Dying to Live

[Caesar]

One in Hand

The jet engines sighed to a stop on the tarmac as the sun yawned over Baton Rouge. It was barely past six in the morning. Cold for Louisiana—dew on the asphalt, breath ghosting from nostrils, the kind of air that made you wish you’d kept the hoodie zipped.

There were no fans waiting at the gate. No second-line brass bands. No signs or chants or kids in purple and gold screaming anyone’s name.

Just silence.

Royce stepped off the team bus and rolled his bag toward the ops center, the wheels bumping gently over concrete seams. Around him, teammates walked in clusters, speaking in low tones. The kind of talk that ends sentences with “shit happens” or “we’ll bounce back” even when no one really believes it.

No one said much to him. Not because they didn’t respect him. But because they saw the look on his face—stoic, bruised, and untouchable.

Inside, the operations center was still dim. He left his duffel in the locker with more force than needed. Shoulder pads clattered. Cleats thudded. He sat on the bench for a minute longer than he should’ve.

There’d be questions now. Was he leaving? Going pro? Done with college ball?

Even he didn’t know.

…

By nightfall, Royce was posted up at a bar in Tigerland, the kind of place that smelled like sugar syrup and mildew. A few students lingered near the jukebox. Country music spun from the corner speakers. Some dude in a Bass Pro cap was complaining about the play-calling during the third quarter.

Royce ignored it.

He nursed his whiskey neat. No chaser. No ice. Just burn.

He hadn’t told anybody he was going out. No texts. No calls. He just needed to be somewhere other than his apartment, where the silence stretched like a wound and every room had shadows in it.

At the bar, a girl in a denim jacket sidled up beside him. She was pretty in a fast, filtered kind of way. High ponytail. Gold hoops. Lip gloss like glass.

“You look like you’ve had a long week,” she said.

He glanced sideways. “Something like that.”

She ordered a vodka soda and leaned her elbows on the bar. “You look familiar.”

Royce didn’t answer.

Then her eyes narrowed. “Wait… you’re that dude who plays for LSU, right?”

He nodded once. Calm. Cool.

She gave a small laugh. “Didn’t y’all lose yesterday?”

Royce didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. Just took another slow sip and shrugged.

“Yeah,” he said. “But I’m a millionaire so it’s all good.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh, really?”

He turned toward her now, facing her full. The kind of look that knew exactly how it landed.

“Yeah,” he said again. “Really.”

She laughed again, the sound short and sharp like a soda can popping.

“Well, damn,” she said.

He leaned in just slightly. “You tryna get outta here?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Royce left cash on the bar—didn’t wait for change.

He didn’t look back.

Outside, the air was cool and wet, and the moon hung heavy over the levee. But Royce didn’t notice the stars. He wasn’t looking up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Shayla was already irritated before she even stepped into her sister’s house.

The screen door stuck halfway open, like always. The air smelled like baby powder, bacon grease, and someone’s cheap weed. A toddler was wailing in the back room while her sister, Monique, yelled something about juice from the kitchen.

Shayla dropped onto the edge of the couch and pulled her phone out, scrolling without seeing. Her sister’s house was a constant chorus of chaos—kids, cartoons, cussing, and the faint hum of tension no one ever called by name.

Meech sat in the recliner, legs spread, socks dirty on the bottom, hoodie half-zipped. He hadn’t said anything since she walked in.

Now he did.

“I need you to talk to Royce.”

Shayla’s head didn’t even move. “About what?”

Meech scratched at the back of his neck. “Some lease shit. We need a couple clean properties. He’s square enough for the paperwork to look right.”

Shayla gave a short laugh through her nose. Not amused—just surprised he said it like it was casual.

“You tryna use that boy for stash spots?” she asked.

Meech shrugged. “Ain’t like he gon’ ask questions.”

“He might.”

Meech leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Come on, Shay. He not built for all that suspicion shit. Nigga plays football. Ain’t never had to think too hard.”

Shayla raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know him.”

“I know enough,” Meech said. Then, with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes: “If white bitch pussy can get him to do whatever, so can you.”

Shayla’s eyes stayed on her phone, but the flicker in her jaw said everything.

She didn’t respond.

Not to that.

Not because it didn’t piss her off—but because Meech wasn’t worth the energy. He didn’t understand what she did. Royce wasn’t just some jock with a clean record and a crooked smile. He was broken in a way that made him dangerous—not loud, not reckless, but the kind of silent that watched everything and never let people get close enough to pull strings.

He was grieving, guarded, and sharper than Meech ever gave him credit for.

And he didn’t trust anyone.

Especially not her.

“I’ll think about it,” Shayla said finally.

Meech smirked like he’d already won.

But Shayla wasn’t lying to protect Meech’s hustle.

She was lying because she already knew—Royce wasn’t that easy.

And if Meech kept mistaking silence for stupidity, he was going to end up setting off a fuse he couldn’t put out.

~~~~~~~~~~

The knock came sharp—three quick raps on the door like someone with purpose and not enough time. Royce barely looked up from where he leaned against the kitchen island, hoodie thrown on over bare skin, breath still thick with last night’s whiskey and whatever perfume was fading in the air.

He didn’t ask who it was.

He already knew.

Billy walked in after the second pause, nodding once as he crossed the threshold. He looked around slowly, taking in the crumpled shirt on the floor, the untouched water bottle near the microwave, and the muffled sound of a woman’s voice drifting from the bedroom.

“Morning,” he said, dry.

Royce didn’t respond. Just rubbed a hand across his face and exhaled through his nose, steady.

Billy closed the door behind him and walked to the island, laying down a slim folder.

“The offer’s still good,” he said. “One million flat. You sign today, it’s done. You let it linger, people start asking if you’re thinking too hard.”

Royce’s fingers drummed against the tile countertop. He didn’t reach for the folder. Didn’t look at it.

“I said I needed time.”

Billy studied him. Royce looked tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix—eyes dim, jaw tight, like he hadn’t stopped clenching it since Pasadena.

“And you’ve had time. It’s January 4th, Royce. That declaration deadline’s in a week or two. And you walking around like decisions make themselves.”

From the bedroom came a soft laugh—then the thump of someone adjusting in the bed. Billy glanced down the hallway. Just for a second.

He sighed, not bothering to hide the judgment in his voice. “I hope you don’t take so long trying to have it all that you lose both.”

Royce pushed off the counter, standing straight for the first time since Billy entered. “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

Billy smirked. “One in hand is better than two in your bed.”

Royce frowned. “That ain’t how the saying goes.”

Billy turned, already moving toward the door. “I know.”

He left it at that.

The door clicked shut. The apartment fell quiet again.

Royce stood there for another beat, staring at the folder on the island like it was ticking.

Then he turned toward the bedroom.

The girl looked up when he walked in, hair messy, the sheets bunched around her waist. “Was that your manager or something?”

Royce didn’t answer. He picked up her shirt off the floor and tossed it onto the bed.

“You gotta get the fuck out.”

Her face stiffened. “Seriously?”

He didn’t repeat himself.

She muttered something under her breath as she got up. Royce didn’t hear it. Or didn’t care to.

By the time the door closed behind her, he was already back in the kitchen.

The folder still sat on the counter.

He didn’t open it. Just rested his hand on top, like it might steady him.

It didn’t.

[Soapy]

go ahead and go to the league so you can bust early (ayo) and be back with your daddy behind them bars

[Caesar]

go ahead and go to the league so you can bust early (ayo) and be back with your daddy behind them bars

Brother Malcolm's time for all Black men to wake up and stick together is clearly not here yet because this is giving anti-Black. Kam wasn't in that cell. Why you want Royce in it?

[Captain Canada]

Someone take this dude to Disney or something my guy is miserable

[Caesar]

Someone take this dude to Disney or something my guy is miserable

a young man who has never known love wasn’t open to properly receive it when given to him and now he’s lost it and yall expect this man to be jovial?!

[Caesar]

Spotlight Don’t Shine Forever

The apartment was too quiet. Not peaceful—just hollow. Royce sat on the edge of the couch, one ankle propped over his knee, his thumb flicking absently across the cracked screen of his phone. The ESPN homepage refreshed. Again.

More players declared. More announcements. Faces he knew. Some he’d played against. Some he’d outplayed.

He opened one of the newer mock drafts—“Post-Bowl Projections: 7-Round Mock.” Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Inside linebacker rankings.

There it was.

#13 - Kyle Perrin, Michigan State.
#14 - Kaleb Wooten, Texas A&M.
#15 - Royce Lafitte, LSU.

Fifteenth.

Royce blinked, lips pulling into something between a scowl and a smirk. He tapped Wooten’s name and read the summary aloud, voice low and sarcastic.

“‘Smart, downhill tackler with good sideline range. Unclear where he projects at next level’”

He leaned back, let his head fall against the top of the couch cushion. “Ain’t no fucking way.”

The phone sat heavy in his hand. He’d seen Kaleb Wooten in person. Had watched film. The kid hesitated in read steps and panicked in space. He’d guessed on motion plays like they were coin tosses. Royce remembered baiting him in an over route back in week five and laughing after the snap.

And now he was ranked ahead of him.

He closed the mock draft and opened Twitter. “#NFLDraft” was trending. A video played automatically—some Alabama linebacker announcing his declaration. The caption read: “No turning back. Bet on yourself. #BuiltByBama.”

Royce turned the volume down.

On his coffee table sat the same manila folder Billy had handed him three days ago. The $1 million NIL offer, with signatures needed by the 16th. Royce hadn’t opened it again since. It stared back at him like a question he didn’t feel like answering.

He dropped the phone onto his thigh and rubbed his hands over his face. The truth was, he couldn’t shake the feeling. That pause. That hesitation. Like whatever came next didn’t feel real enough to chase yet, and too real to walk away from.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes on the carpet now. Thinking.

A buzz.

His phone lit up beside him.

Delpit

Spotlight fades fast.

Just that. No emojis. No follow-up.

Royce stared at the screen. The words hovered like smoke.

He didn’t reply.

He let the phone go dark again and sat still for a long time, the dull hum of the fridge filling the room like white noise. His breath came slow. Not tired. Not afraid.

Just… unmotivated.

The fire wasn’t there. Not the way it used to be.

He’d always played like someone trying to prove something. But now that everyone was watching—now that eyes were on him, that scouts whispered his name, that articles wrote him into projections—he couldn’t feel the urgency.

It scared him more than he’d admit.

He picked the phone up again, stared at Delpit’s message, then hit the side button and let the light vanish.

Royce leaned back and closed his eyes.

Outside the window, the January sun was already dipping low, casting long amber streaks across the wall. A whole day gone. Not wasted. Just used up by the weight of indecision.

And still, he sat.

Waiting for something to burn again.

~~~~~~~~~~

The buzz of clippers filled the room, that soft electric rasp broken only by the occasional laugh or snort. Dorian sat half-sprawled in a mismatched desk chair with a towel around his shoulders, his head tilted to the side as the guy cutting his hair—some sophomore from Opelousas named RJ—squared up the back of his taper.

Gio leaned against the windowsill, shirtless, waiting his turn with a half-eaten bag of chips in one hand and his phone in the other. Sunlight from the west-facing window washed the dorm room in amber streaks, making the dust in the air visible—floating, slow, like the moment didn’t want to end.

Royce sat on the edge of the twin bed, elbows on knees, watching.

He wasn’t here for a cut. Not today. He’d lined himself up two nights ago in the bathroom mirror, not because he needed it but because he couldn’t sleep.

“RJ,” Gio said, mouth half-full, “you better not mess up my fade again, bro. My girl already said my last one looked like the Nike swoosh.”

RJ grinned without looking up. “Tell her stop looking so hard then.”

Royce chuckled. “Damn.”

Dorian smirked under the cape. “Gio catch more Ls off the field than on.”

“Y’all lucky I got humble,” Gio replied, dusting chip crumbs off his shorts. “Old me would’ve pulled up with a new girl just to prove a point.”

Royce leaned back slightly, letting the banter swirl around him. It reminded him of freshman year—late nights outside Julian’s dorm, Julian slapping his clippers against his palm and talking like he was both barber and therapist. Back then, getting a cut was half ritual, half confession.

Julian had graduated two years ago. Added another kid now. Worked in construction or HVAC or something. The chair was different now. The hands, the jokes, the energy.

Time moved.

“You good?” Dorian asked, tilting his head back so RJ could hit his neckline.

Royce blinked. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Gio muttered.

Royce smirked. “You right.”

RJ switched off the clippers and gave Dorian’s neck a quick brush with the faded towel. “Next.”

Gio stepped forward, slapping RJ’s hand and sitting down like he owned the spot. “Don’t mess with my crown, bro. My head shape ain’t built for failure.”

Royce leaned back on his palms and watched. He felt older lately. Not just because his name was in articles or because Delpit kept texting him about “leveraging momentum,” but because these moments—these rooms, these clippers, these random Saturday hangouts—used to feel permanent. Now they felt borrowed.

“Hey,” Gio said, chewing his gum dramatically. “You taking that NIL money or what?”

The question was casual but sharp around the edges. The room dipped into a brief hush, like everyone was waiting to hear the answer from someone actually in the mix.

Royce didn’t flinch. He flashed a slow grin. “Only money I’m taking is yours when Oregon beats Miami.”

“Man, please,” Gio scoffed. “Dante Moore don’t want them problems.”

Dorian chimed in. “Honestly, I’d rather Miami win. That way we can say we lost to the champs.”

Royce shook his head. “Nigga, that shit don’t matter.”

The moment passed. RJ clicked the clippers back on. The buzz returned.

But Royce’s mind stayed on the question.

Was he taking the money?

It felt easier to joke about it. To deflect. To sit in rooms like this one and pretend time hadn’t already made up its mind. But deep down, Royce knew—every conversation, every silence, every laugh that didn’t quite reach his chest—was time passing.

RJ moved the clippers around Gio’s temple in slow, careful motions.

Royce stared at the floor. Remembered Julian’s chair. The first time he’d sat in it. No NIL. No press. Just a freshman trying to get his edge cleaned up before a night out.

That version of him hadn’t known anything yet.

Now? He knew too much.

And still wasn’t sure what to do with it.

~~~~~~~~~~

Alix walked fast—not because she was late, but because stillness gave her time to think, and thinking gave her too many places to hurt. The sun was sharp but not hot yet, filtered through the bare branches overhead, striping the sidewalk with shadow. Her work badge bounced against her hip as she moved, the weight of her camera bag tugging one shoulder down slightly. She adjusted it without breaking stride.

Ashlee kept pace beside her, sipping from an iced coffee that had mostly turned to melted sugar water.

“You didn’t respond to the group text,” Ashlee said, brushing wind-blown curls out of her face.

“I was working,” Alix replied. She didn’t add that she had read it. Twice.

“Still mad at Madi?”

Alix shrugged. “I’m not mad. I just don’t want her eating my damn yogurt all the time.”

Ashlee tilted her head, studying her. “You’ve been... different lately.”

Alix didn’t answer. She checked her phone. 10:37 a.m. She had 23 minutes to meet the person who had the poster frames she needed, get back across the quad, drop them off at Roux, and still make it to her boss’s impromptu feedback meeting before 11:15. No room for reflection today.

As they crossed the library lawn, a group of guys sat on the concrete ledge near the art building, a couple of them eating out of to-go boxes, one tossing a football lazily in the air. She felt it before she saw it—the prickling heat across her back, that old, familiar attention.

Royce.

He was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, half in the conversation around him, half watching her walk by. Like he didn’t know how to stop.

Ashlee noticed too. Her eyebrows lifted as she bumped her shoulder lightly into Alix’s. “Look at him. Still looking.”

Alix didn’t turn her head. Didn’t give him anything.

Ashlee kept going, a smirk in her voice now. “Co is cuter than him anyway.”

Alix snorted. Not a big laugh. Just enough to let it out through her nose, enough to break the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding in her shoulders.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, but her smile lingered.

Ashlee shrugged. “I’m just saying. New Year’s didn’t look so bad to me.”

They passed under the arch near Taylor Hall. Alix adjusted her bag again, eyes focused ahead. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

She could feel him watching.

But she didn’t stop.

Because feeling watched wasn’t the same thing as being seen. And she’d finally started learning the difference.

[Captain Canada]

You already know who I'm saluting now

[djp73]

[Caesar]

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[Caesar]

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