vending machines like it had given up on moving.
Royce stood in the middle of it, hands in his hoodie pockets, shoulders loose but eyes quiet. He wasn’t hungry. Just killing time between meetings and pretending the buzz in his chest wasn’t there.
The girl ahead of him glanced over her shoulder. Blonde, tan, eyeliner sharp. Her Greek letters were printed across the back of her quarter-zip, and her hair was pulled into a bouncy ponytail that swayed every time she shifted weight to one white Nike sneaker or the other. She had a Stanley cup hooked through one arm and her phone in the other, scrolling fast.
She caught him looking and smiled—not surprised. “You must really love standing in line,” she said, flipping a strand of hair over her shoulder. Her voice was light, practiced, flirty in that bored-between-classes way.
Royce shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You know you don’t have to talk to strangers, right?”
She grinned. “You don’t have to stare, either.”
He chuckled. “You right.”
She turned toward him fully now, lowering her phone. “You’re… what’s your name?”
“Royce.”
Her brows lifted. “Right, the guy everyone talks about.”
“Yeah.”
She made a little face. “I knew you looked familiar. My big was obsessed with you last season. She said you wouldn’t give her the time of day though.”
Royce tilted his head. “And you? You into the unavailable type?”
She rolled her eyes, still smiling. “I’m into tall and unproblematic.”
“Two outta three,” he said.
That made her laugh. “And which two are you?”
“I’ll let you guess.”
She opened her mouth, ready to volley back, when Royce’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it at first, but it buzzed again—longer this time. He pulled it out. Unknown number. Baton Rouge area code. Probably one of Billy’s assistants.
“Hold that thought,” he muttered, stepping out of line.
She gave him a small wave. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
He walked over to the vending machines near the far wall and answered the call. It was quick—something about a last-minute scheduling change for something Billy had arranged. Royce gave a noncommittal “cool” and hung up.
As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, he heard the familiar hum of a vending machine waking up. A bottle of water dropped with a thunk.
Effie.
She wore a slate-gray hoodie with paint streaked on the sleeve, leggings, and beat-up Converse that probably hadn’t been clean since high school. Her curls were pulled back in a loose bun, wisps falling near her cheeks. She grabbed the bottle and turned.
Their eyes met.
She blinked once, then slowly took a sip before speaking.
“You look like someone who’s lost something they won’t admit mattered.”
Her voice wasn’t cruel. Just clear.
Royce didn’t say anything.
Effie held his gaze for another beat before nodding slightly to herself and stepping past him.
“Take care, Royce,” she said.
He stood frozen as she walked away, her footsteps soft and certain. For a second, all the background noise of the Union dropped away—the footsteps, the laughter, even the smell of fries. There was just her voice, echoing inside his ribcage like a knock he didn’t want to answer.
You look like someone who’s lost something they won’t admit mattered.
He exhaled slowly and turned back toward the line.
The sorority girl was still there, phone back in her hand. She smiled when she saw him.
“Was that your homies or your girlfriend?”
He gave a lazy grin. “Neither. Just noise.”
She tilted her head. “Good. I don’t do guys with girlfriends.”
Royce stepped back into line beside her, close enough to smell her citrusy body spray.
“You don’t even know if I’m worth doing,” he said.
She laughed, flipping her ponytail again. “Well… you’re tall, you’re cute, and you made it back. That’s a good start.”
He smirked and leaned in just enough to flirt without effort.
But behind his eyes, something lingered.
It wasn’t her voice in his head.
It was Effie’s.
~~~~~~~~~~
The smoke hung thick in the back room of a daiquiri spot off Plank, where the music wasn’t so much playing as it was vibrating through the drywall. The kind of place that didn’t advertise, didn’t need to. Everyone who mattered already knew. Neon buzzed faintly outside the tinted windows, and the air inside was all sweat, liquor, and secondhand flex.
Meech was leaned back in a cracked vinyl booth, legs stretched, one arm lazily draped across the top like he owned the joint. He didn't, but the illusion worked well enough.
Across from him sat a man in his early forties—dark goatee, gold links stacked across both wrists. He was careful with his words, but not his posture. Someone who’d done dirt long enough to not care how you looked at him. Name was Kendall. Came up out the Westbank. Said he moved phones and pills but needed something new—something that wouldn’t keep him boxed in if shit popped off.
Meech smiled slow, the kind of grin that made people nervous even when he meant it to charm. “Look, I got options for you,” he said, tossing back the last of his drink and letting the ice clink into the plastic.
Kendall nodded, not committing to anything yet.
“That NIL shit?” Meech continued, dragging the tip of his finger through a water ring on the table. “Man, that’s clean paper right there. All you need is a face.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough.
“I got one too. Royce Lafitte.”
Kendall’s brow lifted. “The LSU kid?”
Meech grinned wider. “Yeah. I mean, not like we tight tight. But he be around. Shoots the shit with Shayla, drinks with the crew, pulled up to a couple things. Solid cat. But dumb.”
Kendall’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Dumb?”
“Dumb ass nigga don’t know shit,” Meech said, chuckling to himself. “Be thinking he just doing some PR stuff. Could probably run two, three bands through some charity crap, throw a logo on it, call it community investment. You feel me?”
Kendall didn’t smile, but he didn’t shut it down either. He was listening.
Before Meech could run further with it, a figure stepped out from the shadows by the side exit. Shayla.
She had on black leggings, a cropped hoodie, and the kind of expression that said she’d heard enough without needing to say so. She walked over slow, cool, like she was just passing through. But when she leaned down near Meech’s shoulder, her voice was sharp in his ear.
“You getting sloppy.”
Meech looked up, lazy grin still in place. “Nah. I’m just saying what’s possible.”
She didn’t back up. “You don’t use his name like that. You don’t know who’s listening.”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “He’s just around. Nobody touching him.”
“You keep saying that like we not sitting on thin ice.”
He turned to face her more fully now, grin thinning into something flatter. “And I keep hearing you say his name like you care.”
Shayla’s jaw tensed, but she didn’t rise to it. “You keep playing, and that dumb ass nigga gonna be the reason we all catch heat.”
Meech laughed quietly. “Nah. He too busy tryna act famous and fucked up to look twice. Don’t worry.”
But Shayla wasn’t laughing. She looked at Kendall, then back at Meech. “Just don’t forget who they gon’ trace it to when shit go left.”
With that, she turned and walked off, her steps calm but clipped.
Meech leaned back again, like the conversation never happened. “Anyway,” he said to Kendall, casually tossing a toothpick from behind his ear into his mouth. “We keep it quiet, and we all win.”
Kendall didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. He just watched Shayla’s retreating figure, then looked at Meech like he was weighing something heavier than cash.
Meech didn’t notice. He was too busy fantasizing about the endgame.
But across the city, Royce was still blissfully unaware.
And Shayla? She’d just started looking for a parachute.
~~~~~~~~~~
The lights were dimmed low in the small black-box theater off Congress Street, the kind of place that smelled faintly of coffee grounds and glue, chairs packed close like they had been borrowed from a dozen different schools. A banner at the back read Word Up Wednesdays: Lafayette’s Monthly Spoken Word Open Mic, but tonight’s showcase had outgrown the mic. There was a stage now—makeshift, plywood painted black—but it held weight. The kind of weight that made Arianna’s palms sweat as she sat in the wings.
Her name was already announced. She could hear the applause still fading from the last poet, the host’s voice lilting like a friend trying to coax her into the water.
“And now… Arianna Williams, y’all.”
She stepped out slowly, knees a little stiff, tongue dry. Her boots echoed on the floor. She wore all black, her curls piled up in a loose bun that bounced a little with each step. The paper in her hand was already crinkled at the edges.
The room quieted fast.
She took the mic from its stand, but she didn’t speak right away. Her eyes scanned the rows, but she didn’t see faces—just blurs. The words were on the page, but she didn’t need them.
Her voice, when it came, was low. Controlled. But full of something sharp.
“When the hand that hurts you
belongs to someone
who swore they’d love you,
you forget what love should sound like.”
The first line sat in the air like it had weight. She heard a murmur—one woman let out a breath like she’d been holding it since the last poet. Arianna kept going, voice steady, her hands tightening on the mic.
“It starts quiet.
A tone change.
A look that lingers too long.
You laugh it off.
Say, ‘He’s just tired.’
Say, ‘I pushed him.’
Say, ‘It’s not that bad.’”
The words didn’t come fast. They weren’t meant to. She let each one land, her gaze fixed just above the crowd now.
“Love with a closed fist
don’t leave marks at first.
Just questions.
Like:
Who am I if this is what I settle for?
What do I tell my cousin
when she asks why I’m never around anymore?”
That line cracked her voice, just a little. She didn’t stop. Her eyes were glassy now.
“I built silence like armor.
Brushed my hair the way he liked.
Wore the dress he said was ‘classy but not too much.’
I smiled when he said I should.”
There was no hiding the tears now. Her voice shook—but she kept going.
“But healing don’t come in hushes.
It comes when you stop swallowing your name.
So this—
This poem is a scream
stitched into syllables.
A warning.
A mirror.
A door I left cracked
in case someone else needed a way out.”
She paused there. Not for effect. For air. For courage.
“And if you’re hearing this
and your heart stutters,
if your breath catches,
if your fingers curl around your sleeve
like maybe tonight’s too close—
I see you.
I do.
I swear I do.”
She let the silence fall, then stepped back from the mic.
There was no slow build. The applause erupted, sudden and full. People stood—one after another, a chain reaction. Some were clapping. Some were crying. One older woman near the back had her hand over her heart.
Arianna stood frozen for a moment, until the host returned and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, guiding her gently offstage.
Backstage, she didn’t breathe again until the curtain fell between her and the audience.
Then came the tap on her shoulder.
A girl—maybe nineteen, freckles across her nose and a cracked phone case in her hand—stood in front of her, eyes pink and wet.
“That was…” she tried, but the sentence broke in half. “You said what I—I never could.”
Arianna pulled her in without thinking. They hugged tight, bodies shaking. When they pulled apart, she didn’t let go fully. Her voice was quiet. Tired. But sure.
“That was my cousin’s story, too.”
The girl nodded, eyes shining.
“You made her proud,” she said.
Arianna didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
The Union smelled like waffle fries and sweat—packed with bodies in hoodies, backpacks sagging from overuse, sneakers squeaking across the linoleum. It was late afternoon and the Chick-fil-A line stretched past the condiment bar, curving toward the vending machines like it had given up on moving.
Royce stood in the middle of it, hands in his hoodie pockets, shoulders loose but eyes quiet. He wasn’t hungry. Just killing time between meetings and pretending the buzz in his chest wasn’t there.
The girl ahead of him glanced over her shoulder. Blonde, tan, eyeliner sharp. Her Greek letters were printed across the back of her quarter-zip, and her hair was pulled into a bouncy ponytail that swayed every time she shifted weight to one white Nike sneaker or the other. She had a Stanley cup hooked through one arm and her phone in the other, scrolling fast.
She caught him looking and smiled—not surprised. “You must really love standing in line,” she said, flipping a strand of hair over her shoulder. Her voice was light, practiced, flirty in that bored-between-classes way.
Royce shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You know you don’t have to talk to strangers, right?”
She grinned. “You don’t have to stare, either.”
He chuckled. “You right.”
She turned toward him fully now, lowering her phone. “You’re… what’s your name?”
“Royce.”
Her brows lifted. “Right, the guy everyone talks about.”
“Yeah.”
She made a little face. “I knew you looked familiar. My big was obsessed with you last season. She said you wouldn’t give her the time of day though.”
Royce tilted his head. “And you? You into the unavailable type?”
She rolled her eyes, still smiling. “I’m into tall and unproblematic.”
“Two outta three,” he said.
That made her laugh. “And which two are you?”
“I’ll let you guess.”
She opened her mouth, ready to volley back, when Royce’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it at first, but it buzzed again—longer this time. He pulled it out. Unknown number. Baton Rouge area code. Probably one of Billy’s assistants.
“Hold that thought,” he muttered, stepping out of line.
She gave him a small wave. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
He walked over to the vending machines near the far wall and answered the call. It was quick—something about a last-minute scheduling change for something Billy had arranged. Royce gave a noncommittal “cool” and hung up.
As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, he heard the familiar hum of a vending machine waking up. A bottle of water dropped with a thunk.
Effie.
She wore a slate-gray hoodie with paint streaked on the sleeve, leggings, and beat-up Converse that probably hadn’t been clean since high school. Her curls were pulled back in a loose bun, wisps falling near her cheeks. She grabbed the bottle and turned.
Their eyes met.
She blinked once, then slowly took a sip before speaking.
“You look like someone who’s lost something they won’t admit mattered.”
Her voice wasn’t cruel. Just clear.
Royce didn’t say anything.
Effie held his gaze for another beat before nodding slightly to herself and stepping past him.
“Take care, Royce,” she said.
He stood frozen as she walked away, her footsteps soft and certain. For a second, all the background noise of the Union dropped away—the footsteps, the laughter, even the smell of fries. There was just her voice, echoing inside his ribcage like a knock he didn’t want to answer.
You look like someone who’s lost something they won’t admit mattered.
He exhaled slowly and turned back toward the line.
The sorority girl was still there, phone back in her hand. She smiled when she saw him.
“Was that your homies or your girlfriend?”
He gave a lazy grin. “Neither. Just noise.”
She tilted her head. “Good. I don’t do guys with girlfriends.”
Royce stepped back into line beside her, close enough to smell her citrusy body spray.
“You don’t even know if I’m worth doing,” he said.
She laughed, flipping her ponytail again. “Well… you’re tall, you’re cute, and you made it back. That’s a good start.”
He smirked and leaned in just enough to flirt without effort.
But behind his eyes, something lingered.
It wasn’t her voice in his head.
It was Effie’s.
~~~~~~~~~~
The smoke hung thick in the back room of a daiquiri spot off Plank, where the music wasn’t so much playing as it was vibrating through the drywall. The kind of place that didn’t advertise, didn’t need to. Everyone who mattered already knew. Neon buzzed faintly outside the tinted windows, and the air inside was all sweat, liquor, and secondhand flex.
Meech was leaned back in a cracked vinyl booth, legs stretched, one arm lazily draped across the top like he owned the joint. He didn't, but the illusion worked well enough.
Across from him sat a man in his early forties—dark goatee, gold links stacked across both wrists. He was careful with his words, but not his posture. Someone who’d done dirt long enough to not care how you looked at him. Name was Kendall. Came up out the Westbank. Said he moved phones and pills but needed something new—something that wouldn’t keep him boxed in if shit popped off.
Meech smiled slow, the kind of grin that made people nervous even when he meant it to charm. “Look, I got options for you,” he said, tossing back the last of his drink and letting the ice clink into the plastic.
Kendall nodded, not committing to anything yet.
“That NIL shit?” Meech continued, dragging the tip of his finger through a water ring on the table. “Man, that’s clean paper right there. All you need is a face.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough.
“I got one too. Royce Lafitte.”
Kendall’s brow lifted. “The LSU kid?”
Meech grinned wider. “Yeah. I mean, not like we tight tight. But he be around. Shoots the shit with Shayla, drinks with the crew, pulled up to a couple things. Solid cat. But dumb.”
Kendall’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Dumb?”
“Dumb ass nigga don’t know shit,” Meech said, chuckling to himself. “Be thinking he just doing some PR stuff. Could probably run two, three bands through some charity crap, throw a logo on it, call it community investment. You feel me?”
Kendall didn’t smile, but he didn’t shut it down either. He was listening.
Before Meech could run further with it, a figure stepped out from the shadows by the side exit. Shayla.
She had on black leggings, a cropped hoodie, and the kind of expression that said she’d heard enough without needing to say so. She walked over slow, cool, like she was just passing through. But when she leaned down near Meech’s shoulder, her voice was sharp in his ear.
“You getting sloppy.”
Meech looked up, lazy grin still in place. “Nah. I’m just saying what’s possible.”
She didn’t back up. “You don’t use his name like that. You don’t know who’s listening.”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “He’s just around. Nobody touching him.”
“You keep saying that like we not sitting on thin ice.”
He turned to face her more fully now, grin thinning into something flatter. “And I keep hearing you say his name like you care.”
Shayla’s jaw tensed, but she didn’t rise to it. “You keep playing, and that dumb ass nigga gonna be the reason we all catch heat.”
Meech laughed quietly. “Nah. He too busy tryna act famous and fucked up to look twice. Don’t worry.”
But Shayla wasn’t laughing. She looked at Kendall, then back at Meech. “Just don’t forget who they gon’ trace it to when shit go left.”
With that, she turned and walked off, her steps calm but clipped.
Meech leaned back again, like the conversation never happened. “Anyway,” he said to Kendall, casually tossing a toothpick from behind his ear into his mouth. “We keep it quiet, and we all win.”
Kendall didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. He just watched Shayla’s retreating figure, then looked at Meech like he was weighing something heavier than cash.
Meech didn’t notice. He was too busy fantasizing about the endgame.
But across the city, Royce was still blissfully unaware.
And Shayla? She’d just started looking for a parachute.
~~~~~~~~~~
The lights were dimmed low in the small black-box theater off Congress Street, the kind of place that smelled faintly of coffee grounds and glue, chairs packed close like they had been borrowed from a dozen different schools. A banner at the back read Word Up Wednesdays: Lafayette’s Monthly Spoken Word Open Mic, but tonight’s showcase had outgrown the mic. There was a stage now—makeshift, plywood painted black—but it held weight. The kind of weight that made Arianna’s palms sweat as she sat in the wings.
Her name was already announced. She could hear the applause still fading from the last poet, the host’s voice lilting like a friend trying to coax her into the water.
“And now… Arianna Williams, y’all.”
She stepped out slowly, knees a little stiff, tongue dry. Her boots echoed on the floor. She wore all black, her curls piled up in a loose bun that bounced a little with each step. The paper in her hand was already crinkled at the edges.
The room quieted fast.
She took the mic from its stand, but she didn’t speak right away. Her eyes scanned the rows, but she didn’t see faces—just blurs. The words were on the page, but she didn’t need them.
Her voice, when it came, was low. Controlled. But full of something sharp.
“When the hand that hurts you
belongs to someone
who swore they’d love you,
you forget what love should sound like.”
The first line sat in the air like it had weight. She heard a murmur—one woman let out a breath like she’d been holding it since the last poet. Arianna kept going, voice steady, her hands tightening on the mic.
“It starts quiet.
A tone change.
A look that lingers too long.
You laugh it off.
Say, ‘He’s just tired.’
Say, ‘I pushed him.’
Say, ‘It’s not that bad.’”
The words didn’t come fast. They weren’t meant to. She let each one land, her gaze fixed just above the crowd now.
“Love with a closed fist
don’t leave marks at first.
Just questions.
Like:
Who am I if this is what I settle for?
What do I tell my cousin
when she asks why I’m never around anymore?”
That line cracked her voice, just a little. She didn’t stop. Her eyes were glassy now.
“I built silence like armor.
Brushed my hair the way he liked.
Wore the dress he said was ‘classy but not too much.’
I smiled when he said I should.”
There was no hiding the tears now. Her voice shook—but she kept going.
“But healing don’t come in hushes.
It comes when you stop swallowing your name.
So this—
This poem is a scream
stitched into syllables.
A warning.
A mirror.
A door I left cracked
in case someone else needed a way out.”
She paused there. Not for effect. For air. For courage.
“And if you’re hearing this
and your heart stutters,
if your breath catches,
if your fingers curl around your sleeve
like maybe tonight’s too close—
I see you.
I do.
I swear I do.”
She let the silence fall, then stepped back from the mic.
There was no slow build. The applause erupted, sudden and full. People stood—one after another, a chain reaction. Some were clapping. Some were crying. One older woman near the back had her hand over her heart.
Arianna stood frozen for a moment, until the host returned and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, guiding her gently offstage.
Backstage, she didn’t breathe again until the curtain fell between her and the audience.
Then came the tap on her shoulder.
A girl—maybe nineteen, freckles across her nose and a cracked phone case in her hand—stood in front of her, eyes pink and wet.
“That was…” she tried, but the sentence broke in half. “You said what I—I never could.”
Arianna pulled her in without thinking. They hugged tight, bodies shaking. When they pulled apart, she didn’t let go fully. Her voice was quiet. Tired. But sure.
“That was my cousin’s story, too.”
The girl nodded, eyes shining.
“You made her proud,” she said.
Arianna didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16883
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Cardiac Cats
The night air at Tiger Stadium was thick—warm, heavy, electric. The kind of humidity that made your pads stick before the first whistle even blew. Baton Rouge didn’t do fall like other places. The leaves didn’t change, the breeze didn’t cool. It just got darker earlier and louder faster.
Royce crouched low just outside the hash on the weak side, one hand grazing the grass like he could feel the play before it started. His eyes locked on Auburn’s quarterback Holden Geriner watching the staggered cadence of his feet. It was second and four, but it felt like more. It always did here.
Motion came late—tight end scraping across the line—and Royce’s weight shifted automatically, shoulders twitching. The crowd was a low, buzzing growl behind him. Not a roar. Not yet. They were waiting.
Snap.
The quarterback pulled the handoff and darted outside. Royce shot forward, slipping under a lazy chip block, closing space in two steps. He hit the quarterback just past the line of scrimmage—low, tight, wrapping through the waist—and drove him into the turf.
But Geriner’s knee jerked awkwardly in the tackle, twisting against Royce’s leg.
A jolt of pain lanced through Royce’s right ankle. Hot, immediate, wrong.
He stayed on top of the quarterback a beat longer than necessary, willing his body to feel normal. It didn’t.
He tried to push up. His foot folded. Pain crackled like broken glass up his shin. The stadium, which had started to cheer the stop, seemed to stretch out into silence.
A whistle blew somewhere. Then voices.
“Yo—Royce!”
“You good?”
He didn’t answer.
Two trainers hustled across the field, LSU logos bouncing on their chests. Royce shook his head, but his body was already betraying him. He couldn’t put weight on the ankle, couldn’t keep the wobble out of his stance. When they offered a hand, he didn’t resist.
They got him to the sideline. Every step was a thunderclap behind his eyes.
He sat down hard on the bench. The tape was already swelling beneath his sock.
“Let’s get a look,” one of the trainers said, crouching to unlace his cleat. Royce flinched. “Leave it for now.”
“We need to see what we’re dealing with.”
Across the field, Auburn huddled. The crowd started swelling again.
Royce glanced down the sideline—Coach Lanning was watching. One of the trainers caught his eye and gave a quick shake of the head.
Lanning turned away without a word.
Royce leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, breathing through clenched teeth.
No one said it yet, but he could feel it hanging in the air. The game had just started and already the energy shifted in Auburn’s direction.
…
"Geriner in the gun—Auburn’s got two backs behind him, first and ten from their own 45. Snap comes clean… inside give to Malcolm Simmons—cuts up the middle—uh-oh, he’s got a lane! Simmons to the 50… 45… he’s gone! 30… 20… 10—TOUCHDOWN, AUBURN! Malcolm Simmons slices through the middle for fifty-five yards on the opening drive, and Tiger Stadium just got stunned into silence!"
"And Chris, that right there is exactly where they’re missing Royce Lafitte. No one filled the A-gap. It was wide open. That cutback lane? Royce sniffs that out ten times outta ten if he's healthy. But with him on the sideline, Auburn takes advantage—and you saw how easy that was for Simmons to hit the second level. Huge early blow for this LSU defense."
"And remember folks—Lafitte tweaked that ankle a few plays ago. Trainers still working him over. We’ll keep an eye on it, but for now, LSU trailing 6-0, just two minutes into the game."
…
"Collins under center here, LSU trailing 7-0 early in Death Valley. Kaleb Jackson in the backfield. Here’s the snap—play action—Collins looking, pressure coming from the edge—he spins out, tries to set his feet—throws it low over the middle and it’s incomplete. Intended for Markway, but he never had a shot."
"And that’ll bring up fourth down. LSU’s opening drive stalls after just three plays, and the groans are audible here in Baton Rouge. The Tigers—coming off a dominant win over Mississippi State—were heavy favorites heading into this one, but right now, this offense looks flat."
"Yeah, and you can feel it in the air, Chris. No Royce Lafitte on the field for the defense, and now the offense comes out cold. That sideline is tight-lipped. Everyone knows they’ve got to shake this off fast or Auburn’s gonna run with this momentum."
…
Royce sat on the bench, his jaw tight, helmet resting beside him. The noise in Tiger Stadium was dull and distant, like it was pressing in from behind thick glass. His ankle was throbbing—sharp at first, now pulsing deeper. He could still see the second-down play in his head, slowed down like film. Geriner had tried to escape the pocket, and Royce came downhill with a clean hit. Textbook. But when they hit the ground, his foot stayed planted just a second too long. He’d felt the ankle turn before he even finished the tackle.
One of the LSU trainers knelt in front of him, peeling back his sock and unstrapping the cleat with care. “You rolled it good,” he said, pressing gently around the swelling joint. “You’re lucky it’s not worse.”
“I’m good,” Royce muttered. “Just wrap it. I’m going back in.”
The other trainer, tall and wiry with a purple LSU polo clinging to his sweat-slicked back, looked up from the athletic tape. “It’s already ballooning, Royce. You keep pushing it, it’s gonna be black-and-blue by halftime.”
From the field, the crowd roared—and not the good kind. The trainers didn’t even need to look. They knew what it meant. Another big play. Another gut punch.
Royce jerked forward. “I need to be in.”
“You want to be, and I respect that,” the older trainer said, finishing the ice wrap and securing it tightly. “But if Coach Lanning asks us if you’re game-ready right now, the answer’s no. You need to sit.”
One of the student assistants relayed the news to the staff, and a few moments later, Coach Lanning looked over, squinting toward the bench. The trainers gave a subtle shake of their heads. Lanning’s expression didn’t change, but he turned away.
Royce saw it.
“Y’all telling him I’m done?” he asked sharply.
“No one’s saying that,” the younger trainer said carefully. “We’re saying not now.”
Royce stared down at the field, watching Auburn’s offense huddle for the next play. His chest rose and fell, slow and shallow. On the scoreboard, LSU was down early. On the sideline, their anchor on defense was iced and immobile.
In that moment, it didn’t matter that he was a semifinalist for the Butkus. Didn’t matter that his face was on posters all over campus. He was watching the war from the outside.
And it was only the first quarter.
…
"Holden Geriner takes the snap on second and short—Perkins coming on the blitz—Geriner loses the ball! It’s loose at the thirty! Womack scoops it! DA’SHAWN WOMACK’S GOT IT—HE’S AT THE TWENTY—FIFTEEN—TEN—FIVE—TOUCHDOWN LSU! SCOOP AND SCORE!"
"That’s a monster play, Chris! Womack picked that up like it was drawn up for him. And credit Perkins—he exploded through that right side and just blasted Geriner. That’s how you swing a game."
"LSU ties it up, 7–7 here in the first quarter, and Tiger Stadium is rocking again. You can feel the shift. That defense just made up for the offense’s slow start—and they did it in a big way."
…
Royce didn’t hear the crowd first—he felt it.
The tremor in the bleachers rolled through his cleats as if Tiger Stadium itself had come alive. Then came the roar, deep and primal, surging up like it had been waiting to exhale. He looked up from the trainer’s wrap job just in time to see Da’Shawn cross the goal line with the ball cradled against his chest like it belonged there. The scoreboard flipped. 7–7.
“Fuck yeah!” one of the reserves yelled behind him, nearly knocking over a water cooler.
Royce started to rise, only to feel the stiff hand of the trainer on his shoulder. “Don’t. Not yet.”
He sat back down hard on the bench, jaw tight. The wrap around his ankle was snug, but the swelling still bloomed just beneath it, hot and stubborn.
Across the field, the defense celebrated in the end zone, slapping helmets, pointing to the sky.
Royce didn’t smile. Not fully. But something cracked in his expression—just for a second. Not pride. Not joy. Hunger.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You gotta hurry the fuck up, man,” he muttered.
The trainer looked up from his med kit. “It takes how long it takes.”
Royce didn’t respond. He just stared out at the field like it was still his to command, ankle be damned.
…
"Second down and eight—Auburn threatening again, ball on the LSU sixteen. Geriner in the gun, two receivers right, Simmons wide to the left. Tigers showing pressure—snap to Geriner—drops back—looks left—fires a quick slant to Simmons—HE’S GOT IT AT THE TEN—BREAKS A TACKLE—SCOOTS INSIDE THE FIVE—TOUCHDOWN AUBURN!"
"Malcolm Simmons just made it look easy, Chris! That was a clean route, great hands, and LSU’s corner just whiffed on the tackle. Without Lafitte anchoring the middle, they’re missing that presence—no doubt about it."
"And with the extra point pending, Auburn goes up 14–7 here in Death Valley. LSU came in heavy favorites, but Auburn has landed the first two real blows."
"This crowd is stunned, man. You can feel it—the energy’s there, but it’s tense now. LSU needs a response, and fast."
…
"Fourth down and five—Auburn brings out the field goal unit. This’ll be a 48-yarder from the right hash for Alex McPherson. The kicker’s got the leg for it—this would be his longest of the season."
"And if you’re Auburn, you take the points here. You’re already up a score, and the way LSU’s offense has looked, every three feels like seven right now."
"Snap is good, hold is down… McPherson’s kick is up—got the distance… and it’s GOOD! Right down the middle! Alex McPherson from 48 yards out, and Auburn extends the lead—17 to 7 here in Baton Rouge."
"This crowd’s been quiet since midway through the second quarter. That kick just took the air out again. Auburn is in complete control."
…
"Auburn’s drive comes up short of the end zone again, but Alex McPherson will try his second of the night. This one from thirty-seven yards out, left hash."
"And if you’re Dan Lanning, this is frustrating. You’ve held Auburn to three on back-to-back possessions, but your offense hasn’t answered the bell. Somebody’s gotta step up before this gets out of hand."
"Snap back, hold down, kick is on the way... and good again. McPherson is money from 37. Auburn extends their lead—it’s 20 to 7 with just over a minute left in the half."
"That LSU sideline’s looking tight. You can feel it. Auburn’s playing with house money, and right now, they’re cashing in."
…
"LSU trying to get something before the break. This will be a 24-yard attempt from the right hash for Aeron Burrell to make it a ten-point game."
"They needed something—anything—to stop the bleeding. Burrell’s been steady all year, but this one’s more about momentum than points."
"Snap, spot, kick is up... and it’s good. Aeron Burrell delivers from twenty-four yards out, and LSU will head to the locker room trailing 20 to 10 after a frustrating first half here in Baton Rouge."
"That’s a big three for Coach Lanning’s group. They’ll need more in the second half, but at least it’s not a shutout quarter. Still—Tiger Stadium is quiet, and that says a lot."
…
The locker room buzzed with the dull thud of cleats pacing concrete, the hiss of tape being ripped, the low grumbles of frustration and fatigue. The scoreboard glare from the tunnel haunted the room like a silent insult: AUBURN 20, LSU 10.
Coach Lanning stood near the whiteboard, arms folded, jaw clenched. His assistants huddled around stat sheets and play charts. A Gatorade cooler slammed shut somewhere behind him.
Royce sat at the far end of the bench, left ankle elevated and wrapped in a bulky compression sleeve. The swelling had crept higher over the last quarter, despite ice and elevation. His pads were still on, but his helmet lay on the ground next to him like an accusation.
"You’re not putting me back in the game?" Royce barked, eyes locked on the head trainer kneeling at his feet. “You said it ain’t broken.”
“It’s not,” the trainer said, calm but firm. “But it’s unstable. You go back out there now, you’re risking real damage.”
“I’m good enough to fucking go.”
“Royce—”
“I said I’m good enough to go,” he snapped, voice louder now, drawing a few glances from teammates who had barely said a word since coming in.
The trainer stood, wiping his hands on a towel. “And I’m telling you: you’re out at least another quarter. We’ll reevaluate at the top of the fourth.”
Royce shoved off the bench, rising too quickly. Pain flashed across his face but he smothered it, biting the inside of his cheek. “Bullshit.”
Coach Lanning turned from the board. “Lafitte.”
Royce stiffened.
Lanning’s tone didn’t rise—if anything, it quieted the room more. “I need you ready for the fourth if we’re still in this. Sit. Cool off. Tape up your mouth before you say something you’ll regret.”
Royce sat back down slowly, jaw clenched, fury radiating off him like heat. He didn’t speak again. Just stared straight ahead, listening to the sound of shoulder pads creaking, the dull roar of fans overhead, and the pulse of a game slipping out of reach—without him on the field to stop it.
…
"Third down and six, Auburn at the LSU 41. Geriner in the shotgun, two receivers left, tight end flexed to the right. LSU showing pressure off the edge—"
"They're disguising that coverage again, Chris. Keep an eye on Jyaire Brown."
"Snap to Geriner—he drops back, looks left, throws quick—BATTED DOWN! JYAIRE BROWN jumps the route and gets a hand on it at the sticks!"
"Man, that's a savvy play. Brown was sitting right in the curl window. Read it clean, timed the jump, and blew that up before it had a chance."
"LSU's defense forces a punt here midway through the third, and you can feel that sideline come alive. That’s a momentum stop right there—LSU still down 20 to 10, but they’re not going away."
…
"Fourth down and four at the Auburn 25-yard line, and here comes Aeron Burrell once again. This'll be a 42-yard attempt from the right hash to try and cut it to a one-score game."
"He’s already hit from 24 tonight, but this one’s got a little more distance on it—and with the way this crowd’s buzzing, every point matters."
"Snap is good, hold is down, kick is up—plenty of leg—and it’s GOOD! Burrell drills it from 42 yards out, and LSU now trails Auburn 20 to 13 with just over two minutes to go in the third quarter!"
"LSU's hanging around, Chris. That defense has stepped up the last two drives, and Burrell’s been money when they’ve needed it. Don’t blink—this one’s starting to tighten up."
…
Royce stood near the sideline huddle, helmet in one hand, eyes fixed on the field like he could pull the momentum back with just a look. His ankle still throbbed inside the brace, but the swelling had gone down, the tape job was snug, and more importantly—he’d just gotten the nod.
A trainer gave him a firm pat on the back. “You’re cleared, Five. Just don’t be a hero. Listen to your body.”
Royce didn’t answer, just tugged his helmet on and clicked the strap tight. The moment the defense jogged toward the field, he followed—no limp this time, no hesitation.
Coach Lanning didn’t say a word. He just gave a slight nod as Royce passed, the kind that said: You better be right about this.
Royce crouched in the middle of the formation, barking out checks, tapping the backside of the nose tackle’s shoulder, reading the offense like a man who’d seen this movie before.
He flexed his fingers, settled in his stance, and waited for the snap.
…
“Look who’s back on the field—Royce Lafitte returns for LSU here in the fourth quarter, and Tiger Stadium is letting him hear it!”
“Cleared to play, and I’ll tell you right now—his presence changes the whole shape of this defense. Auburn’s not just going to run it up the gut anymore without thinking twice.”
…
Auburn was driving late, trying to ice the clock and snatch whatever momentum LSU had started to build. They were just outside field goal range, clinging to a seven-point lead, and the stadium felt taut—like it was holding its breath.
Royce jogged back onto the field. No theatrics. Just a subtle nod to Coach Lanning and a taped-up ankle that didn’t roll the same way it used to.
Third and short. Auburn lined up heavy—tight ends stacked, back crouched low. Everyone in the building knew what was coming.
The snap cracked. The pile surged forward. And Royce blew it up.
He knifed through the A-gap, buried his shoulder into the lead blocker, and wrapped the ballcarrier just shy of the line to gain. The whistle blew. Chain crew held still.
Fourth down.
Royce pushed up off the turf, face grim, chest rising and falling like a piston. The sideline erupted. Coaches threw fists into the air. LSU’s defense—so porous earlier—had held.
And at the center of it all, Royce didn’t celebrate. He just turned, limped slightly back toward the sideline, and nodded once to the trainers watching.
…
“Collins in the gun—third and eight from the thirty-eight... crowd roaring now, LSU down seven, just over three minutes left… here’s the snap—pressure coming—Collins steps up, unloads—deep shot down the right side… Sampson’s got a step—IT’S CAUGHT! SHELTON SAMPSON, JR.—HE’S GONE! TOUCHDOWN, LSU!”
“Oh man! You talk about a big-time throw from the sophomore! Rickie Collins stood tall with the blitz in his face and dropped a dime! And Sampson—whew—left that corner in the dust! Tiger Stadium is shaking, Chris!”
“Tie ballgame at Death Valley! 38 yards to paydirt and this crowd is on its feet! LSU clawing all the way back—what a response!”
…
“Thirty-five seconds left in regulation, Auburn at their own forty-seven—Geriner in the shotgun—takes the snap, four-man rush—he steps up, now flushed to his right… and he’ll tuck it—slides down just past midfield.”
“They’re gonna have to burn that final timeout here. No way they can get the field goal unit on in time without it.”
“And they do! Timeout Auburn with seven seconds left. Ball at the LSU forty-nine… they’re talking it over on the sideline. Do you send out McPherson for a sixty-six yarder or try one more play?”
“It’s a tough call. You risk a sack or a turnover if you run a play, but sixty-six is just at the edge of his range. I’d try to get five or six more and get out of bounds.”
“Here comes the offense—looks like they’re going for that quick out. LSU dropping into coverage… Geriner takes the snap, pump fake—fires to the sideline… and it’s broken up! The clock hits zero!”
“We’re going to overtime in Death Valley! LSU was left for dead in the first half, but they’ve clawed all the way back. What a momentum shift, Chris.”
“This crowd is alive, the band’s playing, and we’re headed to free football. LSU 20, Auburn 20. Overtime next!”
…
“LSU has the ball at the Auburn 12, third down and six… Rickie Collins in the shotgun—Kaleb Jackson to his left. Here’s the snap… Collins looks, pressure coming… and he’s wrapped up! He goes down at the 18-yard line!”
“That was Joe Phillip on the delayed blitz—came in clean. Big-time stop by the Auburn defense. LSU had a chance to punch it in, but now they’ll send out Burrell.”
“Here comes Aeron Burrell for a 35-yard attempt, right hash. Crowd quiets… snap, spot, kick is up… and good! LSU takes a 23-20 lead in the first overtime.”
…
“Now it’s Auburn’s turn from the 25. Geriner gets the call from the sideline—two tight ends, McCloud in the backfield. LSU showing four down linemen.”
“LSU’s defense has to bow up here. A touchdown ends it.”
Chris:
“Third and eight from the 13… Geriner takes the snap… pump fake—now throws for the end zone—broken up! Stamps with the deflection! He’s been all over the field tonight.”
“LSU forcing the kick. What a job by that secondary.”
“And here’s Alex McPherson for a 30-yard attempt to tie it. Snap, spot, kick is on the way… and it’s good. Ice in his veins.”
“Nobody blinkin’ tonight. 23-23. On to the second overtime.”
…
The air was dense with tension, the humid Baton Rouge night clinging to everything. Under the glow of the lights, the grass shimmered slightly, torn up from hours of pounding cleats and bodies. Royce stood at the line of scrimmage, crouched in his stance, eyes locked on Holden Geriner across the way.
Auburn had the ball first in the second overtime. The LSU defense was gassed but focused, lined up tight and twitching with anticipation. Royce rolled his neck once, ignoring the dull pulse of pain radiating from his ankle. He’d talked his way back onto the field. Now he had to justify it.
Geriner barked out the cadence and the ball was snapped.
It was a run — a quick dive play, the kind that tried to punch you in the mouth early. But Royce read it before the back had fully secured the handoff. He exploded forward, shoulder slipping past a guard’s reach, and met the ball carrier square in the hole.
The collision was loud — helmet to pads, feet skidding on the turf.
Royce wrapped him, drove his legs, and brought the runner down hard after a short gain. Not a punishing blow, but a message.
He stood slowly, letting the crowd’s renewed roar wash over him. The student section erupted, purple and gold flags waving wildly.
Royce didn’t celebrate. He just adjusted his gloves, jaw clenched, scanning the backfield again. His breathing was measured, but beneath it, something steadier had returned — not confidence, exactly, but clarity.
…
The huddle broke, and Auburn jogged to the line again. The stadium swelled with noise — not deafening yet, but close, a warning growl from over 100,000. Royce crouched again at the second level, left foot slightly behind, weight perfectly balanced.
The pain in his ankle had dulled into something ignorable — a background hum. The kind of ache you could live with when something more important was on the line.
Auburn tried to move quickly, calling a stretch play to the short side of the field, hoping to catch LSU off rhythm.
But Royce had already shifted.
The moment the ball was snapped, he was moving, slipping past the pulling tackle like smoke, a flash of gold and violence. The running back saw him a half-second too late, tried to plant and cut inside — and Royce met him in the backfield with his shoulder low and arms wrapping high.
They hit the ground hard, the back landing sideways with a grunt. Loss of three.
Tiger Stadium came unglued.
Royce popped up, no flex, no yell — just a slow head nod as he stared into the Auburn sideline. His teammates swarmed him, slapping helmets and pads. But Royce didn’t break his focus.
He looked at the down marker. Third and long.
…
Auburn broke the huddle slower this time. Third and long. The crowd had found its full voice now, thundering down from the upper decks like waves crashing against a seawall.
Royce stood in the middle of it, eyes locked on Geriner. His breath steady, low.
The snap came. Auburn ran a quick screen to the right—Royce saw it unfolding before the linemen even peeled off. The running back caught the ball at the numbers and turned upfield just as Royce knifed through the bodies like a heat-seeking missile. One blocker got a hand on him. It wasn’t enough.
Royce dropped the back at the fifteen. A six-yard gain. Still nine short of the sticks.
He rolled off and popped up again, this time with more fire, clapping both hands together once—sharp, final. The message was clear: that was it.
Auburn’s field goal unit jogged on.
Royce didn’t look toward the sideline. He didn’t need to. He was already walking back to the LSU bench, helmet in hand, chest rising and falling with quiet intensity.
…
“Auburn’s field goal is good—26 to 23 now, and LSU’s turn. They’ve got one play to win it or keep fighting. First and ten from the 25… Rickie Collins still out there, flanked by Kaleb Jackson… Billiot wide right.”
“You want your quarterback to grow up? This is the moment. One play. One throw.”
“Collins claps… takes the snap… Billiot gets a step down the right sideline… DEEP BALL—CAUGHT! TOUUCCHDOOWWWNNN LSU!”
“GAME OVER! THAT’S BALL GAME IN BATON ROUGE!”
“Rickie Collins hits Kylan Billiot in stride—and LSU walks it off in double overtime! The Tigers survive Auburn, 29 to 26!”
The night air at Tiger Stadium was thick—warm, heavy, electric. The kind of humidity that made your pads stick before the first whistle even blew. Baton Rouge didn’t do fall like other places. The leaves didn’t change, the breeze didn’t cool. It just got darker earlier and louder faster.
Royce crouched low just outside the hash on the weak side, one hand grazing the grass like he could feel the play before it started. His eyes locked on Auburn’s quarterback Holden Geriner watching the staggered cadence of his feet. It was second and four, but it felt like more. It always did here.
Motion came late—tight end scraping across the line—and Royce’s weight shifted automatically, shoulders twitching. The crowd was a low, buzzing growl behind him. Not a roar. Not yet. They were waiting.
Snap.
The quarterback pulled the handoff and darted outside. Royce shot forward, slipping under a lazy chip block, closing space in two steps. He hit the quarterback just past the line of scrimmage—low, tight, wrapping through the waist—and drove him into the turf.
But Geriner’s knee jerked awkwardly in the tackle, twisting against Royce’s leg.
A jolt of pain lanced through Royce’s right ankle. Hot, immediate, wrong.
He stayed on top of the quarterback a beat longer than necessary, willing his body to feel normal. It didn’t.
He tried to push up. His foot folded. Pain crackled like broken glass up his shin. The stadium, which had started to cheer the stop, seemed to stretch out into silence.
A whistle blew somewhere. Then voices.
“Yo—Royce!”
“You good?”
He didn’t answer.
Two trainers hustled across the field, LSU logos bouncing on their chests. Royce shook his head, but his body was already betraying him. He couldn’t put weight on the ankle, couldn’t keep the wobble out of his stance. When they offered a hand, he didn’t resist.
They got him to the sideline. Every step was a thunderclap behind his eyes.
He sat down hard on the bench. The tape was already swelling beneath his sock.
“Let’s get a look,” one of the trainers said, crouching to unlace his cleat. Royce flinched. “Leave it for now.”
“We need to see what we’re dealing with.”
Across the field, Auburn huddled. The crowd started swelling again.
Royce glanced down the sideline—Coach Lanning was watching. One of the trainers caught his eye and gave a quick shake of the head.
Lanning turned away without a word.
Royce leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, breathing through clenched teeth.
No one said it yet, but he could feel it hanging in the air. The game had just started and already the energy shifted in Auburn’s direction.
…
"Geriner in the gun—Auburn’s got two backs behind him, first and ten from their own 45. Snap comes clean… inside give to Malcolm Simmons—cuts up the middle—uh-oh, he’s got a lane! Simmons to the 50… 45… he’s gone! 30… 20… 10—TOUCHDOWN, AUBURN! Malcolm Simmons slices through the middle for fifty-five yards on the opening drive, and Tiger Stadium just got stunned into silence!"
"And Chris, that right there is exactly where they’re missing Royce Lafitte. No one filled the A-gap. It was wide open. That cutback lane? Royce sniffs that out ten times outta ten if he's healthy. But with him on the sideline, Auburn takes advantage—and you saw how easy that was for Simmons to hit the second level. Huge early blow for this LSU defense."
"And remember folks—Lafitte tweaked that ankle a few plays ago. Trainers still working him over. We’ll keep an eye on it, but for now, LSU trailing 6-0, just two minutes into the game."
…
"Collins under center here, LSU trailing 7-0 early in Death Valley. Kaleb Jackson in the backfield. Here’s the snap—play action—Collins looking, pressure coming from the edge—he spins out, tries to set his feet—throws it low over the middle and it’s incomplete. Intended for Markway, but he never had a shot."
"And that’ll bring up fourth down. LSU’s opening drive stalls after just three plays, and the groans are audible here in Baton Rouge. The Tigers—coming off a dominant win over Mississippi State—were heavy favorites heading into this one, but right now, this offense looks flat."
"Yeah, and you can feel it in the air, Chris. No Royce Lafitte on the field for the defense, and now the offense comes out cold. That sideline is tight-lipped. Everyone knows they’ve got to shake this off fast or Auburn’s gonna run with this momentum."
…
Royce sat on the bench, his jaw tight, helmet resting beside him. The noise in Tiger Stadium was dull and distant, like it was pressing in from behind thick glass. His ankle was throbbing—sharp at first, now pulsing deeper. He could still see the second-down play in his head, slowed down like film. Geriner had tried to escape the pocket, and Royce came downhill with a clean hit. Textbook. But when they hit the ground, his foot stayed planted just a second too long. He’d felt the ankle turn before he even finished the tackle.
One of the LSU trainers knelt in front of him, peeling back his sock and unstrapping the cleat with care. “You rolled it good,” he said, pressing gently around the swelling joint. “You’re lucky it’s not worse.”
“I’m good,” Royce muttered. “Just wrap it. I’m going back in.”
The other trainer, tall and wiry with a purple LSU polo clinging to his sweat-slicked back, looked up from the athletic tape. “It’s already ballooning, Royce. You keep pushing it, it’s gonna be black-and-blue by halftime.”
From the field, the crowd roared—and not the good kind. The trainers didn’t even need to look. They knew what it meant. Another big play. Another gut punch.
Royce jerked forward. “I need to be in.”
“You want to be, and I respect that,” the older trainer said, finishing the ice wrap and securing it tightly. “But if Coach Lanning asks us if you’re game-ready right now, the answer’s no. You need to sit.”
One of the student assistants relayed the news to the staff, and a few moments later, Coach Lanning looked over, squinting toward the bench. The trainers gave a subtle shake of their heads. Lanning’s expression didn’t change, but he turned away.
Royce saw it.
“Y’all telling him I’m done?” he asked sharply.
“No one’s saying that,” the younger trainer said carefully. “We’re saying not now.”
Royce stared down at the field, watching Auburn’s offense huddle for the next play. His chest rose and fell, slow and shallow. On the scoreboard, LSU was down early. On the sideline, their anchor on defense was iced and immobile.
In that moment, it didn’t matter that he was a semifinalist for the Butkus. Didn’t matter that his face was on posters all over campus. He was watching the war from the outside.
And it was only the first quarter.
…
"Holden Geriner takes the snap on second and short—Perkins coming on the blitz—Geriner loses the ball! It’s loose at the thirty! Womack scoops it! DA’SHAWN WOMACK’S GOT IT—HE’S AT THE TWENTY—FIFTEEN—TEN—FIVE—TOUCHDOWN LSU! SCOOP AND SCORE!"
"That’s a monster play, Chris! Womack picked that up like it was drawn up for him. And credit Perkins—he exploded through that right side and just blasted Geriner. That’s how you swing a game."
"LSU ties it up, 7–7 here in the first quarter, and Tiger Stadium is rocking again. You can feel the shift. That defense just made up for the offense’s slow start—and they did it in a big way."
…
Royce didn’t hear the crowd first—he felt it.
The tremor in the bleachers rolled through his cleats as if Tiger Stadium itself had come alive. Then came the roar, deep and primal, surging up like it had been waiting to exhale. He looked up from the trainer’s wrap job just in time to see Da’Shawn cross the goal line with the ball cradled against his chest like it belonged there. The scoreboard flipped. 7–7.
“Fuck yeah!” one of the reserves yelled behind him, nearly knocking over a water cooler.
Royce started to rise, only to feel the stiff hand of the trainer on his shoulder. “Don’t. Not yet.”
He sat back down hard on the bench, jaw tight. The wrap around his ankle was snug, but the swelling still bloomed just beneath it, hot and stubborn.
Across the field, the defense celebrated in the end zone, slapping helmets, pointing to the sky.
Royce didn’t smile. Not fully. But something cracked in his expression—just for a second. Not pride. Not joy. Hunger.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You gotta hurry the fuck up, man,” he muttered.
The trainer looked up from his med kit. “It takes how long it takes.”
Royce didn’t respond. He just stared out at the field like it was still his to command, ankle be damned.
…
"Second down and eight—Auburn threatening again, ball on the LSU sixteen. Geriner in the gun, two receivers right, Simmons wide to the left. Tigers showing pressure—snap to Geriner—drops back—looks left—fires a quick slant to Simmons—HE’S GOT IT AT THE TEN—BREAKS A TACKLE—SCOOTS INSIDE THE FIVE—TOUCHDOWN AUBURN!"
"Malcolm Simmons just made it look easy, Chris! That was a clean route, great hands, and LSU’s corner just whiffed on the tackle. Without Lafitte anchoring the middle, they’re missing that presence—no doubt about it."
"And with the extra point pending, Auburn goes up 14–7 here in Death Valley. LSU came in heavy favorites, but Auburn has landed the first two real blows."
"This crowd is stunned, man. You can feel it—the energy’s there, but it’s tense now. LSU needs a response, and fast."
…
"Fourth down and five—Auburn brings out the field goal unit. This’ll be a 48-yarder from the right hash for Alex McPherson. The kicker’s got the leg for it—this would be his longest of the season."
"And if you’re Auburn, you take the points here. You’re already up a score, and the way LSU’s offense has looked, every three feels like seven right now."
"Snap is good, hold is down… McPherson’s kick is up—got the distance… and it’s GOOD! Right down the middle! Alex McPherson from 48 yards out, and Auburn extends the lead—17 to 7 here in Baton Rouge."
"This crowd’s been quiet since midway through the second quarter. That kick just took the air out again. Auburn is in complete control."
…
"Auburn’s drive comes up short of the end zone again, but Alex McPherson will try his second of the night. This one from thirty-seven yards out, left hash."
"And if you’re Dan Lanning, this is frustrating. You’ve held Auburn to three on back-to-back possessions, but your offense hasn’t answered the bell. Somebody’s gotta step up before this gets out of hand."
"Snap back, hold down, kick is on the way... and good again. McPherson is money from 37. Auburn extends their lead—it’s 20 to 7 with just over a minute left in the half."
"That LSU sideline’s looking tight. You can feel it. Auburn’s playing with house money, and right now, they’re cashing in."
…
"LSU trying to get something before the break. This will be a 24-yard attempt from the right hash for Aeron Burrell to make it a ten-point game."
"They needed something—anything—to stop the bleeding. Burrell’s been steady all year, but this one’s more about momentum than points."
"Snap, spot, kick is up... and it’s good. Aeron Burrell delivers from twenty-four yards out, and LSU will head to the locker room trailing 20 to 10 after a frustrating first half here in Baton Rouge."
"That’s a big three for Coach Lanning’s group. They’ll need more in the second half, but at least it’s not a shutout quarter. Still—Tiger Stadium is quiet, and that says a lot."
…
The locker room buzzed with the dull thud of cleats pacing concrete, the hiss of tape being ripped, the low grumbles of frustration and fatigue. The scoreboard glare from the tunnel haunted the room like a silent insult: AUBURN 20, LSU 10.
Coach Lanning stood near the whiteboard, arms folded, jaw clenched. His assistants huddled around stat sheets and play charts. A Gatorade cooler slammed shut somewhere behind him.
Royce sat at the far end of the bench, left ankle elevated and wrapped in a bulky compression sleeve. The swelling had crept higher over the last quarter, despite ice and elevation. His pads were still on, but his helmet lay on the ground next to him like an accusation.
"You’re not putting me back in the game?" Royce barked, eyes locked on the head trainer kneeling at his feet. “You said it ain’t broken.”
“It’s not,” the trainer said, calm but firm. “But it’s unstable. You go back out there now, you’re risking real damage.”
“I’m good enough to fucking go.”
“Royce—”
“I said I’m good enough to go,” he snapped, voice louder now, drawing a few glances from teammates who had barely said a word since coming in.
The trainer stood, wiping his hands on a towel. “And I’m telling you: you’re out at least another quarter. We’ll reevaluate at the top of the fourth.”
Royce shoved off the bench, rising too quickly. Pain flashed across his face but he smothered it, biting the inside of his cheek. “Bullshit.”
Coach Lanning turned from the board. “Lafitte.”
Royce stiffened.
Lanning’s tone didn’t rise—if anything, it quieted the room more. “I need you ready for the fourth if we’re still in this. Sit. Cool off. Tape up your mouth before you say something you’ll regret.”
Royce sat back down slowly, jaw clenched, fury radiating off him like heat. He didn’t speak again. Just stared straight ahead, listening to the sound of shoulder pads creaking, the dull roar of fans overhead, and the pulse of a game slipping out of reach—without him on the field to stop it.
…
"Third down and six, Auburn at the LSU 41. Geriner in the shotgun, two receivers left, tight end flexed to the right. LSU showing pressure off the edge—"
"They're disguising that coverage again, Chris. Keep an eye on Jyaire Brown."
"Snap to Geriner—he drops back, looks left, throws quick—BATTED DOWN! JYAIRE BROWN jumps the route and gets a hand on it at the sticks!"
"Man, that's a savvy play. Brown was sitting right in the curl window. Read it clean, timed the jump, and blew that up before it had a chance."
"LSU's defense forces a punt here midway through the third, and you can feel that sideline come alive. That’s a momentum stop right there—LSU still down 20 to 10, but they’re not going away."
…
"Fourth down and four at the Auburn 25-yard line, and here comes Aeron Burrell once again. This'll be a 42-yard attempt from the right hash to try and cut it to a one-score game."
"He’s already hit from 24 tonight, but this one’s got a little more distance on it—and with the way this crowd’s buzzing, every point matters."
"Snap is good, hold is down, kick is up—plenty of leg—and it’s GOOD! Burrell drills it from 42 yards out, and LSU now trails Auburn 20 to 13 with just over two minutes to go in the third quarter!"
"LSU's hanging around, Chris. That defense has stepped up the last two drives, and Burrell’s been money when they’ve needed it. Don’t blink—this one’s starting to tighten up."
…
Royce stood near the sideline huddle, helmet in one hand, eyes fixed on the field like he could pull the momentum back with just a look. His ankle still throbbed inside the brace, but the swelling had gone down, the tape job was snug, and more importantly—he’d just gotten the nod.
A trainer gave him a firm pat on the back. “You’re cleared, Five. Just don’t be a hero. Listen to your body.”
Royce didn’t answer, just tugged his helmet on and clicked the strap tight. The moment the defense jogged toward the field, he followed—no limp this time, no hesitation.
Coach Lanning didn’t say a word. He just gave a slight nod as Royce passed, the kind that said: You better be right about this.
Royce crouched in the middle of the formation, barking out checks, tapping the backside of the nose tackle’s shoulder, reading the offense like a man who’d seen this movie before.
He flexed his fingers, settled in his stance, and waited for the snap.
…
“Look who’s back on the field—Royce Lafitte returns for LSU here in the fourth quarter, and Tiger Stadium is letting him hear it!”
“Cleared to play, and I’ll tell you right now—his presence changes the whole shape of this defense. Auburn’s not just going to run it up the gut anymore without thinking twice.”
…
Auburn was driving late, trying to ice the clock and snatch whatever momentum LSU had started to build. They were just outside field goal range, clinging to a seven-point lead, and the stadium felt taut—like it was holding its breath.
Royce jogged back onto the field. No theatrics. Just a subtle nod to Coach Lanning and a taped-up ankle that didn’t roll the same way it used to.
Third and short. Auburn lined up heavy—tight ends stacked, back crouched low. Everyone in the building knew what was coming.
The snap cracked. The pile surged forward. And Royce blew it up.
He knifed through the A-gap, buried his shoulder into the lead blocker, and wrapped the ballcarrier just shy of the line to gain. The whistle blew. Chain crew held still.
Fourth down.
Royce pushed up off the turf, face grim, chest rising and falling like a piston. The sideline erupted. Coaches threw fists into the air. LSU’s defense—so porous earlier—had held.
And at the center of it all, Royce didn’t celebrate. He just turned, limped slightly back toward the sideline, and nodded once to the trainers watching.
…
“Collins in the gun—third and eight from the thirty-eight... crowd roaring now, LSU down seven, just over three minutes left… here’s the snap—pressure coming—Collins steps up, unloads—deep shot down the right side… Sampson’s got a step—IT’S CAUGHT! SHELTON SAMPSON, JR.—HE’S GONE! TOUCHDOWN, LSU!”
“Oh man! You talk about a big-time throw from the sophomore! Rickie Collins stood tall with the blitz in his face and dropped a dime! And Sampson—whew—left that corner in the dust! Tiger Stadium is shaking, Chris!”
“Tie ballgame at Death Valley! 38 yards to paydirt and this crowd is on its feet! LSU clawing all the way back—what a response!”
…
“Thirty-five seconds left in regulation, Auburn at their own forty-seven—Geriner in the shotgun—takes the snap, four-man rush—he steps up, now flushed to his right… and he’ll tuck it—slides down just past midfield.”
“They’re gonna have to burn that final timeout here. No way they can get the field goal unit on in time without it.”
“And they do! Timeout Auburn with seven seconds left. Ball at the LSU forty-nine… they’re talking it over on the sideline. Do you send out McPherson for a sixty-six yarder or try one more play?”
“It’s a tough call. You risk a sack or a turnover if you run a play, but sixty-six is just at the edge of his range. I’d try to get five or six more and get out of bounds.”
“Here comes the offense—looks like they’re going for that quick out. LSU dropping into coverage… Geriner takes the snap, pump fake—fires to the sideline… and it’s broken up! The clock hits zero!”
“We’re going to overtime in Death Valley! LSU was left for dead in the first half, but they’ve clawed all the way back. What a momentum shift, Chris.”
“This crowd is alive, the band’s playing, and we’re headed to free football. LSU 20, Auburn 20. Overtime next!”
…
“LSU has the ball at the Auburn 12, third down and six… Rickie Collins in the shotgun—Kaleb Jackson to his left. Here’s the snap… Collins looks, pressure coming… and he’s wrapped up! He goes down at the 18-yard line!”
“That was Joe Phillip on the delayed blitz—came in clean. Big-time stop by the Auburn defense. LSU had a chance to punch it in, but now they’ll send out Burrell.”
“Here comes Aeron Burrell for a 35-yard attempt, right hash. Crowd quiets… snap, spot, kick is up… and good! LSU takes a 23-20 lead in the first overtime.”
…
“Now it’s Auburn’s turn from the 25. Geriner gets the call from the sideline—two tight ends, McCloud in the backfield. LSU showing four down linemen.”
“LSU’s defense has to bow up here. A touchdown ends it.”
Chris:
“Third and eight from the 13… Geriner takes the snap… pump fake—now throws for the end zone—broken up! Stamps with the deflection! He’s been all over the field tonight.”
“LSU forcing the kick. What a job by that secondary.”
“And here’s Alex McPherson for a 30-yard attempt to tie it. Snap, spot, kick is on the way… and it’s good. Ice in his veins.”
“Nobody blinkin’ tonight. 23-23. On to the second overtime.”
…
The air was dense with tension, the humid Baton Rouge night clinging to everything. Under the glow of the lights, the grass shimmered slightly, torn up from hours of pounding cleats and bodies. Royce stood at the line of scrimmage, crouched in his stance, eyes locked on Holden Geriner across the way.
Auburn had the ball first in the second overtime. The LSU defense was gassed but focused, lined up tight and twitching with anticipation. Royce rolled his neck once, ignoring the dull pulse of pain radiating from his ankle. He’d talked his way back onto the field. Now he had to justify it.
Geriner barked out the cadence and the ball was snapped.
It was a run — a quick dive play, the kind that tried to punch you in the mouth early. But Royce read it before the back had fully secured the handoff. He exploded forward, shoulder slipping past a guard’s reach, and met the ball carrier square in the hole.
The collision was loud — helmet to pads, feet skidding on the turf.
Royce wrapped him, drove his legs, and brought the runner down hard after a short gain. Not a punishing blow, but a message.
He stood slowly, letting the crowd’s renewed roar wash over him. The student section erupted, purple and gold flags waving wildly.
Royce didn’t celebrate. He just adjusted his gloves, jaw clenched, scanning the backfield again. His breathing was measured, but beneath it, something steadier had returned — not confidence, exactly, but clarity.
…
The huddle broke, and Auburn jogged to the line again. The stadium swelled with noise — not deafening yet, but close, a warning growl from over 100,000. Royce crouched again at the second level, left foot slightly behind, weight perfectly balanced.
The pain in his ankle had dulled into something ignorable — a background hum. The kind of ache you could live with when something more important was on the line.
Auburn tried to move quickly, calling a stretch play to the short side of the field, hoping to catch LSU off rhythm.
But Royce had already shifted.
The moment the ball was snapped, he was moving, slipping past the pulling tackle like smoke, a flash of gold and violence. The running back saw him a half-second too late, tried to plant and cut inside — and Royce met him in the backfield with his shoulder low and arms wrapping high.
They hit the ground hard, the back landing sideways with a grunt. Loss of three.
Tiger Stadium came unglued.
Royce popped up, no flex, no yell — just a slow head nod as he stared into the Auburn sideline. His teammates swarmed him, slapping helmets and pads. But Royce didn’t break his focus.
He looked at the down marker. Third and long.
…
Auburn broke the huddle slower this time. Third and long. The crowd had found its full voice now, thundering down from the upper decks like waves crashing against a seawall.
Royce stood in the middle of it, eyes locked on Geriner. His breath steady, low.
The snap came. Auburn ran a quick screen to the right—Royce saw it unfolding before the linemen even peeled off. The running back caught the ball at the numbers and turned upfield just as Royce knifed through the bodies like a heat-seeking missile. One blocker got a hand on him. It wasn’t enough.
Royce dropped the back at the fifteen. A six-yard gain. Still nine short of the sticks.
He rolled off and popped up again, this time with more fire, clapping both hands together once—sharp, final. The message was clear: that was it.
Auburn’s field goal unit jogged on.
Royce didn’t look toward the sideline. He didn’t need to. He was already walking back to the LSU bench, helmet in hand, chest rising and falling with quiet intensity.
…
“Auburn’s field goal is good—26 to 23 now, and LSU’s turn. They’ve got one play to win it or keep fighting. First and ten from the 25… Rickie Collins still out there, flanked by Kaleb Jackson… Billiot wide right.”
“You want your quarterback to grow up? This is the moment. One play. One throw.”
“Collins claps… takes the snap… Billiot gets a step down the right sideline… DEEP BALL—CAUGHT! TOUUCCHDOOWWWNNN LSU!”
“GAME OVER! THAT’S BALL GAME IN BATON ROUGE!”
“Rickie Collins hits Kylan Billiot in stride—and LSU walks it off in double overtime! The Tigers survive Auburn, 29 to 26!”
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7888
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Boy hung on for dear life in this one 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16883
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Championship teams find a way to win
