Who the two?
His nickname or where he's from?
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16854
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16854
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Chance at Redemption
The lights in the team meeting room were dimmed, casting a soft glow on the projector screen at the front. ESPN’s College Football Playoff Selection Show blared from the speakers, but in the room itself, it was unnaturally quiet. A few players leaned forward in their chairs, elbows braced on knees, heads in hands. Others sat back with their arms crossed or legs bouncing. The tension clung to the walls.
Royce sat at the very top of the room, wedged in the back row between Eric and Gio, hoping the cameras scanning the room wouldn’t pan high enough to catch him. The further he was from the front, the less likely someone would try to talk to him. He slouched low, hood up, phone face-down beside him on the armrest.
Jay sat one row down, nervously tapping a ring against his teeth. Dorian was staring straight ahead like he could will the names onto the screen with just his eyes.
As the first four teams were announced—Oklahoma. Miami. Cincinnati. Oregon—groans and mumbled curses rippled across the room. Not because those teams didn’t deserve it, but because LSU didn’t.
Royce leaned toward Eric, voice low.
"Real shit, I kinda hope we don’t get in. Least then I know the season ends in one more game."
Eric raised an eyebrow. "You tired?"
"Yeah, I’m fucking tired."
Gio turned around in his seat. "You soft now? This you trying to not get injured before hitting the draft?"
Jay chimed in with a grin. "Bro said he tryna schedule his vacation early."
Royce managed a dry smile but didn’t answer. Truth was, he was tired—bone-deep, brain-wrung tired. The kind of tired no amount of sleep or lifting could fix. The kind that came from feeling like you’d been dragging yourself uphill all year and just now realized there was still another climb left.
He didn’t think they had it in them.
The screen cut to commercial and the entire room shifted—shoulders rolled back, necks cracked, quick swigs from water bottles. Some players prayed under their breath. Others muttered about matchups, about chances, about God. One freshman had his eyes squeezed shut the whole time.
When the broadcast returned, the room leaned forward collectively.
The next block of teams flashed onto the screen: North Carolina. Tennessee. Alabama. Texas A&M.
More shifting. Tension ratcheted up.
Then: Florida. Texas Tech. Southern Miss.
A pause.
Everyone held their breath.
"And rounding out the College Football Playoff field as the number eleven seed... LSU."
The room exploded. Chairs scraped. Yells echoed. Someone threw a water bottle straight into the air and didn’t catch it on the way down. The room became chaos.
Royce blinked slowly.
He let the roar of the room wash over him but didn’t move. Eric slapped his back. Gio turned and gave him a wide-eyed nod. Dorian shouted something about redemption.
They were playing Texas A&M again.
Royce stared at the screen as their bracket line was highlighted. A rematch. In College Station. Two weeks.
Coach Lanning stepped up to the front, raising his voice above the noise.
"Enjoy this moment," he said. "But remember—this means you’ve got two weeks to get your mind right. This ain’t just a game. This is war. And it’s in their house. You better be ready to work."
The cheering didn’t stop immediately, but it did settle into something more serious. The weight of what came next settled onto their shoulders.
Royce exhaled through his nose and looked down at his phone. Still nothing.
He picked it up, flipped it face-down again, and leaned back in his chair.
Two more weeks. He couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.
~~~~~~~~~~
Toni stood at the counter, stirring the pot of red beans with slow, practiced motions. The scent of smoked sausage and thyme curled through the kitchen, familiar but no longer comforting. The faint buzz of her phone on the windowsill behind her made her glance over her shoulder, but she didn’t move to check it.
Instead, she wiped her hands on a towel and stepped away from the stove. She unlocked her phone and opened her contacts, scrolling slowly.
She passed old names—people she used to laugh with, cry with, breathe around. Her thumb hovered over one entry that used to sit under “Favorites.” A-R-I-A-N-N-A.
The contact had been deleted months ago. Not blocked. Just… erased, like clearing a chalkboard that had too many words written all over it.
She tapped “Add Contact.”
Name: Arianna
That was all. No emoji. No heart. No nickname.
Then she tapped the star at the top of the screen—added her to favorites. Quietly, privately. A silent act of something that wasn’t quite forgiveness, but wasn’t avoidance either.
She locked her phone and set it screen-down on the table.
The red beans hissed as they hit a rolling bubble.
She didn’t hear Deshawn until he came behind her. His footsteps were always soft. Intentional.
His hand reached for her phone.
“Don’t,” she said without looking.
There was no tension in her voice. Just calm. Final.
“It’s hot.”
The air shifted.
Deshawn’s fingers hovered over the phone for a beat longer than necessary before pulling back. He smirked, the way someone does when they think they’re being teased but know they’re not. His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned on the counter beside her.
“You good?” he asked.
Toni didn’t answer. Not right away.
She turned the heat down on the stove and gave the pot one last stir.
Then she picked up her bowl, not bothering to fill it, and walked out of the kitchen.
Deshawn didn’t follow.
She went to the living room, curled up on the end of the couch, and let the silence drape over her like a blanket. The TV played something she wasn’t watching. Her phone sat next to her, facedown again. The star beside Arianna’s name still shining quietly behind the glass.
This time, she didn’t delete it.
And for the first time in a long time, she was the one who walked away first.
~~~~~~~~~~
The dishwasher hummed low in the background, its slow cycle stretching into the quiet of the house. The kids were asleep, the lights dimmed to a warm amber glow, and the December cold pressed faintly against the windows. Tyrell sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees.
Rana’s voice was soft but heavy. “He doesn’t have much longer.”
Tyrell leaned back slowly. “Reg?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t say anything else for a moment. Tyrell heard her breathing—slow, measured, like she was holding something in her chest that she wasn’t ready to say out loud yet.
“I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to convince Royce to go see him,” she finally murmured.
Tyrell scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “You’ve talked to him?”
“I’ve tried.” Her voice cracked in that almost-invisible way—just a fracture beneath the surface. “He shuts down the second I bring it up. Like if he doesn’t talk about it, it won’t matter.”
Tyrell exhaled through his nose. “Royce’s always been like that. Even before everything. Since I met him, he’s had this wall around him. And the older he gets, the higher it gets.”
“I know,” Rana said. “I just—” Her voice wavered again. “I don’t want him to look back one day and wish he’d handled this differently. I don’t want him to add another weight he can’t set down.”
Tyrell nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “That boy’s been carrying more than most grown men since he was a kid. But he’s a man now. He’s gotta make his own choices.”
There was silence again. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full.
“He’s still my little brother,” she said after a while. “Even when he makes it impossible.”
Tyrell reached for the remote, turned down the volume on the TV that had been playing some rerun in the background. “I know.”
“I don’t think I have it in me to keep pushing him.”
“Maybe you don’t need to,” Tyrell said. “Maybe all you can do now is tell him once more. And then let him live with it.”
Rana sniffed softly. “He doesn’t need more regret.”
Tyrell leaned forward again, his voice low. “You’re right. But you can’t carry that for him, baby. He’s got to decide what kind of man he wants to be.”
She didn’t respond right away, and he let the silence hold for her.
“I’ll try again tomorrow,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“That’s all you can do.”
Tyrell heard her exhale, long and tired. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
The dishwasher clicked off in the kitchen. The house settled deeper into quiet.
Tyrell didn’t say anything else. Just leaned back and reached for her hand where it rested on the blanket. She didn’t pull away.
The house stayed quiet around them. They sat like that for a while—two people with too many thoughts and not enough ways to say them—holding hands in the dark.
The lights in the team meeting room were dimmed, casting a soft glow on the projector screen at the front. ESPN’s College Football Playoff Selection Show blared from the speakers, but in the room itself, it was unnaturally quiet. A few players leaned forward in their chairs, elbows braced on knees, heads in hands. Others sat back with their arms crossed or legs bouncing. The tension clung to the walls.
Royce sat at the very top of the room, wedged in the back row between Eric and Gio, hoping the cameras scanning the room wouldn’t pan high enough to catch him. The further he was from the front, the less likely someone would try to talk to him. He slouched low, hood up, phone face-down beside him on the armrest.
Jay sat one row down, nervously tapping a ring against his teeth. Dorian was staring straight ahead like he could will the names onto the screen with just his eyes.
As the first four teams were announced—Oklahoma. Miami. Cincinnati. Oregon—groans and mumbled curses rippled across the room. Not because those teams didn’t deserve it, but because LSU didn’t.
Royce leaned toward Eric, voice low.
"Real shit, I kinda hope we don’t get in. Least then I know the season ends in one more game."
Eric raised an eyebrow. "You tired?"
"Yeah, I’m fucking tired."
Gio turned around in his seat. "You soft now? This you trying to not get injured before hitting the draft?"
Jay chimed in with a grin. "Bro said he tryna schedule his vacation early."
Royce managed a dry smile but didn’t answer. Truth was, he was tired—bone-deep, brain-wrung tired. The kind of tired no amount of sleep or lifting could fix. The kind that came from feeling like you’d been dragging yourself uphill all year and just now realized there was still another climb left.
He didn’t think they had it in them.
The screen cut to commercial and the entire room shifted—shoulders rolled back, necks cracked, quick swigs from water bottles. Some players prayed under their breath. Others muttered about matchups, about chances, about God. One freshman had his eyes squeezed shut the whole time.
When the broadcast returned, the room leaned forward collectively.
The next block of teams flashed onto the screen: North Carolina. Tennessee. Alabama. Texas A&M.
More shifting. Tension ratcheted up.
Then: Florida. Texas Tech. Southern Miss.
A pause.
Everyone held their breath.
"And rounding out the College Football Playoff field as the number eleven seed... LSU."
The room exploded. Chairs scraped. Yells echoed. Someone threw a water bottle straight into the air and didn’t catch it on the way down. The room became chaos.
Royce blinked slowly.
He let the roar of the room wash over him but didn’t move. Eric slapped his back. Gio turned and gave him a wide-eyed nod. Dorian shouted something about redemption.
They were playing Texas A&M again.
Royce stared at the screen as their bracket line was highlighted. A rematch. In College Station. Two weeks.
Coach Lanning stepped up to the front, raising his voice above the noise.
"Enjoy this moment," he said. "But remember—this means you’ve got two weeks to get your mind right. This ain’t just a game. This is war. And it’s in their house. You better be ready to work."
The cheering didn’t stop immediately, but it did settle into something more serious. The weight of what came next settled onto their shoulders.
Royce exhaled through his nose and looked down at his phone. Still nothing.
He picked it up, flipped it face-down again, and leaned back in his chair.
Two more weeks. He couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.
~~~~~~~~~~
Toni stood at the counter, stirring the pot of red beans with slow, practiced motions. The scent of smoked sausage and thyme curled through the kitchen, familiar but no longer comforting. The faint buzz of her phone on the windowsill behind her made her glance over her shoulder, but she didn’t move to check it.
Instead, she wiped her hands on a towel and stepped away from the stove. She unlocked her phone and opened her contacts, scrolling slowly.
She passed old names—people she used to laugh with, cry with, breathe around. Her thumb hovered over one entry that used to sit under “Favorites.” A-R-I-A-N-N-A.
The contact had been deleted months ago. Not blocked. Just… erased, like clearing a chalkboard that had too many words written all over it.
She tapped “Add Contact.”
Name: Arianna
That was all. No emoji. No heart. No nickname.
Then she tapped the star at the top of the screen—added her to favorites. Quietly, privately. A silent act of something that wasn’t quite forgiveness, but wasn’t avoidance either.
She locked her phone and set it screen-down on the table.
The red beans hissed as they hit a rolling bubble.
She didn’t hear Deshawn until he came behind her. His footsteps were always soft. Intentional.
His hand reached for her phone.
“Don’t,” she said without looking.
There was no tension in her voice. Just calm. Final.
“It’s hot.”
The air shifted.
Deshawn’s fingers hovered over the phone for a beat longer than necessary before pulling back. He smirked, the way someone does when they think they’re being teased but know they’re not. His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned on the counter beside her.
“You good?” he asked.
Toni didn’t answer. Not right away.
She turned the heat down on the stove and gave the pot one last stir.
Then she picked up her bowl, not bothering to fill it, and walked out of the kitchen.
Deshawn didn’t follow.
She went to the living room, curled up on the end of the couch, and let the silence drape over her like a blanket. The TV played something she wasn’t watching. Her phone sat next to her, facedown again. The star beside Arianna’s name still shining quietly behind the glass.
This time, she didn’t delete it.
And for the first time in a long time, she was the one who walked away first.
~~~~~~~~~~
The dishwasher hummed low in the background, its slow cycle stretching into the quiet of the house. The kids were asleep, the lights dimmed to a warm amber glow, and the December cold pressed faintly against the windows. Tyrell sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees.
Rana’s voice was soft but heavy. “He doesn’t have much longer.”
Tyrell leaned back slowly. “Reg?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t say anything else for a moment. Tyrell heard her breathing—slow, measured, like she was holding something in her chest that she wasn’t ready to say out loud yet.
“I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to convince Royce to go see him,” she finally murmured.
Tyrell scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “You’ve talked to him?”
“I’ve tried.” Her voice cracked in that almost-invisible way—just a fracture beneath the surface. “He shuts down the second I bring it up. Like if he doesn’t talk about it, it won’t matter.”
Tyrell exhaled through his nose. “Royce’s always been like that. Even before everything. Since I met him, he’s had this wall around him. And the older he gets, the higher it gets.”
“I know,” Rana said. “I just—” Her voice wavered again. “I don’t want him to look back one day and wish he’d handled this differently. I don’t want him to add another weight he can’t set down.”
Tyrell nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “That boy’s been carrying more than most grown men since he was a kid. But he’s a man now. He’s gotta make his own choices.”
There was silence again. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full.
“He’s still my little brother,” she said after a while. “Even when he makes it impossible.”
Tyrell reached for the remote, turned down the volume on the TV that had been playing some rerun in the background. “I know.”
“I don’t think I have it in me to keep pushing him.”
“Maybe you don’t need to,” Tyrell said. “Maybe all you can do now is tell him once more. And then let him live with it.”
Rana sniffed softly. “He doesn’t need more regret.”
Tyrell leaned forward again, his voice low. “You’re right. But you can’t carry that for him, baby. He’s got to decide what kind of man he wants to be.”
She didn’t respond right away, and he let the silence hold for her.
“I’ll try again tomorrow,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“That’s all you can do.”
Tyrell heard her exhale, long and tired. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
The dishwasher clicked off in the kitchen. The house settled deeper into quiet.
Tyrell didn’t say anything else. Just leaned back and reached for her hand where it rested on the blanket. She didn’t pull away.
The house stayed quiet around them. They sat like that for a while—two people with too many thoughts and not enough ways to say them—holding hands in the dark.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7866
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Rematch 
can't get spanked again
can't get spanked again-
Soapy
- Posts: 16600
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16854
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Getting it back in blood
Shouldn’t have stopped linking the character bios at the top of the pages.
Poochie is Meech’s cousin. He played football for Catholic High when the gang was at U-High. He and Malik were homies and grew up down the street from one another but had an unspecified falling out. Ipso facto, Poochie and Royce never been cool. He went to Alabama, pissed down his leg. Transferred to Mercer, flamed out. Now he’s back in Bagon Rouge.
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Rana at the house with Tyrell or they on the phone?
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16854
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Routine
The locker room didn’t feel like a playoff locker room. It was quiet—not the laser-focused kind that comes before a big game, but something hollow. Stale. Royce sat on the bench, his hoodie clinging damp against his neck, slowly taping his ankle out of habit more than need. He hadn’t needed it since Auburn. But lately, routine was one of the only things still grounding him.
In the film room, the projector cast flickering shadows across tired eyes. Texas A&M’s last win looped through frame by frame: blown coverages, missed keys, poor leverage. Royce watched it all in silence. His pen didn’t move. His posture didn’t shift. He just… sat there.
Eric glanced his way more than once. Gio nudged him gently, trying to lighten the mood. “That same back cut backside again, bruh. Might as well give him a map next time.”
Royce didn’t look up.
Afterward, the room emptied except for Coach Lupoi, who lingered by the door. He watched Royce for a second, then stepped closer and dropped a hand on his shoulder.
“You alright?”
Royce nodded. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t convincing. Lupoi stared at him a beat longer, then gave a single nod. “You know where my office is.”
Later, in the weight room, the clanking of plates was sharp and mechanical. No music. Just steel and breath and silence. Royce worked through the sets. Not pushing himself, not lagging. Just moving. A body going through the checklist.
Coach Lanning called them in before they broke.
“Everybody in.”
They circled close, sweaty and worn. His voice was steady, but there was an edge in it.
“A lot of people already counted us out,” he said. “They think what happened in November is what’s gonna happen again. You want to prove them right? Keep going through the motions.”
He let that sit for a second.
“You want to make it mean something? Wake the hell up. Every rep, every second—this is it. Ain’t no third shot after this.”
The team clapped. Royce didn’t.
That night, his phone buzzed.
Delpit.
Royce almost let it go to voicemail. Then answered.
“Yeah.”
Delpit didn’t waste time. “Been thinking about our last talk. Where’s your head at?”
Royce leaned against the counter, staring into the dark of his apartment. “Still figuring it out.”
Delpit exhaled. “If you wanted to be invisible, you should’ve made that choice when you were still at U-High. But you didn’t. You put on purple and gold. You suited up. You built something. Now if you back down, that’s what people remember. Not what you did—but what you could’ve done.”
Royce said nothing.
“You go back,” Delpit continued, “you’re a has-been. A never-was. And the last thing you want to be wondering for the next sixty years is what if.”
The silence stretched. Royce stared at the wall, still not sure what he felt. Just… tired.
“I hear you,” he finally said.
“Good,” Delpit replied. “Because I don’t plan on saying it twice.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The office was quiet after hours, the hum of the air conditioner and the soft shuffle of paper the only sounds left behind. Outside the tall windows of Roux Interiors, the city glowed under a December haze, Baton Rouge's skyline blurred by fog and the gentle blink of holiday lights wrapped around lampposts. Alix sat cross-legged in her chair, hair twisted into a low bun, a mug of tea gone cold beside her.
The design board in front of her was nearly complete. Fabric swatches—velvet sage, cream boucle—tacked beside renderings of custom cabinetry and sketched furniture lines. A narrow brass light fixture arced gracefully across the top corner of the board. She stared at it for a long time, then adjusted it just slightly.
She leaned back, exhaling through her nose. Tired, but not the kind of tired that begged for sleep—more the kind that comes from being too focused for too long.
Her phone buzzed.
Co: New episode dropped. I haven’t watched it yet. Waiting on you like a gentleman.
A smile crept onto her face before she could stop it. She set the phone down beside her and rolled her eyes, even though she was still smiling. He always texted like that—half earnest, half teasing. Lately, their conversations had taken on a rhythm, comfortable and warm. Nothing heavy. Nothing she had to carry.
She reached for her mug and took a sip, forgetting it had gone cold. She grimaced and stood to rinse it out when a voice called from behind her.
“You’re still here?”
Alix turned to see Renne, her boss at Roux Interiors, stepping out of her office, blazer draped over one arm and her heels clicking softly on the wood floor.
“Just finishing the board for the Rodrigue pitch,” Alix said, brushing her hands down her slacks. “I didn’t like the original color layout, so I reworked it.”
Renne walked over and studied the board. Her expression was thoughtful, appraising. Then she nodded.
“You’re not just talented,” she said. “You’ve got follow-through. That’s rarer.”
Alix blinked, caught off guard. She ducked her head. “Thank you. I mean it. That means a lot.”
“You should mean it,” Renne replied, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You’ve got instincts. Just don’t forget to trust them.”
Alix nodded. As Renne walked off, she hesitated in the doorway.
“By the way, take the weekend. Don’t come in. You’ve earned it.”
Alix offered a grateful smile. “Will do.”
When the door shut behind her, the quiet returned, but it felt less heavy now. Alix sat again, glanced at her phone, still lit up with Co’s message. Her thumb hovered for a second before she replied.
You’re stalling. I know you already watched it and you’re just waiting to see if I cried first.
She hit send, then laughed softly to herself. It was a good laugh. A real one.
The office, the board, the fabric, the text—none of it had anything to do with Royce. And for the first time in a while, that felt like a step forward.
She gathered her things slowly, slipping the board into its case and zipping her bag. When she flicked off the lights, the shadows stretched across the room, long and calm.
Outside, the air was cold on her face, the kind that smelled like winter, even in Louisiana. She took a breath, letting it fill her lungs.
She was going home alone. And she was okay with that.
~~~~~~~~~~
Poochie didn’t knock at first.
He stood outside the door of the third-floor apartment, his fists buried in the front pocket of his hoodie, shoulders stiff against the December air. The fluorescent light above the breezeway flickered once, then stayed lit, humming low like a warning. He rocked back on his heels, jaw tight, the chill settling into his fingertips.
Then he knocked. Hard.
A few seconds passed. Then footsteps.
The door opened just a crack, a girl he didn’t recognize peeking through the space. She wore a bonnet, oversized sweatshirt, and cautious eyes.
“Uh… can I help you?”
“I need to talk to Natalia,” Poochie said, voice low, clipped.
The girl blinked. “She’s not—she’s in the shower.”
Poochie didn’t move.
The girl shifted, hand tightening on the doorknob. “Who are you?”
“I’m her boyfriend.”
The girl looked at him more closely. “Ex, right?”
That stung more than he let show. He didn’t respond—just stared, letting the silence settle.
Eventually, the girl sighed and left the door half-cracked as she disappeared into the apartment.
He heard her call out. “Nat? There’s some dude out here saying he’s your man.”
Water turned off. Bare feet padded across linoleum. Then Natalia appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a towel, skin damp and steaming.
Her eyes locked on him, unreadable. “What the fuck are you doing here, Eric?”
“You been ignoring me.”
“I’ve been busy.”
He tried to push past her into the apartment.
She didn’t move. “Don’t. I’m not doing this tonight.”
He froze there, inches from her, chest rising and falling.
“How long you been fucking Royce?”
The words dropped like a hammer.
Natalia blinked once, slowly. “Wow.”
Poochie clenched his jaw. “You think I don’t see what’s going on? You think I don’t know he been sniffing around?”
“We hooked up once,” she said, flat. “Once. And I barely even liked it.”
Poochie flinched.
“But it don’t even matter,” she added. “You made your choice, remember? You picked Meech. You picked that little fantasy y’all play out every weekend—running around Baton Rouge like y’all in a damn movie.”
She looked at him, towel still clutched at her chest, steam still rising from her shoulders. Her eyes were sharper than the last time he’d seen her. Harder.
“You chose being a pretend gangster over me,” she said. “So don’t come banging on my door like you forgot.”
Poochie stared at her. Then nodded, once.
“Cool,” he said quietly.
He stepped back from the doorway.
The roommate had reappeared behind Natalia, watching everything.
Poochie turned without another word and walked down the breezeway, the echo of his footsteps chasing him into the night.
The locker room didn’t feel like a playoff locker room. It was quiet—not the laser-focused kind that comes before a big game, but something hollow. Stale. Royce sat on the bench, his hoodie clinging damp against his neck, slowly taping his ankle out of habit more than need. He hadn’t needed it since Auburn. But lately, routine was one of the only things still grounding him.
In the film room, the projector cast flickering shadows across tired eyes. Texas A&M’s last win looped through frame by frame: blown coverages, missed keys, poor leverage. Royce watched it all in silence. His pen didn’t move. His posture didn’t shift. He just… sat there.
Eric glanced his way more than once. Gio nudged him gently, trying to lighten the mood. “That same back cut backside again, bruh. Might as well give him a map next time.”
Royce didn’t look up.
Afterward, the room emptied except for Coach Lupoi, who lingered by the door. He watched Royce for a second, then stepped closer and dropped a hand on his shoulder.
“You alright?”
Royce nodded. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t convincing. Lupoi stared at him a beat longer, then gave a single nod. “You know where my office is.”
Later, in the weight room, the clanking of plates was sharp and mechanical. No music. Just steel and breath and silence. Royce worked through the sets. Not pushing himself, not lagging. Just moving. A body going through the checklist.
Coach Lanning called them in before they broke.
“Everybody in.”
They circled close, sweaty and worn. His voice was steady, but there was an edge in it.
“A lot of people already counted us out,” he said. “They think what happened in November is what’s gonna happen again. You want to prove them right? Keep going through the motions.”
He let that sit for a second.
“You want to make it mean something? Wake the hell up. Every rep, every second—this is it. Ain’t no third shot after this.”
The team clapped. Royce didn’t.
That night, his phone buzzed.
Delpit.
Royce almost let it go to voicemail. Then answered.
“Yeah.”
Delpit didn’t waste time. “Been thinking about our last talk. Where’s your head at?”
Royce leaned against the counter, staring into the dark of his apartment. “Still figuring it out.”
Delpit exhaled. “If you wanted to be invisible, you should’ve made that choice when you were still at U-High. But you didn’t. You put on purple and gold. You suited up. You built something. Now if you back down, that’s what people remember. Not what you did—but what you could’ve done.”
Royce said nothing.
“You go back,” Delpit continued, “you’re a has-been. A never-was. And the last thing you want to be wondering for the next sixty years is what if.”
The silence stretched. Royce stared at the wall, still not sure what he felt. Just… tired.
“I hear you,” he finally said.
“Good,” Delpit replied. “Because I don’t plan on saying it twice.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The office was quiet after hours, the hum of the air conditioner and the soft shuffle of paper the only sounds left behind. Outside the tall windows of Roux Interiors, the city glowed under a December haze, Baton Rouge's skyline blurred by fog and the gentle blink of holiday lights wrapped around lampposts. Alix sat cross-legged in her chair, hair twisted into a low bun, a mug of tea gone cold beside her.
The design board in front of her was nearly complete. Fabric swatches—velvet sage, cream boucle—tacked beside renderings of custom cabinetry and sketched furniture lines. A narrow brass light fixture arced gracefully across the top corner of the board. She stared at it for a long time, then adjusted it just slightly.
She leaned back, exhaling through her nose. Tired, but not the kind of tired that begged for sleep—more the kind that comes from being too focused for too long.
Her phone buzzed.
Co: New episode dropped. I haven’t watched it yet. Waiting on you like a gentleman.
A smile crept onto her face before she could stop it. She set the phone down beside her and rolled her eyes, even though she was still smiling. He always texted like that—half earnest, half teasing. Lately, their conversations had taken on a rhythm, comfortable and warm. Nothing heavy. Nothing she had to carry.
She reached for her mug and took a sip, forgetting it had gone cold. She grimaced and stood to rinse it out when a voice called from behind her.
“You’re still here?”
Alix turned to see Renne, her boss at Roux Interiors, stepping out of her office, blazer draped over one arm and her heels clicking softly on the wood floor.
“Just finishing the board for the Rodrigue pitch,” Alix said, brushing her hands down her slacks. “I didn’t like the original color layout, so I reworked it.”
Renne walked over and studied the board. Her expression was thoughtful, appraising. Then she nodded.
“You’re not just talented,” she said. “You’ve got follow-through. That’s rarer.”
Alix blinked, caught off guard. She ducked her head. “Thank you. I mean it. That means a lot.”
“You should mean it,” Renne replied, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You’ve got instincts. Just don’t forget to trust them.”
Alix nodded. As Renne walked off, she hesitated in the doorway.
“By the way, take the weekend. Don’t come in. You’ve earned it.”
Alix offered a grateful smile. “Will do.”
When the door shut behind her, the quiet returned, but it felt less heavy now. Alix sat again, glanced at her phone, still lit up with Co’s message. Her thumb hovered for a second before she replied.
You’re stalling. I know you already watched it and you’re just waiting to see if I cried first.
She hit send, then laughed softly to herself. It was a good laugh. A real one.
The office, the board, the fabric, the text—none of it had anything to do with Royce. And for the first time in a while, that felt like a step forward.
She gathered her things slowly, slipping the board into its case and zipping her bag. When she flicked off the lights, the shadows stretched across the room, long and calm.
Outside, the air was cold on her face, the kind that smelled like winter, even in Louisiana. She took a breath, letting it fill her lungs.
She was going home alone. And she was okay with that.
~~~~~~~~~~
Poochie didn’t knock at first.
He stood outside the door of the third-floor apartment, his fists buried in the front pocket of his hoodie, shoulders stiff against the December air. The fluorescent light above the breezeway flickered once, then stayed lit, humming low like a warning. He rocked back on his heels, jaw tight, the chill settling into his fingertips.
Then he knocked. Hard.
A few seconds passed. Then footsteps.
The door opened just a crack, a girl he didn’t recognize peeking through the space. She wore a bonnet, oversized sweatshirt, and cautious eyes.
“Uh… can I help you?”
“I need to talk to Natalia,” Poochie said, voice low, clipped.
The girl blinked. “She’s not—she’s in the shower.”
Poochie didn’t move.
The girl shifted, hand tightening on the doorknob. “Who are you?”
“I’m her boyfriend.”
The girl looked at him more closely. “Ex, right?”
That stung more than he let show. He didn’t respond—just stared, letting the silence settle.
Eventually, the girl sighed and left the door half-cracked as she disappeared into the apartment.
He heard her call out. “Nat? There’s some dude out here saying he’s your man.”
Water turned off. Bare feet padded across linoleum. Then Natalia appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a towel, skin damp and steaming.
Her eyes locked on him, unreadable. “What the fuck are you doing here, Eric?”
“You been ignoring me.”
“I’ve been busy.”
He tried to push past her into the apartment.
She didn’t move. “Don’t. I’m not doing this tonight.”
He froze there, inches from her, chest rising and falling.
“How long you been fucking Royce?”
The words dropped like a hammer.
Natalia blinked once, slowly. “Wow.”
Poochie clenched his jaw. “You think I don’t see what’s going on? You think I don’t know he been sniffing around?”
“We hooked up once,” she said, flat. “Once. And I barely even liked it.”
Poochie flinched.
“But it don’t even matter,” she added. “You made your choice, remember? You picked Meech. You picked that little fantasy y’all play out every weekend—running around Baton Rouge like y’all in a damn movie.”
She looked at him, towel still clutched at her chest, steam still rising from her shoulders. Her eyes were sharper than the last time he’d seen her. Harder.
“You chose being a pretend gangster over me,” she said. “So don’t come banging on my door like you forgot.”
Poochie stared at her. Then nodded, once.
“Cool,” he said quietly.
He stepped back from the doorway.
The roommate had reappeared behind Natalia, watching everything.
Poochie turned without another word and walked down the breezeway, the echo of his footsteps chasing him into the night.
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Soapy
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
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