White Noise Christmas
The facility was already half-empty by the time Royce slid his duffel over one shoulder and stepped out into the biting Christmas Eve air. A few of the guys had dipped before the last film session even ended, dapping him up with half-laughs and half-lies—"I’ll hit you when I get back," "Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do," "Bet I come back fatter than you." The kind of brotherhood you feel more in the space it leaves behind than in the noise itself.
Now it was just wind and quiet. Baton Rouge had a way of going still in winter, like even the city was tired of pretending. The streets near campus were mostly empty, the sidewalks littered with dried leaves and forgotten flyers for parties that had come and gone.
Royce made the short drive back to his apartment without turning the music on. The silence wasn’t comforting, but it wasn’t suffocating either. It just was.
He unlocked the door to his place and stepped inside. The air was dry, still thick with the faint scent of his last protein shake and the detergent someone else had used to wash his game-day gear. The overhead lights buzzed as they flickered on, catching the faint sparkle of dust in the air like static.
The apartment was spotless, but not clean. No mess, no life. A couple of NIL event gift bags sat near the door, unopened. A pair of cleats still sat under the bar counter, meant for him to take a picture in for a brand deal. The couch cushion was still slumped on one side from where he always fell asleep after late-nights.
He dropped his duffel on the floor with a soft thud and pulled out his phone.
He sent a text to Roni: “Y’all made it up there?”
He waited.
The response came quicker than he expected. “Yes!! FaceTime!!”
He sighed, thumb hovering. Then he tapped “Accept.”
Her face filled the screen in a chaotic blur—flashes of wrapping paper, the tree in the background twinkling unevenly, the clatter of someone in the kitchen hollering about cornbread. She was grinning ear to ear, her hair pulled back in two low puffs, wearing a hoodie that looked suspiciously like one of his old ones.
"Roooooyce!" she dragged his name out like a dare. “Look at all this stuff!”
She flipped the camera around to show a mound of presents and then flipped it back, her face glowing with the joy of a kid who didn’t yet understand that not all holidays stayed this warm forever.
“You see what Tyrell got me?” she asked, turning her wrist so fast that the charm bracelet jingled like wind chimes.
Royce smiled faintly, letting the edges of it show without forcing anything. “That’s nice,” he said, voice low, but even.
“We’re doing gumbo for dinner, and they got this dessert that’s like a pie but not, and Rana said I can open another gift if I don’t tell Ty’s mama that her chicken nasty and—” She paused, narrowing her eyes at the screen. “Why you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like someone made you eat unsalted grits. It’s Christmas. You should smile at least once today.”
Royce blinked. The quiet behind her felt louder now. His thumb twitched over the side of the phone. He let the smile come—it was weak, half-hearted, but it made her smile back even bigger, and maybe that was enough.
“I’m good,” he murmured. “Go enjoy it.”
She made a face, a little frown that scrunched her nose in that way she used to do when they were younger and she didn’t believe him but wasn’t gonna call him out in front of grown folks.
“Okay. Love you,” she said.
Royce hesitated. Then: “Love you too.”
He ended the call before the silence could stretch too long. The screen went black.
He stood in the middle of the living room for a while, the quiet humming louder now that he’d let Roni’s world disappear. He turned toward the kitchen.
The fridge opened with a suctioned pop and washed him in pale, artificial light.
Three protein shakes, two opened. A bottle of Tito’s half gone. Another of Hennessy, less than half. A Styrofoam container that had been there long enough to grow culture. A single apple with a dented side. And nothing else.
Royce stood there, gripping the fridge door, the cold air crawling up his bare arms.
“Man, fuck this,” he muttered, pushing the door closed harder than necessary.
He grabbed a hoodie off the back of a chair—one of his older ones, the drawstrings frayed—and pulled it on without fixing the collar. No chain. No jewelry. No need.
His wallet was already in his back pocket, keys in hand.
He didn’t know where he was going.
Just not here.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun had started to dip behind the neighborhood rooftops, casting long golden arms over the cracked pavement. It wasn’t cold, but the air had that crispness Baton Rouge sometimes gave you in late December—a light bite to remind you it was Christmas, even if the grass was still green and the mosquitoes hadn’t gotten the memo.
Malik sat on a plastic folding chair outside his mama’s house, a solo cup balanced on his knee, and a half-eaten plate of barbecue on the makeshift table behind him. The dominoes clacked against the wooden board as his cousin Shad smacked down a double-six like he was declaring war.
“That’s twelve on the board, lil’ nigga,” Shad said with a grin that showed off his gold fronts. “Gone head and count it out.”
Malik shook his head and leaned back, laughing as he looked over at Jazlyn, who was tucked beside him on a milk crate turned sideways, knees pressed together in her tight jeans, curls piled on top of her head like a crown. She wasn’t saying much, just watching the game, sipping from her own cup, her eyes darting between the players with amusement and something close to caution.
“You gettin’ the hang of it yet?” Malik asked her.
She smirked. “Kinda. Still feels like y’all making up rules on the fly.”
“We is,” Malik said with a wink. “That’s how we keep the new folks off the table.”
The boys around the table laughed, the kind of laugh that wasn’t cruel, but still tested the waters of who belonged and who didn’t. Jazlyn took it in stride, raising her cup in mock salute before leaning into Malik’s side a little more.
He liked the way she handled herself—quiet, but not scared. She asked smart questions, gave smarter looks, and didn’t feel the need to outtalk anybody to make herself known. That meant something here, where silence was often louder than any story.
The music bumping from inside was something old—Zapp & Roger maybe, one of those tracks his momma swore made the food taste better. Smoke from the barbecue pit curled lazily through the air, mixing with the scent of sweat, grease, and cheap cologne. The world felt simple in that moment—warm plates, louder laughs, soft looks.
Then he saw him.
Poochie stood at the end of the driveway, hoodie pulled up over his dreads, blunt dangling between two fingers. He wasn’t moving, not really. Just standing there like a statue, framed by the last of the sunlight and the slow churn of smoke drifting from his lips.
Malik’s body tensed—not all at once, but just enough for Jazlyn to feel it. Her hand grazed his knee without looking at him.
He raised both arms slightly, palms out, eyebrows raised as if to say, What’s good?
Poochie didn’t move for a beat. Just stared back, like the distance between them wasn’t just concrete and dirt but something older, something heavier. Then, without a word, he flicked the blunt into the ditch, turned on his heel, and walked back inside.
Like Malik wasn’t even there.
The domino table got quiet for half a second—just long enough for the shift to be felt. One of the younger cousins glanced at Malik, but Shad kept the game going, slapping down a four with a sharp crack.
Jazlyn waited until the tension had settled back into the rhythm of the game before asking, low and calm, “Who was that?”
Malik didn’t look at her right away. He picked up a tile, stared at it like it held answers, then placed it gently on the table without making a play.
“Just a bitch ass nigga,” he said.
His voice was flat. Not angry. Not bitter. Just final.
Jazlyn studied him, but didn’t push. She just nodded once, eyes trailing back toward the front of the house.
Malik picked up his drink, took a long sip, and stared down the driveway.
Smoke still lingered in the air. Not from the pit this time.
From something left burning that neither of them had bothered to put out.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment smelled like cinnamon-scented candles and the burnt edge of a frozen lasagna that no one had admitted they’d left in too long. The scent curled in the corners of the living room like it had nowhere else to go. A half-empty bottle of cheap red wine stood on the coffee table, sweating against the glass coaster it wasn’t meant for.
Alix sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a slightly too-long sweater she’d pulled over her head that morning and never changed out of. It had a snag near the wrist and a loose thread that she kept winding around her finger absentmindedly. Her hair was in a messy bun, the kind she used to redo every couple of hours but now let collapse however it wanted.
Across from her, Simone was perched on the arm of the loveseat in a tank top and pajama pants with candy canes on them. She held her wine glass like it was a microphone, narrating her third failed situationship of the year like it was stand-up comedy.
"And I’m sitting there like a dumbass, letting this man tell me that he didn’t technically cheat, because it was just over FaceTime.” Simone widened her eyes and waved her hand dramatically. “FaceTime, y’all!”
Madi groaned from where she lay sprawled on the floor, one sock half-off, her head resting on a throw pillow that had seen better semesters. “He doesn’t even count as a man if he says ‘technically.’ That’s not even a full-grown word.”
Alix laughed—soft but real. The wine warmed her throat, but not enough to melt the tightness in her chest.
They’d been like this all evening. Sitting in the glow of secondhand string lights that flickered like they weren’t sure whether to give out or keep trying. The cactus on the windowsill had three tiny ornaments hanging off its arms and a glittery bow balanced precariously on top. Madi called it “the struggle tree.” Simone had named it “Hope.”
The apartment was quiet in that Christmas-in-college-town way, where most of the noise had gone home and left the silence behind. Alix could hear her own breathing sometimes. The occasional car passed by on the street outside. Everything felt distant. Even herself.
She leaned forward to pour more wine, careful not to spill it on the fabric of the couch she knew would stain if she even looked at it the wrong way. As she refilled her glass, Madi sat up and sighed.
“Do we all agree this was a bad year?”
“Terrible,” Simone said immediately.
“Ass,” Madi added.
“Unforgiving,” Alix murmured, twisting the thread around her finger again.
Simone pointed at her. “Yes! That’s the word. This year was so—ugh. Just rude.”
They laughed again. Not the deep belly kind. The survival kind.
Alix pulled her legs up tighter under her and stared at the cactus, the glittery bow catching a flash of light that made it almost pretty.
She hadn’t gone to Colorado with Marc, her mom, and Darius. They’d asked. Her mom had even called her from the airport to double-check. Alix had said she couldn’t—had the internship, had deliverables to turn in, and her boss was watching.
It wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t the truth, either.
The truth was, she didn’t want to spend five days being the person they forgot to take pictures of. The girl standing behind her brother in family photos. The one they loved but didn’t seem to see.
Here, she was... visible. To Madi. To Simone. To herself, when she tried.
Her phone buzzed on the arm of the couch. She picked it up, thumb already swiping, expecting something forgettable.
Co: Merry Christmas, Alix. Hope you’re staying warm out there.
She stared at the screen for a long moment, then tapped the little red heart on the message. A small gesture. But deliberate.
Then she pressed the side button and held it until the screen went black.
Madi didn’t ask. Simone didn’t notice.
Alix placed the phone face-down and leaned back against the couch, wine glass resting on her stomach. The warmth of it didn’t quite reach her fingers.
She looked at the cactus again.
Small. Crooked. A little ridiculous.
But still standing.
Still lit.
~~~~~~~~~~
The restaurant sat tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat, its chipped green awning flapping against the breeze like it had one more winter in it before giving out. The glow from inside spilled onto the sidewalk in a wide yellow smear, casting just enough light to make the worn lettering on the door legible: La Finca Salvadorian Grill. Open ‘til 9.
Royce stood out front for a moment, hands in his hoodie pocket, hood up against the sharp wind. He hadn’t planned on coming here. Hell, he hadn’t planned anything today. He’d just been driving, avoiding the silence of his apartment and the white-noise loneliness of a Christmas Eve where even the air felt too still. Then he remembered this place—how Kolaj once swore their pupusas saved his life after a night of drinking and how nobody else on the team had ever heard of it.
He stepped inside. The warmth hit his face first, followed by the smell—fried masa, slow-cooked pork, something vaguely sweet and citrusy hanging in the air like a memory. There were only two other tables occupied: a couple whispering over horchata near the window, and a girl in the back corner, legs crossed under the table, eyes half-lidded and focused on a small paperback in her hands.
Effie.
She hadn’t changed much. Hair piled up messily, loose curls falling around her temples like they’d chosen not to be tamed. Oversized hoodie, patched jeans, boots scuffed and unlaced. Her phone lay facedown beside a steaming plate of food she hadn’t touched. Her fingers drummed lightly against the spine of her book, but her eyes weren’t moving across the page.
Royce stood there too long before saying something.
“You always read when you eat?”
Effie looked up, one eyebrow arching lazily as her face slipped into a smirk. “Only when I’m wanting to be alone.”
He huffed a laugh and pulled his hood down. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She set the book aside, motioned to the empty chair across from her. “You didn’t. You hungry or just here to haunt people?”
Royce dropped into the seat, glancing at the laminated menu tucked between the salt shaker and a bottle of yellow hot sauce.
“I could eat.”
“You better. They close at nine. If you’d walked in ten minutes later, you’d be stuck with a PB&J from Circle K.”
He looked up at her, and she was grinning—playful, but with that edge she always had, like everything she said was balancing on a knife she could turn if she felt like it.
“You here alone?” he asked, letting his hand slide over the menu.
“Guess not anymore,” she said. “You’re welcome.”
Royce didn’t respond right away. The waitress came over—a woman with sharp cheekbones and tired eyes who clearly didn’t want to chat—and took their order with the efficiency of someone who’d been on her feet since noon.
When she left, Effie rested her chin on her fist and looked at him. Not hard, but not soft either.
“So,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t feel like being in the apartment.”
“No family thing?”
“Nah.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding slowly. “One of those.”
He raised an eyebrow. “One of what?”
“Those.”
Royce gave a faint smirk but said nothing. She tilted her head, watching him for a second longer before shifting back in her seat and picking up her water glass.
He asked, “What about you? Why didn’t you go home?”
She took a sip. Held it in her mouth. Swallowed.
Then looked past him, toward the window. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“That’s it?”
“Why does it need to be more than that?”
Royce paused, reading the shift in her posture. She wasn’t tense—Effie never really was—but she had that stillness that meant something had been boxed and shelved behind her words.
“Alright,” he said, voice quieter. “Just asking.”
She offered a tight smile. “I appreciate the concern. But I’m good.”
They sat in the quiet that followed—not awkward, just untouched. The kind of quiet that felt like it had earned its place. The food came—two plates of pupusas, curtido, fried plantains, and bowls of salsa so hot they could burn the paint off a wall. They ate slowly, with the comfort of people who didn’t need to fill the space between them with noise.
Effie talked a little about school. About how her professor forgot to submit grades before leaving for vacation. About how she’d started journaling again and hated everything she wrote. Royce listened more than he spoke, nodding when she needed it, offering the occasional low chuckle.
When they finished, she pushed her plate forward and leaned back in her chair, satisfied.
“Not bad for a place that looks like it should sell tires.”
Royce laughed, and it came from deeper in his chest this time.
As they walked out together into the night, Effie zipped her hoodie halfway and pulled her hair loose from the back. The cold caught them quick, wind slicing up the street like it had somewhere to be.
They paused on the sidewalk. Streetlight buzzed overhead, throwing pale shadows over the pavement.
“Well,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself, “back to the void, I guess.”
Royce pulled out his phone, glanced at it.
Nothing.
No messages. No missed calls. Just the time. 8:56 PM.
Effie raised an eyebrow. “You good?”
He locked the screen and stuffed the phone in his pocket.
“Yeah,” he said, meaning it just enough. “Thanks for eating with me.”
She smiled. Not wide, not fake. Just enough to say same here.
“Merry Christmas, Royce, and good luck in y’all’s game.”
Then she walked one way, and he walked the other, both fading into the soft, cold quiet of a city half asleep.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7856
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Two of the most miserable people I've ever read 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Who the second one?
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7856
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
She just insightful and got some skeletons, bro. #induetimeCaptain Canada wrote: ↑17 May 2025, 17:37Royce and Effie got some "stuff"
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
When You’re Dead and Gone
The facility was hot—unseasonably so. The kind of swampy, thick air that clung to every inch of your gear and made the sweat stick in all the wrong places. LSU’s full-install for Cincinnati in the Peach Bowl was in full swing, and everything felt like it mattered.
No jog-throughs. No light reps. No second chances.
Royce stood behind the second level of the defense, helmet loose in his hand, staring down the scout team like he could will them to snap the ball wrong.
Coach Lanning had said that morning, “This ain’t prep. This is pressure. If you can’t execute now, you’re gonna break in the fourth quarter.”
Royce wasn’t planning on breaking.
The offense shifted pre-snap, motioning the slot. Royce barked, eyes on the backfield.
“Motion, motion! Strong right—watch the leak, D!”
Dorian, standing at the edge spot, adjusted, shoulders bouncing. Royce saw it too late—he was locked in on the wrong assignment.
Mac chipped, released, and sailed untouched across the middle.
Wide open.
Rickie lofted it in stride.
“Fuck!” Royce exploded, slamming his hand against his thigh. “Dorian—what are you doing?”
Dorian turned, confused. “I thought we were staying in base—”
“Are you serious? We shifted to six-man pressure! You had seam!”
“I didn’t hear the call—”
Royce stepped toward him, eyes hard. “Then fucking ask! You know this shit!”
Dorian’s mouth opened like he had something else to say, but Coach Lupoi’s whistle cut the air sharp.
“Bring it back!” Lupoi barked. “Run it again from the top.”
Players jogged back to reset, a few heads down. Dorian shook his head, muttering to himself, jaw clenched.
Royce didn’t follow right away. He stood still, breathing like he’d just finished a sprint, the frustration thick in his chest.
Lupoi caught him before the next play. Walked up, voice low and even.
“Hey.”
Royce turned.
“You wanna lead?” Lupoi asked.
Royce nodded once. “Yeah.”
“Then lead,” Lupoi said. “Lead without breaking your people.”
Royce’s jaw worked. He looked past Lupoi toward the huddle where Dorian stood waiting.
“That ain’t some kid,” Lupoi continued. “That’s your boy. Don’t talk to him like he’s disposable.”
Royce said nothing. Just swallowed it.
“Get it right,” Lupoi added. “Both of you.”
Royce nodded again—quieter this time—and jogged back to the group.
…
The rest of practice rolled by with sharp edges and cold silences. The defense rallied, executed tighter, but the energy between Royce and Dorian stayed tense—neither one quite looking at the other.
After showering, Royce didn’t go straight to his car. He sat in the dining hall with a plate of chicken and broccoli he barely touched.
Dorian walked in a few minutes later, damp braids still flattened from his skullcap, and grabbed a plate of pasta and bread. He spotted Royce, hesitated for a second, then slid into the seat across from him without a word.
They ate in silence for a while. Cleats tapped across the tile behind them. Laughter from a table of DBs drifted over like static.
Finally, Dorian said, “I ain’t mean to blow it.”
Royce didn’t look up. “I know.”
Dorian poked at a meatball. “You ain’t have to yell at me like I was some lil’ nigga off the bench, though.”
Royce sighed, rubbed the side of his face. “I know.”
Dorian looked at him, half a smirk forming. “Coach pulled you, didn’t he?”
Royce nodded. “Told me to stop going upside y’all head when y’all fuck up.”
Dorian leaned back. “Damn. That’s wild. Especially because you be fucking up the most of all us.”
Royce cracked a small grin. “Shut yo bitch ass up.”
They sat like that a while longer—eating slowly, the heat of practice fading but the pressure still humming in the background.
Before they left, Royce tapped his fingers on the table. “You good for tomorrow?”
Dorian raised an eyebrow. “I’m good.”
Royce nodded. “Cool. ‘Cause I ain’t trying to lose now.”
Dorian stood and picked up his tray. “Now, your ass wanna win. What happened to wanting the season to be over?”
Royce shook his head but smiled.
They didn’t dap. Didn’t hug it out. Just moved in the same direction again.
That was enough for now.
~~~~~~~~~~
Laila’s bedroom smelled like warmth. Like vanilla lotion and the fabric softener she swore by—something sweet and clean that clung to her bedsheets and hoodie sleeves. The walls were soft lavender, strung with fairy lights that glowed dimly from where they looped around the corners. A photo strip of the two of them—Mike squinting, Laila making kissy faces—was pinned to her bulletin board, half curling at the edges from the humidity.
Mike sat on the edge of her bed, elbows resting on his knees, phone face down beside him. One sock on, the other dangling from his fingers. He wasn’t in a rush to put it back on. His hoodie was bunched around his elbows. The room was still.
He could hear muffled laughter from down the hall—Laila’s parents finishing a late movie, probably. The house had felt... good, for once. Like the world had stopped spinning long enough to let them be something normal.
Mike had laughed during dinner. Real laughter. He’d teased Laila about overcooking the rice and let her mom hug him twice. He’d helped her dad with the dishes without being asked. Peaceful. Warm. Like maybe this version of him—the one that didn’t flinch at loud knocks or unanswered texts—was starting to stick.
Then the phone buzzed.
He flipped it over without thinking.
Treg:
I see you back in town, lil’ nigga.
Don’t forget what you still owe me.
Running to Natchitoches ain’t clear that shit.
Mike stared at the screen. The kind of message that didn’t come with threats. Didn’t need them.
His jaw flexed.
He read it again. Then deleted it.
But it didn’t leave. It settled into his chest like a rock.
He was still sitting there, sock still in hand, when Laila walked in. She had two water bottles tucked under her arm and her hair wrapped in a pineapple puff on top of her head. She wore an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame and fuzzy socks that barely gripped the hardwood floor.
She pushed the door closed with her foot and tossed him one of the bottles. “Here. Before you try to steal mine like last time.”
Mike caught it with a soft smile. “Appreciate it.”
She flopped down next to him, sitting cross-legged, their thighs brushing.
“It’s freezing out there,” she said, tugging her sleeves over her hands. “My dad talking about how the cold ‘builds character.’ I said okay, you stand outside then.”
Mike chuckled, but it didn’t quite land.
Laila looked over at him. “You good?”
He nodded. Too quickly. “Yeah.”
“Sure?”
He hesitated. Then gave her the version that worked.
“Just thinking about the spring schedule. Might be some early morning stuff.”
Laila didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at him. Eyes steady, soft. The kind of look that made it hard to lie without feeling it later.
“Okay,” she said eventually. “I’ll start brewing your coffee at five, then.”
Mike smiled, turning toward her. “You don’t even drink coffee.”
“I don’t,” she said, bumping his shoulder. “But I’d make it for you.”
They sat like that for a moment. Not tense—just quiet. Her thumb brushed the edge of his hand, tracing the calluses he still carried from fall camp. She could tell something was bothering him, but she also knew not to crowd it.
“You really gonna keep doing football?” she asked, soft.
Mike shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
He nodded.
Outside, the wind rattled a loose screen. Inside, the house was calm.
But the phone on the nightstand, even deleted, still echoed.
Mike stared straight ahead.
And Laila, warm against his side, didn’t let go. Not yet. Not tonight.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce knew the way by now.
Up the elevator, past the receptionist who didn’t ask his name anymore, into the waiting room with the polished floor and fake-quiet music that tried to sound expensive. Delpit’s assistant offered water—he declined, like always—and the door buzzed open without a knock.
Same office. Same vibe. Nothing on the walls that wasn’t chosen with intention. A space that said: I know what I’m doing. Do you?
Delpit didn’t look up right away. He was standing by the window, back to Royce, arms crossed as he watched traffic bleed down Government Street.
“You ever think about what they’ll say when you’re gone?” he asked, before Royce could even sit down.
Royce raised an eyebrow. “You opening with death now?”
Delpit turned, smile thin. “I’m opening with legacy. Death’s just what makes it stick.”
Royce took the chair across from the desk, leaned back like he wasn’t tense. “We’ve had this talk.”
“No,” Delpit said, moving back to his desk, “we’ve circled this talk. We’ve grazed it. Tapped the edges. But we haven’t had it.”
He sat, adjusted the crease in his slacks. Everything about him, down to the way he poured water into his glass, was measured.
Royce didn’t speak. Just let the silence ride.
Delpit finally looked him in the eye. “You’re running out of time to decide what kind of man you’re gonna be when this jersey stops being your shield.”
Royce let out a slow breath through his nose. “And you’re gonna tell me who that is?”
Delpit chuckled. “No. I’m gonna tell you what I’d do. What I wish someone had told me.”
Royce nodded once. “Then say it.”
Delpit leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. “You’re in a position most young Black men will never touch. No kids. No drama. No messy cousin with your name on paperwork. You’ve got real leverage, Royce. Clean paper. And clean paper is power.”
Royce looked out the window now, jaw set.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you’ve been dancing around it,” Delpit said. “You’re still playing the game like you don’t want to offend the past. Like you owe something to someone who’d sell you for rent money.”
Royce’s eyes snapped back. “Man, that shit way off.”
“No, it’s not. And it’s real.”
Delpit stood again, walked toward the shelf behind his desk and ran a finger along the spine of a law journal he’d probably never read. “You ever wonder why so many of us get money and still end up with nothing to show for it? Why the people with all the talent end up broke, tired, and unprotected?”
Royce didn’t answer.
“Because they wait too long to stop surviving. Because they think the story has to end with struggle, or it doesn’t count.”
Delpit turned. “You don’t owe anyone a fairytale of pain, Royce. You survived. That’s enough.”
Royce’s throat felt tight, but he kept his expression flat.
“You asked me once what I would do in your position,” Delpit said. “You remember that?”
Royce nodded.
Delpit stepped closer, voice low but certain. “I’d be selfish. I’d build something so strong that no one could take it from me. No cousins knocking on the door. No aunties asking for rent. No ‘remember when’ sob stories.”
“I got people though,” Royce said. “You act like they ain’t part of the win.”
“They can be,” Delpit said. “But not if you let them eat before you’ve built the kitchen.”
That landed.
Royce looked down at his hands. His fingers were calloused from years of violence he’d been praised for. He flexed them, like that would shake the weight off.
Delpit softened just enough. “You’re not just some football player. You’re a story that someone’s gonna tell with or without your input. So ask yourself—when you’re dead and gone, what page do they turn to?”
Royce leaned back, quiet.
“I ain’t figured that out yet.”
Delpit nodded. “That means you’re thinking. That’s the first win.”
Royce stood, the chair giving a quiet squeak behind him. He looked at Delpit for a long moment.
“You always talk like you already know how my story ends.”
Delpit smirked. “I don’t. I just know how it shouldn’t.”
Royce left without shaking hands.
But he walked out with a different weight on him.
Not the weight of a helmet. Not the weight of family.
The weight of a pen.
And the pressure of deciding what story to write.
The facility was hot—unseasonably so. The kind of swampy, thick air that clung to every inch of your gear and made the sweat stick in all the wrong places. LSU’s full-install for Cincinnati in the Peach Bowl was in full swing, and everything felt like it mattered.
No jog-throughs. No light reps. No second chances.
Royce stood behind the second level of the defense, helmet loose in his hand, staring down the scout team like he could will them to snap the ball wrong.
Coach Lanning had said that morning, “This ain’t prep. This is pressure. If you can’t execute now, you’re gonna break in the fourth quarter.”
Royce wasn’t planning on breaking.
The offense shifted pre-snap, motioning the slot. Royce barked, eyes on the backfield.
“Motion, motion! Strong right—watch the leak, D!”
Dorian, standing at the edge spot, adjusted, shoulders bouncing. Royce saw it too late—he was locked in on the wrong assignment.
Mac chipped, released, and sailed untouched across the middle.
Wide open.
Rickie lofted it in stride.
“Fuck!” Royce exploded, slamming his hand against his thigh. “Dorian—what are you doing?”
Dorian turned, confused. “I thought we were staying in base—”
“Are you serious? We shifted to six-man pressure! You had seam!”
“I didn’t hear the call—”
Royce stepped toward him, eyes hard. “Then fucking ask! You know this shit!”
Dorian’s mouth opened like he had something else to say, but Coach Lupoi’s whistle cut the air sharp.
“Bring it back!” Lupoi barked. “Run it again from the top.”
Players jogged back to reset, a few heads down. Dorian shook his head, muttering to himself, jaw clenched.
Royce didn’t follow right away. He stood still, breathing like he’d just finished a sprint, the frustration thick in his chest.
Lupoi caught him before the next play. Walked up, voice low and even.
“Hey.”
Royce turned.
“You wanna lead?” Lupoi asked.
Royce nodded once. “Yeah.”
“Then lead,” Lupoi said. “Lead without breaking your people.”
Royce’s jaw worked. He looked past Lupoi toward the huddle where Dorian stood waiting.
“That ain’t some kid,” Lupoi continued. “That’s your boy. Don’t talk to him like he’s disposable.”
Royce said nothing. Just swallowed it.
“Get it right,” Lupoi added. “Both of you.”
Royce nodded again—quieter this time—and jogged back to the group.
…
The rest of practice rolled by with sharp edges and cold silences. The defense rallied, executed tighter, but the energy between Royce and Dorian stayed tense—neither one quite looking at the other.
After showering, Royce didn’t go straight to his car. He sat in the dining hall with a plate of chicken and broccoli he barely touched.
Dorian walked in a few minutes later, damp braids still flattened from his skullcap, and grabbed a plate of pasta and bread. He spotted Royce, hesitated for a second, then slid into the seat across from him without a word.
They ate in silence for a while. Cleats tapped across the tile behind them. Laughter from a table of DBs drifted over like static.
Finally, Dorian said, “I ain’t mean to blow it.”
Royce didn’t look up. “I know.”
Dorian poked at a meatball. “You ain’t have to yell at me like I was some lil’ nigga off the bench, though.”
Royce sighed, rubbed the side of his face. “I know.”
Dorian looked at him, half a smirk forming. “Coach pulled you, didn’t he?”
Royce nodded. “Told me to stop going upside y’all head when y’all fuck up.”
Dorian leaned back. “Damn. That’s wild. Especially because you be fucking up the most of all us.”
Royce cracked a small grin. “Shut yo bitch ass up.”
They sat like that a while longer—eating slowly, the heat of practice fading but the pressure still humming in the background.
Before they left, Royce tapped his fingers on the table. “You good for tomorrow?”
Dorian raised an eyebrow. “I’m good.”
Royce nodded. “Cool. ‘Cause I ain’t trying to lose now.”
Dorian stood and picked up his tray. “Now, your ass wanna win. What happened to wanting the season to be over?”
Royce shook his head but smiled.
They didn’t dap. Didn’t hug it out. Just moved in the same direction again.
That was enough for now.
~~~~~~~~~~
Laila’s bedroom smelled like warmth. Like vanilla lotion and the fabric softener she swore by—something sweet and clean that clung to her bedsheets and hoodie sleeves. The walls were soft lavender, strung with fairy lights that glowed dimly from where they looped around the corners. A photo strip of the two of them—Mike squinting, Laila making kissy faces—was pinned to her bulletin board, half curling at the edges from the humidity.
Mike sat on the edge of her bed, elbows resting on his knees, phone face down beside him. One sock on, the other dangling from his fingers. He wasn’t in a rush to put it back on. His hoodie was bunched around his elbows. The room was still.
He could hear muffled laughter from down the hall—Laila’s parents finishing a late movie, probably. The house had felt... good, for once. Like the world had stopped spinning long enough to let them be something normal.
Mike had laughed during dinner. Real laughter. He’d teased Laila about overcooking the rice and let her mom hug him twice. He’d helped her dad with the dishes without being asked. Peaceful. Warm. Like maybe this version of him—the one that didn’t flinch at loud knocks or unanswered texts—was starting to stick.
Then the phone buzzed.
He flipped it over without thinking.
Treg:
I see you back in town, lil’ nigga.
Don’t forget what you still owe me.
Running to Natchitoches ain’t clear that shit.
Mike stared at the screen. The kind of message that didn’t come with threats. Didn’t need them.
His jaw flexed.
He read it again. Then deleted it.
But it didn’t leave. It settled into his chest like a rock.
He was still sitting there, sock still in hand, when Laila walked in. She had two water bottles tucked under her arm and her hair wrapped in a pineapple puff on top of her head. She wore an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame and fuzzy socks that barely gripped the hardwood floor.
She pushed the door closed with her foot and tossed him one of the bottles. “Here. Before you try to steal mine like last time.”
Mike caught it with a soft smile. “Appreciate it.”
She flopped down next to him, sitting cross-legged, their thighs brushing.
“It’s freezing out there,” she said, tugging her sleeves over her hands. “My dad talking about how the cold ‘builds character.’ I said okay, you stand outside then.”
Mike chuckled, but it didn’t quite land.
Laila looked over at him. “You good?”
He nodded. Too quickly. “Yeah.”
“Sure?”
He hesitated. Then gave her the version that worked.
“Just thinking about the spring schedule. Might be some early morning stuff.”
Laila didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at him. Eyes steady, soft. The kind of look that made it hard to lie without feeling it later.
“Okay,” she said eventually. “I’ll start brewing your coffee at five, then.”
Mike smiled, turning toward her. “You don’t even drink coffee.”
“I don’t,” she said, bumping his shoulder. “But I’d make it for you.”
They sat like that for a moment. Not tense—just quiet. Her thumb brushed the edge of his hand, tracing the calluses he still carried from fall camp. She could tell something was bothering him, but she also knew not to crowd it.
“You really gonna keep doing football?” she asked, soft.
Mike shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
He nodded.
Outside, the wind rattled a loose screen. Inside, the house was calm.
But the phone on the nightstand, even deleted, still echoed.
Mike stared straight ahead.
And Laila, warm against his side, didn’t let go. Not yet. Not tonight.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce knew the way by now.
Up the elevator, past the receptionist who didn’t ask his name anymore, into the waiting room with the polished floor and fake-quiet music that tried to sound expensive. Delpit’s assistant offered water—he declined, like always—and the door buzzed open without a knock.
Same office. Same vibe. Nothing on the walls that wasn’t chosen with intention. A space that said: I know what I’m doing. Do you?
Delpit didn’t look up right away. He was standing by the window, back to Royce, arms crossed as he watched traffic bleed down Government Street.
“You ever think about what they’ll say when you’re gone?” he asked, before Royce could even sit down.
Royce raised an eyebrow. “You opening with death now?”
Delpit turned, smile thin. “I’m opening with legacy. Death’s just what makes it stick.”
Royce took the chair across from the desk, leaned back like he wasn’t tense. “We’ve had this talk.”
“No,” Delpit said, moving back to his desk, “we’ve circled this talk. We’ve grazed it. Tapped the edges. But we haven’t had it.”
He sat, adjusted the crease in his slacks. Everything about him, down to the way he poured water into his glass, was measured.
Royce didn’t speak. Just let the silence ride.
Delpit finally looked him in the eye. “You’re running out of time to decide what kind of man you’re gonna be when this jersey stops being your shield.”
Royce let out a slow breath through his nose. “And you’re gonna tell me who that is?”
Delpit chuckled. “No. I’m gonna tell you what I’d do. What I wish someone had told me.”
Royce nodded once. “Then say it.”
Delpit leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. “You’re in a position most young Black men will never touch. No kids. No drama. No messy cousin with your name on paperwork. You’ve got real leverage, Royce. Clean paper. And clean paper is power.”
Royce looked out the window now, jaw set.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you’ve been dancing around it,” Delpit said. “You’re still playing the game like you don’t want to offend the past. Like you owe something to someone who’d sell you for rent money.”
Royce’s eyes snapped back. “Man, that shit way off.”
“No, it’s not. And it’s real.”
Delpit stood again, walked toward the shelf behind his desk and ran a finger along the spine of a law journal he’d probably never read. “You ever wonder why so many of us get money and still end up with nothing to show for it? Why the people with all the talent end up broke, tired, and unprotected?”
Royce didn’t answer.
“Because they wait too long to stop surviving. Because they think the story has to end with struggle, or it doesn’t count.”
Delpit turned. “You don’t owe anyone a fairytale of pain, Royce. You survived. That’s enough.”
Royce’s throat felt tight, but he kept his expression flat.
“You asked me once what I would do in your position,” Delpit said. “You remember that?”
Royce nodded.
Delpit stepped closer, voice low but certain. “I’d be selfish. I’d build something so strong that no one could take it from me. No cousins knocking on the door. No aunties asking for rent. No ‘remember when’ sob stories.”
“I got people though,” Royce said. “You act like they ain’t part of the win.”
“They can be,” Delpit said. “But not if you let them eat before you’ve built the kitchen.”
That landed.
Royce looked down at his hands. His fingers were calloused from years of violence he’d been praised for. He flexed them, like that would shake the weight off.
Delpit softened just enough. “You’re not just some football player. You’re a story that someone’s gonna tell with or without your input. So ask yourself—when you’re dead and gone, what page do they turn to?”
Royce leaned back, quiet.
“I ain’t figured that out yet.”
Delpit nodded. “That means you’re thinking. That’s the first win.”
Royce stood, the chair giving a quiet squeak behind him. He looked at Delpit for a long moment.
“You always talk like you already know how my story ends.”
Delpit smirked. “I don’t. I just know how it shouldn’t.”
Royce left without shaking hands.
But he walked out with a different weight on him.
Not the weight of a helmet. Not the weight of family.
The weight of a pen.
And the pressure of deciding what story to write.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Survive and Advance
"Welcome to Atlanta, Georgia, and welcome to the College Football Playoff! We’re coming to you live from a sold-out Mercedes-Benz Stadium, where tonight, it’s a clash of heavyweights with a ticket to the semifinals on the line. It’s the #3 Cincinnati Bearcats taking on the surging #11 LSU Tigers in the Chick-fil-A Peach Bowl!"
"Doug, this is a matchup that’s got a little bit of everything—an undefeated Cincinnati squad trying to prove they belong among the sport’s elite, and an LSU team that clawed its way into the playoff late, riding a red-hot defense and the emotional fire of junior linebacker Royce Lafitte."
"That’s right, Mitch—Lafitte has been the heart and soul of this LSU unit. He leads a defense that doesn’t just want to win—they want to send a message. And what a stage to do it. Mercedes-Benz is glowing tonight. Tigers in white tops and gold pants. Bearcats in all black with chrome helmets. This one’s got juice."
"And don’t sleep on the stakes here, Doug. LSU is trying to become the first 11-seed to crash the semis. Cincinnati? They want a shot at the title to silence every doubter left in the room. And with these two defenses? Expect a fistfight from the opening snap."
"We’re moments away from kickoff. The energy in this dome is electric. The band’s played, the lights have dimmed, and the playoff is officially underway. Buckle up—LSU and Cincinnati, coming up next in the Peach Bowl!"
…
"From forty-nine yards out, it’ll be Kerry Etienne, the senior kicker for Cincinnati, trying to get the Bearcats on the board first here in Atlanta. Ball’s placed just inside the right hash... snap is clean, hold is down... the kick is up—"
"Got the leg—"
"—and it’s good! Straight through the uprights, no doubt about it. Kerry Etienne drills the forty-nine yarder, and with 8:13 to play in the first quarter, Cincinnati strikes first. It’s 3–0 Bearcats over LSU in the Peach Bowl."
"Doug, that was a confident swing. Give credit to Cincinnati’s opening drive—they didn’t find the end zone, but they flipped field position and came away with points. And now the pressure shifts LSU’s way."
…
"LSU in the red zone now, trailing 3–0 with 4:58 on the clock here in the first. First and ten from the Cincinnati nineteen... Collins in the gun, two wide to the left, Jelani Watkins alone to the right. Shotgun snap to Rickie Collins—he drops back—looks right—fires to the sideline—Watkins on the out—"
"He’s got space—"
"Watkins makes the catch at the twelve—shakes a tackle! Ten, five—touchdown LSU! Jelani Watkins with a slick nineteen-yard grab-and-go, and the Tigers take the lead just like that!"
"That’s just pure speed, Doug. Watkins hit the brakes on that out route and left the corner grasping at air. And give credit to Rickie Collins—he read the cushion, threw it on time, and let his guy work. LSU answers with a big one."
"And with the extra point good, it’s LSU 7, Cincinnati 3—4:58 to play here in the first quarter of the Peach Bowl!"
…
Royce was still catching his breath from the last blitz when he heard the shift in the cadence.
Cincinnati had the ball near midfield—tight set, second and long, trying to make something happen. Brady Drogosh lined up in the gun, a twitch of his fingers betraying the motion call before it came. Royce narrowed his eyes. The tight end didn’t shift wide enough. Compressed formation. They were looking for a quick hit, something over the middle. Probably thought they could pick on LSU’s nickel again.
He drifted three steps right, selling pressure. Drogosh didn’t check out of the play.
Mistake.
Snap.
Royce read the quarterback’s eyes instantly—locked on the dig route. He didn’t even look off the safety. Rookie stuff.
Royce shouted, “In! In!” as he drove forward, knowing he wouldn’t get there in time, but also knowing someone else might.
Drogosh let it rip.
The ball came out hot—but not fast enough. Not sharp enough.
And then—
Hands.
Michael jumped it from the other side, clean, smooth, like he’d been waiting there all quarter. Snatched it like a punt return and turned upfield, legs churning, sideline exploding as he weaved through traffic.
Royce took off behind him, adrenaline spiking, heart hammering like a snare drum. Every yard Michael gained lit a fuse in Royce’s chest.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty—
Cincinnati’s quarterback gave a weak chase. Too late. Too slow.
Royce was already screaming, already pounding his fist into the air before Michael even hit the forty.
He didn’t need to score.
He just needed to show Cincinnati they weren’t built for this.
Michael finally went down after fifty-two yards of daylight. Royce caught up to him just as he was standing, slapping his helmet with a grin that bordered on deranged.
Royce didn’t say anything at first.
Just looked at him, breathing hard.
Then: “That’s how we play, dawg.”
And Michael, chest heaving, nodded once.
…
"LSU knocking on the door again after the big return—first and goal from the three-yard line. Tigers already up 7–3, looking to extend the lead here late in the first. Rickie Collins lines up under center for the first time tonight. Power look—two tight ends, Markway in motion..."
"This is where LSU loves to get physical, Doug."
"Collins, play-action—quick drop—fires to the flat—Markway’s open! Makes the grab! Touchdown, LSU! Mac Markway from three yards out, and the Tigers are pouring it on early in Atlanta!"
"Beautiful play design. They sold the run, got the linebackers crashing inside, and snuck Markway out the backside. Just an easy throw for Collins and a clean finish from the big man."
"And with 3:24 left in the first quarter, it’s LSU 14, Cincinnati 3—two touchdowns in less than two minutes off that Michael Richard interception. The Tigers are rolling!"
…
Third and eight.
Royce crouched near the hash, one foot twitching in the turf, eyes fixed on the backfield. Cincinnati’s tempo hadn’t slowed much since the pick—but they were starting to flinch. LSU’s sideline had turned into a wall of noise after the last touchdown, and the dome had finally started feeling like a home game.
He could hear Kylin behind him yelling out motion, Xavier tapping his thigh to shift the front. But Royce kept his focus locked on the quarterback.
Drogosh looked nervous. Overcompensating with fake urgency. He barked out the cadence like someone trying to prove he still had command, then turned and clapped for the snap.
Royce saw it coming before the ball even moved.
Draw.
The way the left guard’s weight shifted. The way Manny Covey leaned forward in his stance just a half inch more than before. A lazy stab at deception.
Too late.
Ball snapped. Covey took it.
Royce was already gone.
He knifed through the B-gap like he was chasing smoke—didn’t wait for the block to come to him. The lineman whiffed on the reach, hands swinging wide. Covey tried to bounce it inside, but Royce was there, both feet planted, shoulder down.
Crack.
Royce met him two yards past the line of scrimmage, wrapped him low, and drove him backward with everything in his chest. The running back’s legs flailed. Whistle blew. Forward progress dead.
Royce stood up fast, jaw clenched, chest heaving, helmet rocking slightly as he turned back to the huddle.
No celebration.
No flex.
Just the walk.
The walk that said this is normal.
He didn’t need to scream. The hit had already said everything.
Punt team jogged out. Cincinnati’s offense jogged off, heads low.
Royce trotted to the sideline without a glance at the scoreboard.
…
"Second and goal from the thirteen after the holding call backed them up—LSU looking to keep their foot on the gas here. Collins in the shotgun, Thomas in the slot to the left... snap to Rickie Collins, he’s got time... scans... throws over the middle—Thomas at the goal line—touchdown, LSU! Zavion Thomas hauls it in in traffic and the Tigers are running away with it!"
"That’s just chemistry, Doug. Thomas found the soft spot between the safety and linebacker, and Collins trusted the window. Perfect ball, perfect break—Cincinnati’s defense looks completely out of sync."
"With the extra point good, LSU stretches the lead—21–3 over the third-ranked Bearcats, 10:21 to go in the second quarter of the Peach Bowl. And right now, it’s all Tigers in Atlanta!"
…
"Second and nine for Cincinnati at the LSU seventeen—Bearcats trying to claw back into this one before halftime. Drogosh in the gun, three wide... LSU showing pressure off the edge... snap to Drogosh—drops back—fires over the middle—Cherry makes the catch at the five—spins—and he’s in! Touchdown, Cincinnati! Jahlil Cherry, seventeen yards on the strike from Drogosh, and the Bearcats finally find the end zone!"
"That was a grown-man route from Cherry—split the safeties, settled in the soft spot, and Drogosh delivered on time. LSU brought heat, but Drogosh stood tall and made the throw. That’s a big-time answer from Cincinnati."
"Extra point is up and good, and with 4:16 left before the half, it’s LSU 21, Cincinnati 10. Don’t go anywhere—momentum may be starting to shift just a little here in Atlanta."
…
"LSU looking to add to their lead before the break—this will be a 31-yard attempt for the junior Aeron Burrell. Right between the hashes, just over a minute and fifty to go in the half."
"Burrell’s been steady all season, but nothing compares to playoff pressure. This one could give LSU a two-touchdown cushion heading into halftime."
"Snap is clean, hold is down... kick is on the way—and it’s good! Aeron Burrell drills the 31-yarder, and LSU extends the lead. With 1:53 left in the second quarter, it’s now Tigers 24, Bearcats 10."
"That’s a mature drive from LSU, Doug. Didn’t force anything after the sack stalled it out—took the points, trusted the defense. They’ve controlled the tone of this first half start to finish."
…
"Third-ranked Cincinnati trying to stay within striking distance here before the half. It’ll be a 36-yard attempt for Kerry Etienne—already hit from 49 earlier in the game. Ball spotted on the left hash."
"They’d love to have six here, but three keeps it manageable. Etienne’s been solid all season long."
"Snap, hold, kick is up—has the distance—and it's good! Kerry Etienne knocks through the 36-yarder, and the Bearcats cut into the lead just before the break."
"Credit to Cincinnati for answering. Not the drive they wanted, but it’s points. And with 55 seconds left in the half, it’s LSU 24, Cincinnati 13 in the Peach Bowl."
…
"LSU looking to push the tempo here—44 seconds left in the half, up 24–13. Collins in the shotgun, trips left, takes the snap... quick drop... looks left—throws it over the middle—picked off! Intercepted by Ken Willis at the thirty!"
"Oh, that one was telegraphed, Doug. Willis read it the whole way—sat in zone and jumped the route like he knew it was coming."
"Willis weaving his way back—past the twenty—fifteen—dragged down after a 16-yard return! Huge momentum shift here as Cincinnati takes over deep in LSU territory with 44 seconds on the clock."
"That’s a big mistake from Collins. LSU had a chance to go into the half up two scores with the ball to start the third, and now they’re giving Cincinnati a real shot to steal three—maybe even six."
…
"After the interception, Cincinnati’s drive stalls inside the ten, and with six seconds left in the half, they’ll send out Kerry Etienne for his third field goal of the night. This one from just 24 yards out—chip shot range for the sophomore."
"He’s been clutch so far, Doug—already hit from 49 and 36. This one should be automatic, but in a game like this, every point’s pressure."
"Snap is good, hold is down, kick is up—and it’s good! Etienne connects again, and Cincinnati turns the late turnover into points. With just six seconds left in the second quarter, it’s LSU 24, Cincinnati 16."
"Big-time response from the Bearcats. They were down 21–3 at one point, and now they’re within one possession heading into the break. This one’s heating up in Atlanta."
…
Royce didn’t like the look.
Third and two. LSU at the Cincinnati forty-three. The kind of down where you trust the ground game, take the easy yards, reset the chains. But the Bearcats had six in the box, creeping—like they knew exactly what was coming.
Caden lined up in the backfield, shoulders squared, helmet low. Power left. The same play that had worked all year. But something about the way Cincinnati's weakside safety shifted pre-snap made Royce’s stomach tighten.
Snap.
The line surged, Caden hit the hole fast—but it wasn’t clean. A helmet met him as he dipped inside, shoulder pad caught the ball just wrong, and then—
Pop.
The ball jumped loose, skipped forward, spinning on the turf like a live grenade.
Royce stood up off the bench before he even knew why.
Ormanie Arnold was already moving.
He scooped the ball clean, full stride, like it had been meant for him. Royce’s heart kicked into gear as the sideline lit up—Cincinnati players pointing, yelling, chasing after the convoy forming around their cornerback.
Arnold hit midfield. Forty. LSU’s offense was sprinting after him, too late. Thirty. Royce tracked it all like a linebacker watching film he couldn’t rewind.
Finally, at the LSU twenty-two, Zavion cut him off. Wrapped him high. Drove him out of bounds.
Royce exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tight.
He didn’t need a scoreboard to tell him what this was.
Not a score.
But a crack.
A shift.
He grabbed his helmet and started walking toward the huddle before the offense even cleared the field.
“Let’s fucking go,” he growled, more to himself than anyone else.
Time to fix what got broken.
Again.
…
"Fourth quarter in Atlanta, and Cincinnati’s knocking at the door. First and goal from the three, looking to tie this thing up after a long, grinding drive. LSU still clinging to a 24–16 lead—Dragosh in the gun, tight bunch formation—takes the snap, keeps it himself—left side—he’s in! Touchdown, Bearcats! Brady Dragosh on the keeper, and just like that, we’ve got a two-point game!"
"Doug, that’s a gutsy call. Everyone sold out on the handoff, and Dragosh saw the crease just wide enough to get low and finish the run. Cincinnati stayed patient all drive long and finally breaks the goal line."
"And now the Bearcats will go for two, trying to tie this game at 24 apiece. Marco Jowers in at tailback... Dragosh under center this time—hands it off—Jowers met at the line—stuffed! The Tigers collapse the interior and shut the door! LSU hangs on to the lead!"
"Huge stand by that defensive front! Womack and Cobbins shot through like missiles, nowhere for Jowers to go. That could be a game-saving play right there."
"With 10:45 left in the ballgame, the score: LSU 24, Cincinnati 22. The Bearcats draw close, but the Tigers hold the line!"
…
The play came in late, but Royce didn’t need it spelled out.
Third and long. Cincinnati was just outside midfield, trailing by two, and the Bearcats were starting to press. Royce could feel it in the way Drogosh was holding the mesh point longer, in the twitchy pre-snap motion that wasn’t fooling anybody.
LSU was in quarters. Royce lined up six yards deep, shading toward the slot, reading the quarterback—not the receiver. He shifted his weight to his back foot, scanning the route concepts like he’d been coached, like he’d done a thousand times.
Trips left. Post-snap, two verticals and a deep cross.
He knew this one.
He felt it.
Drogosh looked left, pump-faked, then turned his hips—middle of the field. That was the mistake.
Royce sank deeper, pivoted.
There.
Kale Woodburn came screaming across the middle on a dig, arms out, expecting the ball on time. Drogosh let it fly—a fastball on a tight line—but he hadn’t accounted for the linebacker underneath, disguised in the zone, patient enough to wait.
Royce launched.
Not a full dive, just enough reach to flick it with the underside of his right hand.
Pop.
Ball tipped.
Spun off its axis.
Hit turf.
Incomplete.
For a split second, the air inside Mercedes-Benz Stadium held its breath.
Then the ref signaled it.
And Royce stood. Calm. Stoic.
He didn’t pound his chest.
Didn’t scream into the air.
He just turned and jogged toward the sideline like he hadn’t just saved a drive. Like he hadn’t just baited a throw in the middle of the biggest game of the year.
Cincinnati’s punt unit jogged out.
Royce didn’t look back.
The ball had hit the turf, and he was already thinking about the next series.
…
"Third and goal from the five—LSU trying to put this one away. Rickie Collins in the shotgun, Shelton Sampson Jr. wide left... Tigers lead 24–22, looking to stretch it to a two-score game with just under four minutes to play."
"This is where stars make their mark, Doug. Sampson's been quiet tonight, but you know what he can do in space."
"Collins takes the snap—looks right—pumps—now back left—fires to the corner—Sampson’s got it! Touchdown, LSU! Shelton Sampson Jr. hauls it in for five yards, and the Tigers extend the lead!"
"That’s a confident throw from Collins—great footwork in the pocket, came off his first read, and trusted his guy to win the route. And Sampson, with those strong hands and clean foot drag, seals it."
"With the extra point through, it’s LSU 31, Cincinnati 22—with 3:45 remaining in the fourth quarter. What a response from the Tigers!"
…
"Fourth down coming up, but not before Cincinnati tries to salvage points here—on third and eight, Drogosh was flushed right, nothing open, and wisely threw it away to avoid the sack."
"LSU’s coverage on that one was airtight, Doug. The secondary played that perfectly, and the back end took away every window. Drogosh had nowhere to go."
"So now it’s Kerry Etienne on for his fourth field goal attempt of the night—this one from 29 yards to cut the deficit to six. Snap is down, kick is up—and it’s good! Right down the middle."
"Etienne’s been lights out tonight, Doug. But Cincinnati settling for three with under two minutes to play—that’s a win for the LSU defense."
"With 1:49 left in the fourth quarter, it’s LSU 31, Cincinnati 25. The Bearcats will need a stop—and fast—to keep their season alive."
…
"And with 1:09 left on the clock, Rickie Collins takes the snap... drops to a knee... and that’s gonna do it! Cincinnati is out of timeouts, and LSU can let the final seconds melt away here in Atlanta!"
"Doug, what a statement win for this LSU team. From jumping out early to holding strong when Cincinnati made their push—this was toughness, execution, and leadership when it mattered most."
"Final score from Mercedes-Benz Stadium: LSU 31, Cincinnati 25. The Tigers advance to the College Football Playoff semifinals with a gritty, complete performance in the Peach Bowl!"
"Royce Lafitte and that defense set the tone, Rickie Collins delivered when they needed it, and the Tigers are one step closer to a shot at the national title."
"We’ll be back with postgame coverage, but for now—it’s all celebration for the boys from Baton Rouge. LSU moves on!"
"Welcome to Atlanta, Georgia, and welcome to the College Football Playoff! We’re coming to you live from a sold-out Mercedes-Benz Stadium, where tonight, it’s a clash of heavyweights with a ticket to the semifinals on the line. It’s the #3 Cincinnati Bearcats taking on the surging #11 LSU Tigers in the Chick-fil-A Peach Bowl!"
"Doug, this is a matchup that’s got a little bit of everything—an undefeated Cincinnati squad trying to prove they belong among the sport’s elite, and an LSU team that clawed its way into the playoff late, riding a red-hot defense and the emotional fire of junior linebacker Royce Lafitte."
"That’s right, Mitch—Lafitte has been the heart and soul of this LSU unit. He leads a defense that doesn’t just want to win—they want to send a message. And what a stage to do it. Mercedes-Benz is glowing tonight. Tigers in white tops and gold pants. Bearcats in all black with chrome helmets. This one’s got juice."
"And don’t sleep on the stakes here, Doug. LSU is trying to become the first 11-seed to crash the semis. Cincinnati? They want a shot at the title to silence every doubter left in the room. And with these two defenses? Expect a fistfight from the opening snap."
"We’re moments away from kickoff. The energy in this dome is electric. The band’s played, the lights have dimmed, and the playoff is officially underway. Buckle up—LSU and Cincinnati, coming up next in the Peach Bowl!"
…
"From forty-nine yards out, it’ll be Kerry Etienne, the senior kicker for Cincinnati, trying to get the Bearcats on the board first here in Atlanta. Ball’s placed just inside the right hash... snap is clean, hold is down... the kick is up—"
"Got the leg—"
"—and it’s good! Straight through the uprights, no doubt about it. Kerry Etienne drills the forty-nine yarder, and with 8:13 to play in the first quarter, Cincinnati strikes first. It’s 3–0 Bearcats over LSU in the Peach Bowl."
"Doug, that was a confident swing. Give credit to Cincinnati’s opening drive—they didn’t find the end zone, but they flipped field position and came away with points. And now the pressure shifts LSU’s way."
…
"LSU in the red zone now, trailing 3–0 with 4:58 on the clock here in the first. First and ten from the Cincinnati nineteen... Collins in the gun, two wide to the left, Jelani Watkins alone to the right. Shotgun snap to Rickie Collins—he drops back—looks right—fires to the sideline—Watkins on the out—"
"He’s got space—"
"Watkins makes the catch at the twelve—shakes a tackle! Ten, five—touchdown LSU! Jelani Watkins with a slick nineteen-yard grab-and-go, and the Tigers take the lead just like that!"
"That’s just pure speed, Doug. Watkins hit the brakes on that out route and left the corner grasping at air. And give credit to Rickie Collins—he read the cushion, threw it on time, and let his guy work. LSU answers with a big one."
"And with the extra point good, it’s LSU 7, Cincinnati 3—4:58 to play here in the first quarter of the Peach Bowl!"
…
Royce was still catching his breath from the last blitz when he heard the shift in the cadence.
Cincinnati had the ball near midfield—tight set, second and long, trying to make something happen. Brady Drogosh lined up in the gun, a twitch of his fingers betraying the motion call before it came. Royce narrowed his eyes. The tight end didn’t shift wide enough. Compressed formation. They were looking for a quick hit, something over the middle. Probably thought they could pick on LSU’s nickel again.
He drifted three steps right, selling pressure. Drogosh didn’t check out of the play.
Mistake.
Snap.
Royce read the quarterback’s eyes instantly—locked on the dig route. He didn’t even look off the safety. Rookie stuff.
Royce shouted, “In! In!” as he drove forward, knowing he wouldn’t get there in time, but also knowing someone else might.
Drogosh let it rip.
The ball came out hot—but not fast enough. Not sharp enough.
And then—
Hands.
Michael jumped it from the other side, clean, smooth, like he’d been waiting there all quarter. Snatched it like a punt return and turned upfield, legs churning, sideline exploding as he weaved through traffic.
Royce took off behind him, adrenaline spiking, heart hammering like a snare drum. Every yard Michael gained lit a fuse in Royce’s chest.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty—
Cincinnati’s quarterback gave a weak chase. Too late. Too slow.
Royce was already screaming, already pounding his fist into the air before Michael even hit the forty.
He didn’t need to score.
He just needed to show Cincinnati they weren’t built for this.
Michael finally went down after fifty-two yards of daylight. Royce caught up to him just as he was standing, slapping his helmet with a grin that bordered on deranged.
Royce didn’t say anything at first.
Just looked at him, breathing hard.
Then: “That’s how we play, dawg.”
And Michael, chest heaving, nodded once.
…
"LSU knocking on the door again after the big return—first and goal from the three-yard line. Tigers already up 7–3, looking to extend the lead here late in the first. Rickie Collins lines up under center for the first time tonight. Power look—two tight ends, Markway in motion..."
"This is where LSU loves to get physical, Doug."
"Collins, play-action—quick drop—fires to the flat—Markway’s open! Makes the grab! Touchdown, LSU! Mac Markway from three yards out, and the Tigers are pouring it on early in Atlanta!"
"Beautiful play design. They sold the run, got the linebackers crashing inside, and snuck Markway out the backside. Just an easy throw for Collins and a clean finish from the big man."
"And with 3:24 left in the first quarter, it’s LSU 14, Cincinnati 3—two touchdowns in less than two minutes off that Michael Richard interception. The Tigers are rolling!"
…
Third and eight.
Royce crouched near the hash, one foot twitching in the turf, eyes fixed on the backfield. Cincinnati’s tempo hadn’t slowed much since the pick—but they were starting to flinch. LSU’s sideline had turned into a wall of noise after the last touchdown, and the dome had finally started feeling like a home game.
He could hear Kylin behind him yelling out motion, Xavier tapping his thigh to shift the front. But Royce kept his focus locked on the quarterback.
Drogosh looked nervous. Overcompensating with fake urgency. He barked out the cadence like someone trying to prove he still had command, then turned and clapped for the snap.
Royce saw it coming before the ball even moved.
Draw.
The way the left guard’s weight shifted. The way Manny Covey leaned forward in his stance just a half inch more than before. A lazy stab at deception.
Too late.
Ball snapped. Covey took it.
Royce was already gone.
He knifed through the B-gap like he was chasing smoke—didn’t wait for the block to come to him. The lineman whiffed on the reach, hands swinging wide. Covey tried to bounce it inside, but Royce was there, both feet planted, shoulder down.
Crack.
Royce met him two yards past the line of scrimmage, wrapped him low, and drove him backward with everything in his chest. The running back’s legs flailed. Whistle blew. Forward progress dead.
Royce stood up fast, jaw clenched, chest heaving, helmet rocking slightly as he turned back to the huddle.
No celebration.
No flex.
Just the walk.
The walk that said this is normal.
He didn’t need to scream. The hit had already said everything.
Punt team jogged out. Cincinnati’s offense jogged off, heads low.
Royce trotted to the sideline without a glance at the scoreboard.
…
"Second and goal from the thirteen after the holding call backed them up—LSU looking to keep their foot on the gas here. Collins in the shotgun, Thomas in the slot to the left... snap to Rickie Collins, he’s got time... scans... throws over the middle—Thomas at the goal line—touchdown, LSU! Zavion Thomas hauls it in in traffic and the Tigers are running away with it!"
"That’s just chemistry, Doug. Thomas found the soft spot between the safety and linebacker, and Collins trusted the window. Perfect ball, perfect break—Cincinnati’s defense looks completely out of sync."
"With the extra point good, LSU stretches the lead—21–3 over the third-ranked Bearcats, 10:21 to go in the second quarter of the Peach Bowl. And right now, it’s all Tigers in Atlanta!"
…
"Second and nine for Cincinnati at the LSU seventeen—Bearcats trying to claw back into this one before halftime. Drogosh in the gun, three wide... LSU showing pressure off the edge... snap to Drogosh—drops back—fires over the middle—Cherry makes the catch at the five—spins—and he’s in! Touchdown, Cincinnati! Jahlil Cherry, seventeen yards on the strike from Drogosh, and the Bearcats finally find the end zone!"
"That was a grown-man route from Cherry—split the safeties, settled in the soft spot, and Drogosh delivered on time. LSU brought heat, but Drogosh stood tall and made the throw. That’s a big-time answer from Cincinnati."
"Extra point is up and good, and with 4:16 left before the half, it’s LSU 21, Cincinnati 10. Don’t go anywhere—momentum may be starting to shift just a little here in Atlanta."
…
"LSU looking to add to their lead before the break—this will be a 31-yard attempt for the junior Aeron Burrell. Right between the hashes, just over a minute and fifty to go in the half."
"Burrell’s been steady all season, but nothing compares to playoff pressure. This one could give LSU a two-touchdown cushion heading into halftime."
"Snap is clean, hold is down... kick is on the way—and it’s good! Aeron Burrell drills the 31-yarder, and LSU extends the lead. With 1:53 left in the second quarter, it’s now Tigers 24, Bearcats 10."
"That’s a mature drive from LSU, Doug. Didn’t force anything after the sack stalled it out—took the points, trusted the defense. They’ve controlled the tone of this first half start to finish."
…
"Third-ranked Cincinnati trying to stay within striking distance here before the half. It’ll be a 36-yard attempt for Kerry Etienne—already hit from 49 earlier in the game. Ball spotted on the left hash."
"They’d love to have six here, but three keeps it manageable. Etienne’s been solid all season long."
"Snap, hold, kick is up—has the distance—and it's good! Kerry Etienne knocks through the 36-yarder, and the Bearcats cut into the lead just before the break."
"Credit to Cincinnati for answering. Not the drive they wanted, but it’s points. And with 55 seconds left in the half, it’s LSU 24, Cincinnati 13 in the Peach Bowl."
…
"LSU looking to push the tempo here—44 seconds left in the half, up 24–13. Collins in the shotgun, trips left, takes the snap... quick drop... looks left—throws it over the middle—picked off! Intercepted by Ken Willis at the thirty!"
"Oh, that one was telegraphed, Doug. Willis read it the whole way—sat in zone and jumped the route like he knew it was coming."
"Willis weaving his way back—past the twenty—fifteen—dragged down after a 16-yard return! Huge momentum shift here as Cincinnati takes over deep in LSU territory with 44 seconds on the clock."
"That’s a big mistake from Collins. LSU had a chance to go into the half up two scores with the ball to start the third, and now they’re giving Cincinnati a real shot to steal three—maybe even six."
…
"After the interception, Cincinnati’s drive stalls inside the ten, and with six seconds left in the half, they’ll send out Kerry Etienne for his third field goal of the night. This one from just 24 yards out—chip shot range for the sophomore."
"He’s been clutch so far, Doug—already hit from 49 and 36. This one should be automatic, but in a game like this, every point’s pressure."
"Snap is good, hold is down, kick is up—and it’s good! Etienne connects again, and Cincinnati turns the late turnover into points. With just six seconds left in the second quarter, it’s LSU 24, Cincinnati 16."
"Big-time response from the Bearcats. They were down 21–3 at one point, and now they’re within one possession heading into the break. This one’s heating up in Atlanta."
…
Royce didn’t like the look.
Third and two. LSU at the Cincinnati forty-three. The kind of down where you trust the ground game, take the easy yards, reset the chains. But the Bearcats had six in the box, creeping—like they knew exactly what was coming.
Caden lined up in the backfield, shoulders squared, helmet low. Power left. The same play that had worked all year. But something about the way Cincinnati's weakside safety shifted pre-snap made Royce’s stomach tighten.
Snap.
The line surged, Caden hit the hole fast—but it wasn’t clean. A helmet met him as he dipped inside, shoulder pad caught the ball just wrong, and then—
Pop.
The ball jumped loose, skipped forward, spinning on the turf like a live grenade.
Royce stood up off the bench before he even knew why.
Ormanie Arnold was already moving.
He scooped the ball clean, full stride, like it had been meant for him. Royce’s heart kicked into gear as the sideline lit up—Cincinnati players pointing, yelling, chasing after the convoy forming around their cornerback.
Arnold hit midfield. Forty. LSU’s offense was sprinting after him, too late. Thirty. Royce tracked it all like a linebacker watching film he couldn’t rewind.
Finally, at the LSU twenty-two, Zavion cut him off. Wrapped him high. Drove him out of bounds.
Royce exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tight.
He didn’t need a scoreboard to tell him what this was.
Not a score.
But a crack.
A shift.
He grabbed his helmet and started walking toward the huddle before the offense even cleared the field.
“Let’s fucking go,” he growled, more to himself than anyone else.
Time to fix what got broken.
Again.
…
"Fourth quarter in Atlanta, and Cincinnati’s knocking at the door. First and goal from the three, looking to tie this thing up after a long, grinding drive. LSU still clinging to a 24–16 lead—Dragosh in the gun, tight bunch formation—takes the snap, keeps it himself—left side—he’s in! Touchdown, Bearcats! Brady Dragosh on the keeper, and just like that, we’ve got a two-point game!"
"Doug, that’s a gutsy call. Everyone sold out on the handoff, and Dragosh saw the crease just wide enough to get low and finish the run. Cincinnati stayed patient all drive long and finally breaks the goal line."
"And now the Bearcats will go for two, trying to tie this game at 24 apiece. Marco Jowers in at tailback... Dragosh under center this time—hands it off—Jowers met at the line—stuffed! The Tigers collapse the interior and shut the door! LSU hangs on to the lead!"
"Huge stand by that defensive front! Womack and Cobbins shot through like missiles, nowhere for Jowers to go. That could be a game-saving play right there."
"With 10:45 left in the ballgame, the score: LSU 24, Cincinnati 22. The Bearcats draw close, but the Tigers hold the line!"
…
The play came in late, but Royce didn’t need it spelled out.
Third and long. Cincinnati was just outside midfield, trailing by two, and the Bearcats were starting to press. Royce could feel it in the way Drogosh was holding the mesh point longer, in the twitchy pre-snap motion that wasn’t fooling anybody.
LSU was in quarters. Royce lined up six yards deep, shading toward the slot, reading the quarterback—not the receiver. He shifted his weight to his back foot, scanning the route concepts like he’d been coached, like he’d done a thousand times.
Trips left. Post-snap, two verticals and a deep cross.
He knew this one.
He felt it.
Drogosh looked left, pump-faked, then turned his hips—middle of the field. That was the mistake.
Royce sank deeper, pivoted.
There.
Kale Woodburn came screaming across the middle on a dig, arms out, expecting the ball on time. Drogosh let it fly—a fastball on a tight line—but he hadn’t accounted for the linebacker underneath, disguised in the zone, patient enough to wait.
Royce launched.
Not a full dive, just enough reach to flick it with the underside of his right hand.
Pop.
Ball tipped.
Spun off its axis.
Hit turf.
Incomplete.
For a split second, the air inside Mercedes-Benz Stadium held its breath.
Then the ref signaled it.
And Royce stood. Calm. Stoic.
He didn’t pound his chest.
Didn’t scream into the air.
He just turned and jogged toward the sideline like he hadn’t just saved a drive. Like he hadn’t just baited a throw in the middle of the biggest game of the year.
Cincinnati’s punt unit jogged out.
Royce didn’t look back.
The ball had hit the turf, and he was already thinking about the next series.
…
"Third and goal from the five—LSU trying to put this one away. Rickie Collins in the shotgun, Shelton Sampson Jr. wide left... Tigers lead 24–22, looking to stretch it to a two-score game with just under four minutes to play."
"This is where stars make their mark, Doug. Sampson's been quiet tonight, but you know what he can do in space."
"Collins takes the snap—looks right—pumps—now back left—fires to the corner—Sampson’s got it! Touchdown, LSU! Shelton Sampson Jr. hauls it in for five yards, and the Tigers extend the lead!"
"That’s a confident throw from Collins—great footwork in the pocket, came off his first read, and trusted his guy to win the route. And Sampson, with those strong hands and clean foot drag, seals it."
"With the extra point through, it’s LSU 31, Cincinnati 22—with 3:45 remaining in the fourth quarter. What a response from the Tigers!"
…
"Fourth down coming up, but not before Cincinnati tries to salvage points here—on third and eight, Drogosh was flushed right, nothing open, and wisely threw it away to avoid the sack."
"LSU’s coverage on that one was airtight, Doug. The secondary played that perfectly, and the back end took away every window. Drogosh had nowhere to go."
"So now it’s Kerry Etienne on for his fourth field goal attempt of the night—this one from 29 yards to cut the deficit to six. Snap is down, kick is up—and it’s good! Right down the middle."
"Etienne’s been lights out tonight, Doug. But Cincinnati settling for three with under two minutes to play—that’s a win for the LSU defense."
"With 1:49 left in the fourth quarter, it’s LSU 31, Cincinnati 25. The Bearcats will need a stop—and fast—to keep their season alive."
…
"And with 1:09 left on the clock, Rickie Collins takes the snap... drops to a knee... and that’s gonna do it! Cincinnati is out of timeouts, and LSU can let the final seconds melt away here in Atlanta!"
"Doug, what a statement win for this LSU team. From jumping out early to holding strong when Cincinnati made their push—this was toughness, execution, and leadership when it mattered most."
"Final score from Mercedes-Benz Stadium: LSU 31, Cincinnati 25. The Tigers advance to the College Football Playoff semifinals with a gritty, complete performance in the Peach Bowl!"
"Royce Lafitte and that defense set the tone, Rickie Collins delivered when they needed it, and the Tigers are one step closer to a shot at the national title."
"We’ll be back with postgame coverage, but for now—it’s all celebration for the boys from Baton Rouge. LSU moves on!"
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7856
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Dying to Live
we continue to move. Smells like Natty season to me.-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
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- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16845
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47