Talk Big, Carry a Bigger Stick
The studio lights buzzed like they had something to prove, casting a sterile glow over the four LSU players seated on high stools beneath a wall of digital graphics. The set was dressed in deep purples and rich golds, and behind them the words Countdown to Kickoff pulsed faintly beneath the glint of preseason hype.
Royce sat furthest to the right, posture rigid, hands folded in his lap like he’d rather be anywhere else. Caden leaned back with the easy confidence of a guy who’d been mic’d up since high school. Rickie flashed a practiced smile at every camera cue. Ashton tapped a pen against his thigh, eyes drifting toward the monitor behind them, where the preseason poll graphic crowned LSU No. 2 in the nation.
Across from them, sportscaster Alce Guidry—his gray blazer cut sharp and his smile sharper—gave the camera his best “back home in Baton Rouge” warmth. “Alright, we are here with four of the most exciting names in college football,” he began. “Rickie, Caden, Ashton, and Royce—appreciate y’all joining us this morning.”
Royce gave a nod so minimal it barely registered. The makeup girl had dusted his cheek with powder earlier and he still hadn’t stopped fidgeting with his collar.
Alce turned first to Rickie. “Lot of buzz about the offense this year. You boys think you’re the best in the country?”
Rickie chuckled. “We think we gon’ prove it.”
“Caden, what’s that backfield looking like?”
“Like a cheat code,” Caden said without missing a beat, grin wide. “Pick your poison.”
Laughter. Even Ashton cracked a smile.
“And Ashton—secondary’s got some dogs this year, right?”
He nodded, eyes lit. “We not asking for picks. We taking them.”
The crowd—mostly producers and interns behind the cameras—oohed in appreciation. Alce leaned forward with a chuckle, then pivoted to Royce.
“And Royce,” Alce said, tone measured, “you’ve been quiet. Big expectations for the defense too. What’s your mindset going into this season?”
Royce cleared his throat. “Do my job.”
Silence, just long enough to make it awkward.
Alce tilted his head. “That all?”
Royce shrugged. “That’s all that matters.”
Alce recovered with a chuckle. “Fair enough, fair enough. Now let’s talk leadership. Preseason polls got y’all at number two. You’ve been named a team captain. What does that mean to you?”
Royce hesitated. The camera light blinked red. He could see himself reflected in the lens—broad-shouldered, jaw tight, still not used to seeing his name carry weight. For a second, he thought about saying nothing again.
Then: “It’s about making sure ain’t no one walking while I’m running.”
The words hung in the air for a beat too long. Not loud, not showy. Just a stone dropped into still water.
Even Alce blinked, caught off guard. Then he smiled slowly. “Now that is a quote.”
Behind the lights, a producer gave a subtle thumbs up.
The rest of the interview wrapped without incident. A few softball questions about the season opener, some light trash talk about the SEC. Royce kept it short, nodding when needed, arms crossed when not.
When the cameras cut, Alce rose to shake their hands. “Appreciate y’all, seriously. Big year ahead.”
“Appreciate you,” Rickie echoed.
As the mics were unhooked and the stage cleared, Caden nudged Royce with a smirk. “You hit ‘em with the fake ass Ray Lewis shit again, huh?”
Rickie grinned. “You really love them movie speeches, dawg.”
Ashton clapped Royce on the back. “You be sounding like somebody granddaddy with a war story.”
Royce gave a rare half-smile, shrugging his shoulders. “Nah, I leave that corny ass shit to you niggas.”
Rickie leaned in. “Yeah, right. They about to clip that shit and have it on a hype video before the end of the day.”
They all laughed.
Royce didn’t.
He grabbed his bag from where he’d left it outside of the studio and slung it over his shoulder.
Caden called after him, “Where you going, bruh? We going eat.”
Royce glanced back over his shoulder. “Going mind my damn business. Catch me on the next one.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The FaceTime call connected with a flicker, and Arianna’s mother appeared framed in the golden-hour light filtering through her kitchen blinds. Her apron was flour-dusted. Something was baking—Arianna could see the puff of steam when the oven door cracked open.
“’Bout time you picked up,” her mom said, a hand on her hip. “What, you a big-time poet now? Too busy for your mama?”
Arianna chuckled, leaning against the arm of her futon. Her dorm room was quiet, a mug of tea cooling beside her unopened laptop. “You always call during my only twenty minutes of peace.”
“Peace is for old folks and dead folks. You twenty-one. You got energy.”
Arianna rolled her eyes. “Don’t nobody in Lafayette talk like that.”
Her mom grinned. “That’s ‘cause they soft.” Then, more casually, “Ran into Toni and Deshawn earlier. At the Chevron on St. Charles.”
Arianna’s smile faltered just slightly. “Yeah?”
“Mmhmm. She looked thin. Like… pulled tight, you know? Even her eyes. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t the kind that starts from the inside.” Her mom wiped her hands on a towel, then tilted her head. “You been talking to her?”
Arianna hesitated. “Not lately.”
“You two used to be inseparable. Like puzzle pieces.”
“Yeah, well. Puzzles fall apart.”
Her mother sighed, sensing the shift. “I just thought you’d want to know.”
Arianna nodded once. “Thanks.”
The call wrapped in that soft, meandering way it always did—talk of church folk, the neighbor’s new dog, an unspoken offering of love wrapped in daily nonsense. When her mother finally said, “Alright, baby, be good,” Arianna only murmured “You too” before the screen went black.
For a moment, she just sat there. The silence was too complete.
Then she unlocked her phone and scrolled—not texts, not socials, but Photos. A tucked-away album labeled Home. The title was in lowercase, as if whispered. She tapped it open.
The pictures loaded like old memories surfacing. A fish fry in someone’s backyard. Christmas morning on a too-small couch. A birthday cake melting in July heat.
And then—her and Toni, maybe ten years old. Arms wrapped around each other like they hadn’t yet learned people could leave. Toni had a missing front tooth and her whole face scrunched up in a laugh. Arianna was mid-laugh too, eyes squinting with joy, cheeks puffed.
She paused there.
The picture didn’t move, but it felt like it might. Like if she stared long enough, it would breathe again.
Arianna blinked hard. Then she hit the lock button and placed the phone face down.
Her tea had gone cold.
She didn’t reheat it.
Didn’t need the warmth just yet.
~~~~~~~~~~
The visiting room was cold in that specific way jail buildings always were—over-air-conditioned and sterile, like the air didn’t belong to anyone. Poochie sat with his elbows on the steel ledge in front of the partition, fingers tapping slow against the tabletop. His eyes drifted toward the wall clock, then back to the hallway where they brought visitors through.
He wasn’t nervous.
Not really.
But he wasn’t still either.
Then the door opened.
Natalia walked in with her shoulders squared, chin level, like she’d rehearsed this. Her hair was tied back tight, no makeup, no jewelry—nothing soft or familiar. She didn’t smile. She didn’t even blink. She just walked to the window and sat down.
Poochie picked up the phone first, leaning into the pane. “You here to say sorry?”
Natalia didn’t flinch. She picked up the receiver with slow, deliberate fingers and pressed it to her ear like it was a foreign object. Her gaze stayed steady.
“I’m here to say thank you.”
Poochie cocked his head, confusion tightening the lines around his mouth. “Thank you?”
“You made it easier,” she said, voice flat.
His forehead creased. “Easier for what?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at him—really looked at him, the way you might study something one last time before throwing it away. Then, finally, she said it:
“Leaving.”
She hung up the phone before he could speak again. Just set it down on the cradle like the weight was done being hers.
Poochie’s mouth opened, but the glass swallowed the sound.
Natalia stood.
He tapped the window once, palm flat. “Wait—”
She didn’t even glance back. Her steps were silent on the concrete floor, boots landing light, sure.
The correctional officer at the exit nodded as she approached, punching the release on the door. Just before crossing the threshold, she reached up with one hand and tugged off the hoodie she was wearing. It was his—the Saints one, oversized and faded with the collar stretched.
She balled it once and let it fall straight into the trash can near the exit without breaking stride.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Poochie sat there a long time, phone still in his hand, staring at the hoodie. He kept waiting for something—anger, maybe, or guilt, or some hot surge of regret.
But all he felt was cold. The kind that didn’t leave when the room warmed back up.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun spilled through the trees in slanted sheets, catching on the edges of rusted metal and moss-covered stone. Behind the LSU art building, the sculpture garden sat half-wild—benches too weather-worn to be formal, statues partially swallowed by vines, and the faint smell of damp clay always lingering.
Effie sat on the ledge of a cracked planter, her knees drawn up beneath her sketchbook. Graphite dust smudged the side of her hand. She’d been working in near silence for the past hour, letting the garden settle around her like a weighted blanket. In front of her, on the page, were a pair of unlaced sneakers—frayed at the heel, one shoe slightly turned inward like the person wearing them had stopped short or changed their mind.
Next to it, a second sketch in progress: a folding chair with one leg snapped, tipped onto its side.
Grief through objects. That was the series.
Things people walked past, threw away, forgot. But not her.
She pressed her pencil harder, adding depth to the shadows underneath the chair. Each pass scraped the paper, not enough to tear, just enough to remind her she was still here. Still drawing.
“You always work like that?” a voice said from behind her.
She looked up, not startled. Just expectant.
Her professor—Harper, mid-50s, wore black even when it was hot—stood there with a takeaway cup in one hand and sunglasses balanced on her head like a crown she never remembered she had.
“Like what?” Effie asked, brushing her knuckles against the hem of her shorts.
Harper tilted her head, scanning the page. “Like your work’s holding its breath.”
Effie blinked, not defensive, just… unguarded. “That’s how I was raised.”
The words came out quiet. Not whispered, but purposeful. Heavy. She didn’t try to soften them with a smile.
Harper didn’t reply right away. Just nodded like she understood and took a sip of her coffee. “Keep going,” she said finally. “But don’t forget—breath held too long turns to suffocation.”
When she walked off, Effie stared at her page for a while. Then back at the sculpture she’d drawn—the broken chair. She didn’t change it. She just added a small patch of grass under one of the legs. Something growing beneath the ruin.
Later that night, Effie sat cross-legged on her bed, sketchbook closed, journal open. The fan in her room rattled softly. Her apartment was quiet—roommate out, phone facedown, silence finally hers.
She uncapped a pen and wrote: Is healing supposed to feel like losing touch with the version of yourself that knew how to survive?
She stared at the sentence.
Then, underneath it, added: Or is survival just what you do when you haven’t started healing yet?
She capped the pen. Closed the book. And for once, didn’t turn on music or text anyone.
She just let the silence stay.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16824
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16824
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Stretch
Roni opened the door in socks, her hair in a messy topknot, and one AirPod still in her ear.
“Took you long enough,” she said, stepping aside. “I got practice in, like, twenty minutes.”
Royce raised the small bag in his hand. “Told you I wasn’t staying.”
She peeked inside as he handed it over—ankle brace, compression sleeve, and the special protein bars she liked. “You remembered the coconut ones.”
He shrugged. “You gave me a damn CVS receipt for a list.”
From the living room, the low buzz of a baby toy sounded. Royce glanced in and caught a flash of Julian’s legs kicking on the floor mat. Tyrell was stretched across the couch, arm tossed over his face like he’d been up since dawn.
Rana stepped into the hallway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Her eyes flicked between the two of them—Royce towering with his shoulders tensed, Roni toeing the edge of comfort with him like she always did when he disappeared for too long.
“You hungry?” Rana asked. “There’s still some red beans left.”
“I’m good,” Royce said. “Just dropping this off.”
Roni gave him a look—half disappointment, half resignation—then mumbled, “I’m gonna go change.” She disappeared down the hallway.
Rana watched her go, then turned her attention back to Royce. “You got a minute?”
He knew what was coming. He could feel it in the way her voice softened.
“I already went,” he said before she could start. “Did the whole brotherly check-in. That’s more than enough.”
Rana didn’t challenge the bitterness in his voice. She just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes steady.
“You know he’s been calling,” she said. “And Ma too.”
Royce scoffed. “She got Tyrell’s number. She can go through him.”
“She’s been asking about you.”
“She’s always asking about me,” he shot back. “But when I’m in her fucking face she talk to me like I stole some shit from her.”
Silence stretched between them like a frayed rope.
Rana looked down, then said, “They’re both calling because they don’t know how much longer they got to.”
Royce didn’t respond. His jaw flexed once, twice, and he exhaled through his nose like he was trying to push something heavier than air out of his chest.
Rana took a step closer.
“You don’t owe him forgiveness, Ro. But maybe just let him know where you stand before you can’t anymore. Same for Ma.”
He tilted his head back, blinking toward the ceiling.
“I already lost my brother. I’m not about to let y’all make me carry the rest of them too.”
“You’re not carrying them,” she said quietly. “You’re just letting them know you’re still here.”
A door creaked down the hall—Roni reemerging in her volleyball warm-up, hoodie zipped halfway and hair tucked into a bun. She grabbed her gym bag from the corner, pausing when she saw the two of them still standing there.
“You coming?” she asked Royce.
He shook his head. “Nah. You got this.”
She nodded like she’d expected that answer, then added, “Tell Julian I said bye.”
Then she was out the door.
Royce stood there a second longer, then finally said, “Text me if she needs new shoes or something.”
Rana nodded.
He stepped outside and let the screen door click shut behind him, the afternoon heat swallowing his breath as he walked back to the car, still hearing Roni’s voice echo in his chest—soft but growing stronger.
“You coming?”
Not yet. But maybe soon.
~~~~~~~~~~
The evening air still held some weight as Alix stepped out onto the cracked pavement behind Roux Interiors, her phone pressed between shoulder and ear. She murmured a quick goodbye to a client, letting the conversation trail off as she hung up and tucked the device into her back pocket.
The sky was painted in that in-between light—blue turning to bruised purple, storefronts glowing like open palms. She squinted toward the corner of the lot and spotted Co’s Altima rolling in, low and easy like it had done a dozen times before.
The window came down before the engine even cut off. “Why you always look like you just fired somebody?” he asked, his grin soft around the edges, voice still scratchy from the shift.
“I didn’t,” Alix replied, walking toward him. “But if one more contractor tells me ‘good enough,’ I might.”
Co stepped out, scrubs faded at the knees, badge still clipped to his pocket. He looked like he hadn't had time to exhale yet.
“You get off late,” she said.
“You get off late,” he echoed, nudging her shoulder with his own as they passed each other, then pivoting to face her again. “Headed to grab something for dinner. Thought I’d pass through and see if you were still playing boss lady.”
“You always pass through.”
“I always check in,” he corrected. Then added, “Plus, your boss makes better parking lot playlists than mine.”
Alix smirked. “That’s just me on Bluetooth.”
He snapped his fingers. “Knew it.”
She folded her arms. “So what’s for dinner?”
“Don’t know. Gonna see what the store tells me.”
She raised a brow. “I thought you couldn’t cook.”
“I can’t,” Co admitted. “But I can try.”
Alix held his gaze, a beat longer than needed. “I want to learn.”
He didn’t flinch. “We can learn together.”
There was no pause. No blush. Just truth, clean and settled between them.
She nodded once, not in agreement but in recognition.
“Come on,” he said, turning toward his car. “Walk with me to the car so I can feel important.”
“You are important,” she said easily, brushing past him to lean against the passenger side.
He opened the door and leaned on it. “If I make spaghetti and it comes out terrible, you still gonna pretend to like it?”
Alix grinned. “I’ll lie better than you ever will.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “See, this why I keep showing up.”
She glanced up at him, the weight behind her smile just barely visible. “I know.”
They didn’t hug. Didn’t kiss. But something passed between them anyway—quiet, rooted, unhurried.
The car door shut. The taillights blinked. Alix stood there even after he pulled away, the gravel biting gently underfoot. Then she turned back toward the building, her reflection faint in the showroom glass, and kept walking.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun hung heavy over Baker, turning the empty lot into a shallow skillet of heat and silence. Dust curled off the gravel with each step Royce took, his sneakers crunching over old glass and a faded candy wrapper that stuck to the toe of his shoe.
Delpit stood a few feet ahead in tailored slacks that didn’t quite match the grit of the place, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed but watchful—like a man scouting land not just for a build, but for what it could say.
“You remember this spot?” he asked, voice calm, not needing a response.
Royce gave a short nod, eyes on the busted fence line. “Still don’t look like much.”
“Most legacies don’t, at first.”
Royce gave him a side-eye glance. “You about to drop a quote on me?”
Delpit smirked. “Only if you need one.”
Royce exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. “You buying it?”
“I close next week.”
Royce looked around again. The lot was maybe the size of a small gym—just cracked concrete, a few weeds trying to survive where they shouldn’t, and a faded street sign that buzzed when the wind hit it wrong.
“What for?”
“Still deciding,” Delpit said. “Could be a co-op space. Could be a community build. Could be an asset you help develop. If you want to put that NIL money toward something that lasts.”
Royce shook his head slowly. “I already got a financial guy. He got me in stocks and all that.”
“I’m not talking about day trading,” Delpit replied. “I’m talking about anchoring something. You got real presence, Royce. People follow that—whether you ask them to or not.”
“You said you wanted more than just highlight tapes and rented suits,” he continued. “I’m showing you how. But you gotta want to build it.”
Royce stared down at a hairline crack running through the pavement at his feet. “This don’t feel like legacy. Feels like a side lot waiting to be torn down.”
Delpit smiled faintly. “Then make it feel different. Make it mean something.”
A beat passed. Then Royce said, voice flat, “My brother’s dying.”
Delpit blinked, surprised. “You have another brother?”
Royce’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah. Older one. Reg.”
Delpit’s voice softened, but his words stayed firm. “You close?”
Royce looked away. “No. But that don’t mean it won’t still hit.”
Delpit gave a slow nod, the silence between them no longer empty but carrying something real. “You seen him?”
“Once. That’s enough.”
Delpit glanced out at the horizon, then back at the lot. “Roye, grief’s like real estate. Just ‘cause you ain’t occupying it, don’t mean it don’t still belong to you.”
Royce chuckled dryly. “That’s the corniest thing you ever said.”
“Maybe. But it’s true.”
They stood there in the sun for a long second. Then Royce said, “Send me the details. Not saying I’m doing it. Just… I’ll look.”
Delpit nodded once. “Fair enough.”
As Royce turned to walk back toward his car, he paused at the edge of the lot. Something about the stillness made him linger. He bent down, picked up a piece of concrete chipped from the corner, and rolled it in his hand before tossing it back into the dust.
He didn’t say anything else. He just got in the car, closed the door, and let the engine idle a minute longer than necessary before pulling off.
Behind him, the empty lot stayed quiet. But for the first time, it wasn’t quite so empty.
~~~~~~~~~~
The room was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic squeak of an old ceiling fan above Shayla’s head. A duffel bag lay open on the bed, half-filled with carefully folded clothes—jeans, a couple graphic tees, the black hoodie she stole from Royce last fall and never gave back. She paused when she touched it, thumb brushing the faded lettering on the sleeve. Then she folded it inside-out and shoved it down into the bag.
“You really leaving?” her sister asked from the doorway.
Shayla didn’t turn. “Yeah.”
The reply wasn’t sharp, wasn’t bitter. It just was.
From the next room came the faint, whistling breath of her niece’s nap. The child’s presence clung to the house—graham cracker crumbs on the floor, a bright pink shoe wedged behind the couch, glitter on the bathroom sink.
Her sister stepped in farther, arms crossed loosely over a tank top that read “Good Moms Say Bad Words.” Her face wasn’t angry, just wary—like she’d seen this story play out before, different city, same exit.
“You got somewhere lined up?”
“Enough,” Shayla said. She zipped the bag halfway, then opened the drawer where she kept her chargers and spare cash. Her fingers hovered over the small gold necklace curled inside. She left it.
Her sister sat on the edge of the bed. “You know… I never said it, but I used to be scared you’d end up like Ma. Always bouncing. Never finishing nothing.”
Shayla blinked slowly. “I ain’t her.”
“I know. But sometimes it’s not about who we are. It’s what people expect. What they hold us to.”
Shayla didn’t answer. She closed the bag fully, cinched the zipper tight, and slung it over one shoulder. She stood in the mirror for a second, not to check her hair, not to fix her makeup—just to see herself. Just to make sure she still looked like she belonged to herself.
“Where you going?” her sister asked quietly.
Shayla shrugged. “Ain’t nothing left here but old favors and people who think they know me.”
The front door creaked as she opened it, the summer evening thick with humidity. She walked to her car, popped the trunk, and dropped the duffel in with a thud. Then, instead of getting in, she crossed the street.
Royce’s building sat still, the porch light not yet flicked on. The stairs creaked under her weight as she stepped onto the landing. For a long moment, she just stood there, the note already folded in her hand. Her knuckles hovered over the door, uncertain.
She didn’t knock.
Instead, she slid the note under the welcome mat and stepped back. The scrawl read:
Told you I was gonna survive. Good luck with the spotlight, Royce.
As she turned away, headlights appeared at the corner. Her ride.
She walked down the steps without looking back, threw open the back door of the car, and slid in. As it pulled away, she looked up at the Baton Rouge sky—clouds low and pink with sunset, the kind that always looked like they were waiting to swallow the day whole.
She let the silence ride with her.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look at her phone.
She was already somewhere else.
Roni opened the door in socks, her hair in a messy topknot, and one AirPod still in her ear.
“Took you long enough,” she said, stepping aside. “I got practice in, like, twenty minutes.”
Royce raised the small bag in his hand. “Told you I wasn’t staying.”
She peeked inside as he handed it over—ankle brace, compression sleeve, and the special protein bars she liked. “You remembered the coconut ones.”
He shrugged. “You gave me a damn CVS receipt for a list.”
From the living room, the low buzz of a baby toy sounded. Royce glanced in and caught a flash of Julian’s legs kicking on the floor mat. Tyrell was stretched across the couch, arm tossed over his face like he’d been up since dawn.
Rana stepped into the hallway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Her eyes flicked between the two of them—Royce towering with his shoulders tensed, Roni toeing the edge of comfort with him like she always did when he disappeared for too long.
“You hungry?” Rana asked. “There’s still some red beans left.”
“I’m good,” Royce said. “Just dropping this off.”
Roni gave him a look—half disappointment, half resignation—then mumbled, “I’m gonna go change.” She disappeared down the hallway.
Rana watched her go, then turned her attention back to Royce. “You got a minute?”
He knew what was coming. He could feel it in the way her voice softened.
“I already went,” he said before she could start. “Did the whole brotherly check-in. That’s more than enough.”
Rana didn’t challenge the bitterness in his voice. She just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes steady.
“You know he’s been calling,” she said. “And Ma too.”
Royce scoffed. “She got Tyrell’s number. She can go through him.”
“She’s been asking about you.”
“She’s always asking about me,” he shot back. “But when I’m in her fucking face she talk to me like I stole some shit from her.”
Silence stretched between them like a frayed rope.
Rana looked down, then said, “They’re both calling because they don’t know how much longer they got to.”
Royce didn’t respond. His jaw flexed once, twice, and he exhaled through his nose like he was trying to push something heavier than air out of his chest.
Rana took a step closer.
“You don’t owe him forgiveness, Ro. But maybe just let him know where you stand before you can’t anymore. Same for Ma.”
He tilted his head back, blinking toward the ceiling.
“I already lost my brother. I’m not about to let y’all make me carry the rest of them too.”
“You’re not carrying them,” she said quietly. “You’re just letting them know you’re still here.”
A door creaked down the hall—Roni reemerging in her volleyball warm-up, hoodie zipped halfway and hair tucked into a bun. She grabbed her gym bag from the corner, pausing when she saw the two of them still standing there.
“You coming?” she asked Royce.
He shook his head. “Nah. You got this.”
She nodded like she’d expected that answer, then added, “Tell Julian I said bye.”
Then she was out the door.
Royce stood there a second longer, then finally said, “Text me if she needs new shoes or something.”
Rana nodded.
He stepped outside and let the screen door click shut behind him, the afternoon heat swallowing his breath as he walked back to the car, still hearing Roni’s voice echo in his chest—soft but growing stronger.
“You coming?”
Not yet. But maybe soon.
~~~~~~~~~~
The evening air still held some weight as Alix stepped out onto the cracked pavement behind Roux Interiors, her phone pressed between shoulder and ear. She murmured a quick goodbye to a client, letting the conversation trail off as she hung up and tucked the device into her back pocket.
The sky was painted in that in-between light—blue turning to bruised purple, storefronts glowing like open palms. She squinted toward the corner of the lot and spotted Co’s Altima rolling in, low and easy like it had done a dozen times before.
The window came down before the engine even cut off. “Why you always look like you just fired somebody?” he asked, his grin soft around the edges, voice still scratchy from the shift.
“I didn’t,” Alix replied, walking toward him. “But if one more contractor tells me ‘good enough,’ I might.”
Co stepped out, scrubs faded at the knees, badge still clipped to his pocket. He looked like he hadn't had time to exhale yet.
“You get off late,” she said.
“You get off late,” he echoed, nudging her shoulder with his own as they passed each other, then pivoting to face her again. “Headed to grab something for dinner. Thought I’d pass through and see if you were still playing boss lady.”
“You always pass through.”
“I always check in,” he corrected. Then added, “Plus, your boss makes better parking lot playlists than mine.”
Alix smirked. “That’s just me on Bluetooth.”
He snapped his fingers. “Knew it.”
She folded her arms. “So what’s for dinner?”
“Don’t know. Gonna see what the store tells me.”
She raised a brow. “I thought you couldn’t cook.”
“I can’t,” Co admitted. “But I can try.”
Alix held his gaze, a beat longer than needed. “I want to learn.”
He didn’t flinch. “We can learn together.”
There was no pause. No blush. Just truth, clean and settled between them.
She nodded once, not in agreement but in recognition.
“Come on,” he said, turning toward his car. “Walk with me to the car so I can feel important.”
“You are important,” she said easily, brushing past him to lean against the passenger side.
He opened the door and leaned on it. “If I make spaghetti and it comes out terrible, you still gonna pretend to like it?”
Alix grinned. “I’ll lie better than you ever will.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “See, this why I keep showing up.”
She glanced up at him, the weight behind her smile just barely visible. “I know.”
They didn’t hug. Didn’t kiss. But something passed between them anyway—quiet, rooted, unhurried.
The car door shut. The taillights blinked. Alix stood there even after he pulled away, the gravel biting gently underfoot. Then she turned back toward the building, her reflection faint in the showroom glass, and kept walking.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun hung heavy over Baker, turning the empty lot into a shallow skillet of heat and silence. Dust curled off the gravel with each step Royce took, his sneakers crunching over old glass and a faded candy wrapper that stuck to the toe of his shoe.
Delpit stood a few feet ahead in tailored slacks that didn’t quite match the grit of the place, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed but watchful—like a man scouting land not just for a build, but for what it could say.
“You remember this spot?” he asked, voice calm, not needing a response.
Royce gave a short nod, eyes on the busted fence line. “Still don’t look like much.”
“Most legacies don’t, at first.”
Royce gave him a side-eye glance. “You about to drop a quote on me?”
Delpit smirked. “Only if you need one.”
Royce exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. “You buying it?”
“I close next week.”
Royce looked around again. The lot was maybe the size of a small gym—just cracked concrete, a few weeds trying to survive where they shouldn’t, and a faded street sign that buzzed when the wind hit it wrong.
“What for?”
“Still deciding,” Delpit said. “Could be a co-op space. Could be a community build. Could be an asset you help develop. If you want to put that NIL money toward something that lasts.”
Royce shook his head slowly. “I already got a financial guy. He got me in stocks and all that.”
“I’m not talking about day trading,” Delpit replied. “I’m talking about anchoring something. You got real presence, Royce. People follow that—whether you ask them to or not.”
“You said you wanted more than just highlight tapes and rented suits,” he continued. “I’m showing you how. But you gotta want to build it.”
Royce stared down at a hairline crack running through the pavement at his feet. “This don’t feel like legacy. Feels like a side lot waiting to be torn down.”
Delpit smiled faintly. “Then make it feel different. Make it mean something.”
A beat passed. Then Royce said, voice flat, “My brother’s dying.”
Delpit blinked, surprised. “You have another brother?”
Royce’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah. Older one. Reg.”
Delpit’s voice softened, but his words stayed firm. “You close?”
Royce looked away. “No. But that don’t mean it won’t still hit.”
Delpit gave a slow nod, the silence between them no longer empty but carrying something real. “You seen him?”
“Once. That’s enough.”
Delpit glanced out at the horizon, then back at the lot. “Roye, grief’s like real estate. Just ‘cause you ain’t occupying it, don’t mean it don’t still belong to you.”
Royce chuckled dryly. “That’s the corniest thing you ever said.”
“Maybe. But it’s true.”
They stood there in the sun for a long second. Then Royce said, “Send me the details. Not saying I’m doing it. Just… I’ll look.”
Delpit nodded once. “Fair enough.”
As Royce turned to walk back toward his car, he paused at the edge of the lot. Something about the stillness made him linger. He bent down, picked up a piece of concrete chipped from the corner, and rolled it in his hand before tossing it back into the dust.
He didn’t say anything else. He just got in the car, closed the door, and let the engine idle a minute longer than necessary before pulling off.
Behind him, the empty lot stayed quiet. But for the first time, it wasn’t quite so empty.
~~~~~~~~~~
The room was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic squeak of an old ceiling fan above Shayla’s head. A duffel bag lay open on the bed, half-filled with carefully folded clothes—jeans, a couple graphic tees, the black hoodie she stole from Royce last fall and never gave back. She paused when she touched it, thumb brushing the faded lettering on the sleeve. Then she folded it inside-out and shoved it down into the bag.
“You really leaving?” her sister asked from the doorway.
Shayla didn’t turn. “Yeah.”
The reply wasn’t sharp, wasn’t bitter. It just was.
From the next room came the faint, whistling breath of her niece’s nap. The child’s presence clung to the house—graham cracker crumbs on the floor, a bright pink shoe wedged behind the couch, glitter on the bathroom sink.
Her sister stepped in farther, arms crossed loosely over a tank top that read “Good Moms Say Bad Words.” Her face wasn’t angry, just wary—like she’d seen this story play out before, different city, same exit.
“You got somewhere lined up?”
“Enough,” Shayla said. She zipped the bag halfway, then opened the drawer where she kept her chargers and spare cash. Her fingers hovered over the small gold necklace curled inside. She left it.
Her sister sat on the edge of the bed. “You know… I never said it, but I used to be scared you’d end up like Ma. Always bouncing. Never finishing nothing.”
Shayla blinked slowly. “I ain’t her.”
“I know. But sometimes it’s not about who we are. It’s what people expect. What they hold us to.”
Shayla didn’t answer. She closed the bag fully, cinched the zipper tight, and slung it over one shoulder. She stood in the mirror for a second, not to check her hair, not to fix her makeup—just to see herself. Just to make sure she still looked like she belonged to herself.
“Where you going?” her sister asked quietly.
Shayla shrugged. “Ain’t nothing left here but old favors and people who think they know me.”
The front door creaked as she opened it, the summer evening thick with humidity. She walked to her car, popped the trunk, and dropped the duffel in with a thud. Then, instead of getting in, she crossed the street.
Royce’s building sat still, the porch light not yet flicked on. The stairs creaked under her weight as she stepped onto the landing. For a long moment, she just stood there, the note already folded in her hand. Her knuckles hovered over the door, uncertain.
She didn’t knock.
Instead, she slid the note under the welcome mat and stepped back. The scrawl read:
Told you I was gonna survive. Good luck with the spotlight, Royce.
As she turned away, headlights appeared at the corner. Her ride.
She walked down the steps without looking back, threw open the back door of the car, and slid in. As it pulled away, she looked up at the Baton Rouge sky—clouds low and pink with sunset, the kind that always looked like they were waiting to swallow the day whole.
She let the silence ride with her.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look at her phone.
She was already somewhere else.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16824
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Sonned
The sun had no mercy.
It beat down over LSU’s practice fields like it had something to prove, soaking every jersey in sweat before the warmups even ended. Shoulder pads were slick, cleats dug trenches in the turf, and the air smelled like cut grass and spit. The team moved like a hive—buzzing with late July heat and the kind of anxiety that only came when the coaches pulled out the ropes and cones and started shouting about Big Cat.
That word changed everything.
“Big Cat!” Coach Lanning’s voice hit like a whip crack.
The drill wasn’t just about leverage. It wasn’t even about strength. It was about pride. Intimidation. Grown-man football. You stood across from someone, locked eyes, and found out what you had in your chest.
The circle closed in tight.
Players howled, bumped shoulders, hyped each other up. Freshmen vibrated with nerves. The veterans grinned like wolves.
Royce stepped into the center before anyone else moved.
“Of course,” Gio muttered with a smirk. “Big brudda leadin’ by example.”
“He stay ready,” Dorian added, eyes locked in. “Ain’t gotta get ready.”
Jay called out over the noise, “Hey Royce, better not slip. Young bull’s hungry.”
Royce didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
Across the circle, Doug took a deep breath and stepped in.
Doug Cheek was a freshman, all legs and biceps and raw ambition. He had a chip on his shoulder, and word was, he’d been waiting for this all week. First big stage. First real chance to swing at someone with a name. His helmet sat low, cutting a shadow over his eyes. He crouched like a boxer—tense, wired.
“Royce. Doug. First rep.” Coach Lanning nodded. “Set it.”
Royce dropped into a stance. His hands loose. Feet perfect. Calm in the storm.
Doug came off the ball fast—too fast—trying to catch Royce off-guard. The freshman lowered his shoulder and drove straight into him with everything he had.
And bounced.
Royce didn’t move. He absorbed the hit like a brick wall, then surged forward—hips low, hands inside, violent. He lifted Doug off his feet with a single clean pop of the hips and dumped him.
Doug’s back hit the turf with a dull thud that echoed around the circle. His helmet shifted slightly. Grass stuck to his arm sleeve.
For a second, there was silence.
Then chaos.
“Shiiiit!” Earl screamed, throwing both arms in the air.
“Doug just got baptized!” Gio howled.
“Somebody help that boy find his soul!” Dorian laughed, half-bent over with his hands on his knees.
Jay jogged around the circle with both fists in the air, pointing at no one and everyone. “That’s what happen when you try big dawg with camp legs!”
Royce stayed planted. Didn’t yell. Didn’t strut.
He just stood over Doug for a moment, then turned and walked off like he hadn’t just dropped a hammer on the whole practice.
Doug blinked up at the sky, dazed but not broken. He sat up, helmet crooked, chest heaving. After a second, he looked around, found Royce’s back, and muttered something that sounded like respect. That mattered.
“Help him up!” Coach Lupoi shouted. “This ain’t a funeral.”
Royce never looked back.
Jay caught up with him. “You quiet, but you loud as hell, bro.”
Royce let out a half-breath of a laugh. Just enough to say he heard it.
Dorian bumped him in the shoulder. “Real niggas ain’t gotta talk.”
“Nope,” Gio added. “They just send messages with bodies.”
Coach blew the whistle. “Next up!”
The circle kept moving. Pads popped. The noise rolled on. But the tone? The tone had already been set.
Royce pulled his helmet back on and stood at the edge, hands on hips, watching. Not for praise. Not even for competition.
Just to make sure no one else walked while he was running.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun was still high when Toni stepped out of her last lecture of the summer session, blinking against the light like someone who’d just woken up too fast. Campus buzzed around her—students clustering by benches, music playing too loud from a cracked speaker near the student union, somebody skating by with a smoothie in one hand. Everything felt louder this semester. Or maybe she’d just gone quiet.
Keisha was waiting by the bike rack, her braids tied up in a knot and her tank top catching the afternoon breeze. She looked like she belonged in the scene—sun-kissed, sharp-tongued, and never out of place.
“Hey,” Keisha said, slinging her bag over one shoulder. “We’re going for coffee. You coming?”
Toni hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the strap of her backpack like it was a lifeline. The answer was no. It was always no. No was safer. No didn’t risk anything.
“I should—” she started, but the word caught in her throat.
Keisha didn’t press, just waited, rocking on the balls of her feet.
Toni glanced down the path toward the lot, toward her usual routine—back to the apartment, back to checking her phone like she was waiting for a parole officer to text.
“I’ll come,” she said.
Keisha smiled, easy. “Good. You been ghosting too much.”
They walked to the café just off campus, one of those slightly-too-expensive places with exposed brick and local art hanging on the walls. The line was short, the music soft. She ordered an iced latte and sat at a window seat while the others bickered about who was paying.
Toni listened more than she talked. She stirred her straw slowly, letting the clink of ice fill her silence. Her friends swapped stories, gossiping about professors and the upcoming semester and some messy situationship one of them was finally ending. The laughter was frequent, almost careless.
And then it happened—someone said something dumb about a boy bringing a microwave to their dorm instead of a mini-fridge, and Keisha imitated him in a syrup-thick country accent that made Toni snort, almost choke on her drink.
She didn’t mean to laugh.
But it was real.
The others looked over, surprised, then grinned like they'd just watched someone come back to life.
Toni ducked her head. “Y’all stupid.”
“That ain’t new,” Keisha shot back, nudging her knee under the table.
The moment passed, light as breath, but it stayed with her the rest of the day. She walked home slowly. The sun had started to dip, and the sky looked like the inside of a ripe peach—warm and bruised at the edges. She didn’t check her phone right away. Didn’t rush.
When she finally got back to the apartment, it was quiet. Deshawn wasn’t in, and the shadows from the blinds cut across the floor in neat lines. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Four missed FaceTime calls.
All from Deshawn.
Her stomach tightened, but not with fear. Not quite.
Just… expectation.
She didn’t open the texts at first. Just stared at the screen like it might solve itself. Then she unlocked the phone and typed:
Was with people. Just got in.
The reply came fast.
Whatever. Call when you done pretending.
Toni didn’t answer.
She set the phone face-down on the nightstand and lay back against the mattress, arms folded over her stomach. The light flickered as clouds moved past the sun, and her ceiling fan spun lazy circles above her.
Pretending, she thought.
Maybe for the first time in a long time… she wasn’t.
~~~~~~~~~~
The late afternoon sun hit Reno like it always did in the summerr—brutal but lazy, casting long shadows across the turf at Mackay Stadium. Practice was wrapping into its second hour, and most of the veterans were in autopilot mode—sweating through reps, jawing between whistles, and counting the minutes to wrap-up.
Malik tugged off his helmet and squinted toward the far sideline. He’d noticed it all week—#34, the freshman safety, Kevan Hightower, kept over-pursuing in coverage drills. Too eager. Too stiff. Like he was chasing ghosts instead of patterns.
Now, in a one-on-one drill, the mistake was louder. Kevon bit hard on a stutter step and watched his receiver fly past him for an easy score. Some of the older guys barked from the sideline, half-laughing.
“Come on, man, get your head right.”
Malik didn’t laugh.
He jogged over, loose and even, helmet under his arm. Kevan was huffing, jaw clenched like he was trying not to be embarrassed.
“You good?” Malik asked, stopping in front of him.
Kevan nodded too fast. “Yeah, I’m—yeah.”
“Nah, you’re thinking too much,” Malik said, crouching slightly, hands motioning. “Watch.”
He walked him through the footwork—inside leverage, hips low, shoulders square—and mimicked the receiver’s move in slow motion.
“It’s muscle memory, not magic,” Malik said as he reset the stance. “Ain’t nothing out here you can’t catch up to. You’ll get there.”
Kevon nodded again, slower this time. “Appreciate it.”
Malik clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t try to be perfect. Just be right.”
As practice wound down and players peeled off the field toward the locker room, the buzz shifted back to music and trash talk. Inside, the air-conditioning hummed against sweat-soaked shirts and taped ankles. Malik sat at his locker unwrapping his cleats when Donovan flopped down next to him, nursing a Gatorade.
“You gonna coach or something now?” he asked, a smirk playing on his face.
Malik snorted. “Hell no.”
Donovan raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t look like ‘hell no’ when you was out there teaching freshman mechanics like we on Netflix’s QB1.”
Malik leaned back and stretched his legs out. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Or maybe I just like helping dudes figure shit out faster than I did.”
He said it like it was nothing, but it hung in the space between them. A truth he hadn’t said out loud before.
Donovan looked over, nodding slowly. “That felt good, huh?”
Malik paused, then gave the smallest smile. “Yeah. It did.”
For the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like he was chasing a future he was already halfway done with. He just felt… useful. Present. Like whatever came next didn’t have to scare him.
The sun had no mercy.
It beat down over LSU’s practice fields like it had something to prove, soaking every jersey in sweat before the warmups even ended. Shoulder pads were slick, cleats dug trenches in the turf, and the air smelled like cut grass and spit. The team moved like a hive—buzzing with late July heat and the kind of anxiety that only came when the coaches pulled out the ropes and cones and started shouting about Big Cat.
That word changed everything.
“Big Cat!” Coach Lanning’s voice hit like a whip crack.
The drill wasn’t just about leverage. It wasn’t even about strength. It was about pride. Intimidation. Grown-man football. You stood across from someone, locked eyes, and found out what you had in your chest.
The circle closed in tight.
Players howled, bumped shoulders, hyped each other up. Freshmen vibrated with nerves. The veterans grinned like wolves.
Royce stepped into the center before anyone else moved.
“Of course,” Gio muttered with a smirk. “Big brudda leadin’ by example.”
“He stay ready,” Dorian added, eyes locked in. “Ain’t gotta get ready.”
Jay called out over the noise, “Hey Royce, better not slip. Young bull’s hungry.”
Royce didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
Across the circle, Doug took a deep breath and stepped in.
Doug Cheek was a freshman, all legs and biceps and raw ambition. He had a chip on his shoulder, and word was, he’d been waiting for this all week. First big stage. First real chance to swing at someone with a name. His helmet sat low, cutting a shadow over his eyes. He crouched like a boxer—tense, wired.
“Royce. Doug. First rep.” Coach Lanning nodded. “Set it.”
Royce dropped into a stance. His hands loose. Feet perfect. Calm in the storm.
Doug came off the ball fast—too fast—trying to catch Royce off-guard. The freshman lowered his shoulder and drove straight into him with everything he had.
And bounced.
Royce didn’t move. He absorbed the hit like a brick wall, then surged forward—hips low, hands inside, violent. He lifted Doug off his feet with a single clean pop of the hips and dumped him.
Doug’s back hit the turf with a dull thud that echoed around the circle. His helmet shifted slightly. Grass stuck to his arm sleeve.
For a second, there was silence.
Then chaos.
“Shiiiit!” Earl screamed, throwing both arms in the air.
“Doug just got baptized!” Gio howled.
“Somebody help that boy find his soul!” Dorian laughed, half-bent over with his hands on his knees.
Jay jogged around the circle with both fists in the air, pointing at no one and everyone. “That’s what happen when you try big dawg with camp legs!”
Royce stayed planted. Didn’t yell. Didn’t strut.
He just stood over Doug for a moment, then turned and walked off like he hadn’t just dropped a hammer on the whole practice.
Doug blinked up at the sky, dazed but not broken. He sat up, helmet crooked, chest heaving. After a second, he looked around, found Royce’s back, and muttered something that sounded like respect. That mattered.
“Help him up!” Coach Lupoi shouted. “This ain’t a funeral.”
Royce never looked back.
Jay caught up with him. “You quiet, but you loud as hell, bro.”
Royce let out a half-breath of a laugh. Just enough to say he heard it.
Dorian bumped him in the shoulder. “Real niggas ain’t gotta talk.”
“Nope,” Gio added. “They just send messages with bodies.”
Coach blew the whistle. “Next up!”
The circle kept moving. Pads popped. The noise rolled on. But the tone? The tone had already been set.
Royce pulled his helmet back on and stood at the edge, hands on hips, watching. Not for praise. Not even for competition.
Just to make sure no one else walked while he was running.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun was still high when Toni stepped out of her last lecture of the summer session, blinking against the light like someone who’d just woken up too fast. Campus buzzed around her—students clustering by benches, music playing too loud from a cracked speaker near the student union, somebody skating by with a smoothie in one hand. Everything felt louder this semester. Or maybe she’d just gone quiet.
Keisha was waiting by the bike rack, her braids tied up in a knot and her tank top catching the afternoon breeze. She looked like she belonged in the scene—sun-kissed, sharp-tongued, and never out of place.
“Hey,” Keisha said, slinging her bag over one shoulder. “We’re going for coffee. You coming?”
Toni hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the strap of her backpack like it was a lifeline. The answer was no. It was always no. No was safer. No didn’t risk anything.
“I should—” she started, but the word caught in her throat.
Keisha didn’t press, just waited, rocking on the balls of her feet.
Toni glanced down the path toward the lot, toward her usual routine—back to the apartment, back to checking her phone like she was waiting for a parole officer to text.
“I’ll come,” she said.
Keisha smiled, easy. “Good. You been ghosting too much.”
They walked to the café just off campus, one of those slightly-too-expensive places with exposed brick and local art hanging on the walls. The line was short, the music soft. She ordered an iced latte and sat at a window seat while the others bickered about who was paying.
Toni listened more than she talked. She stirred her straw slowly, letting the clink of ice fill her silence. Her friends swapped stories, gossiping about professors and the upcoming semester and some messy situationship one of them was finally ending. The laughter was frequent, almost careless.
And then it happened—someone said something dumb about a boy bringing a microwave to their dorm instead of a mini-fridge, and Keisha imitated him in a syrup-thick country accent that made Toni snort, almost choke on her drink.
She didn’t mean to laugh.
But it was real.
The others looked over, surprised, then grinned like they'd just watched someone come back to life.
Toni ducked her head. “Y’all stupid.”
“That ain’t new,” Keisha shot back, nudging her knee under the table.
The moment passed, light as breath, but it stayed with her the rest of the day. She walked home slowly. The sun had started to dip, and the sky looked like the inside of a ripe peach—warm and bruised at the edges. She didn’t check her phone right away. Didn’t rush.
When she finally got back to the apartment, it was quiet. Deshawn wasn’t in, and the shadows from the blinds cut across the floor in neat lines. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Four missed FaceTime calls.
All from Deshawn.
Her stomach tightened, but not with fear. Not quite.
Just… expectation.
She didn’t open the texts at first. Just stared at the screen like it might solve itself. Then she unlocked the phone and typed:
Was with people. Just got in.
The reply came fast.
Whatever. Call when you done pretending.
Toni didn’t answer.
She set the phone face-down on the nightstand and lay back against the mattress, arms folded over her stomach. The light flickered as clouds moved past the sun, and her ceiling fan spun lazy circles above her.
Pretending, she thought.
Maybe for the first time in a long time… she wasn’t.
~~~~~~~~~~
The late afternoon sun hit Reno like it always did in the summerr—brutal but lazy, casting long shadows across the turf at Mackay Stadium. Practice was wrapping into its second hour, and most of the veterans were in autopilot mode—sweating through reps, jawing between whistles, and counting the minutes to wrap-up.
Malik tugged off his helmet and squinted toward the far sideline. He’d noticed it all week—#34, the freshman safety, Kevan Hightower, kept over-pursuing in coverage drills. Too eager. Too stiff. Like he was chasing ghosts instead of patterns.
Now, in a one-on-one drill, the mistake was louder. Kevon bit hard on a stutter step and watched his receiver fly past him for an easy score. Some of the older guys barked from the sideline, half-laughing.
“Come on, man, get your head right.”
Malik didn’t laugh.
He jogged over, loose and even, helmet under his arm. Kevan was huffing, jaw clenched like he was trying not to be embarrassed.
“You good?” Malik asked, stopping in front of him.
Kevan nodded too fast. “Yeah, I’m—yeah.”
“Nah, you’re thinking too much,” Malik said, crouching slightly, hands motioning. “Watch.”
He walked him through the footwork—inside leverage, hips low, shoulders square—and mimicked the receiver’s move in slow motion.
“It’s muscle memory, not magic,” Malik said as he reset the stance. “Ain’t nothing out here you can’t catch up to. You’ll get there.”
Kevon nodded again, slower this time. “Appreciate it.”
Malik clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t try to be perfect. Just be right.”
As practice wound down and players peeled off the field toward the locker room, the buzz shifted back to music and trash talk. Inside, the air-conditioning hummed against sweat-soaked shirts and taped ankles. Malik sat at his locker unwrapping his cleats when Donovan flopped down next to him, nursing a Gatorade.
“You gonna coach or something now?” he asked, a smirk playing on his face.
Malik snorted. “Hell no.”
Donovan raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t look like ‘hell no’ when you was out there teaching freshman mechanics like we on Netflix’s QB1.”
Malik leaned back and stretched his legs out. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Or maybe I just like helping dudes figure shit out faster than I did.”
He said it like it was nothing, but it hung in the space between them. A truth he hadn’t said out loud before.
Donovan looked over, nodding slowly. “That felt good, huh?”
Malik paused, then gave the smallest smile. “Yeah. It did.”
For the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like he was chasing a future he was already halfway done with. He just felt… useful. Present. Like whatever came next didn’t have to scare him.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16824
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Links
The heat wasn’t punishing yet. Just a quiet sizzle off the turf at Beaver Creek Golf Course, where the breeze came soft and slow through the cypress trees and the only real noise was Tyrell’s commentary and the low rumble of passing carts.
Royce adjusted his grip, eyes fixed on the ball, posture squared like Coach Lupoi had taught him to do in linebacker drills. Same mechanics, different game. Still about control.
“Don’t try to kill it,” Tyrell said from behind him, one hand on his hip, the other sipping a Gatorade. “You always try to kill it.”
Royce exhaled through his nose. “Just tryna get my money’s worth.”
He swung.
The ball lifted clean, arcing with a soft slice into the rough. Tyrell whistled low.
“Still better than last time.”
Royce smirked and stepped back, letting Tyrell approach the tee.
They didn’t talk much during the next few holes. They never really had to. Back when Royce was a senior—just a few months out of the hospital and not yet cleared for contact—it was Tyrell who got him out of the house. Introduced him to golf. Said it was something that made you patient again. Said you didn’t have to be healed to swing a club.
Now, watching Tyrell line up his shot in a faded Southern University polo and scuffed Jordan golf cleats, Royce felt that same quiet again. Familiar. Like exhaling through pain.
After Tyrell’s shot—a clean stripe down the fairway—they climbed into the cart. Tyrell didn’t start the engine. Just looked out toward the green.
“You remember my Uncle Charles?” he asked.
Royce nodded. “Yeah. From Tickfaw, right?”
“Yeah. He died last week.” Tyrell’s voice didn’t wobble. “Prostate cancer. Got real bad, real fast.”
Royce leaned back in the cart. “Damn. I’m sorry.”
Tyrell nodded slowly. “Ain’t seen him in like three years. Was on some bullshit. Pride stuff, mostly. Didn’t make time.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “That shit wrecked my cousins. Watching him go out without that peace.”
Royce watched the trees instead of Tyrell. He knew this wasn’t really about Charles. It wasn’t even really about regret.
Tyrell glanced at him. “All I’m saying is—don’t let too much time pass. That door don’t always stay open.”
Royce sat quiet. Then nodded once, more out of respect than agreement. “You sound like one of them ‘Fix Your Life’ podcast niggas.”
Tyrell chuckled and finally started the cart. “Ain’t that deep, Ro.”
Royce didn’t say anything for a beat. Then, as they rounded the bend toward the next hole, he stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Think I’ma start golfing more. Now that I’m rich and all.”
Tyrell glanced at him sideways. “Boy, please.”
Royce grinned. “Need a hobby besides press conferences and watching y’all be domestic.”
They rolled forward in the cart, the green unfolding in front of them, sun settling above the tree line. Tyrell cracked another joke. Royce let it land. But in the silence that followed, he kept hearing the thing Tyrell didn’t say out loud:
You ain’t got forever.
And some goodbyes don’t wait.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bathroom mirror fogged with the leftover steam of a too-hot shower, and Toni wiped a streak down the center with the edge of a towel. Her reflection stared back at her—half-fogged, half-exposed. She’d already done her makeup, light but careful, and her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders. The kind of look Deshawn used to like. Used to comment on.
In the next room, Keisha’s music pulsed from a Bluetooth speaker on the dresser. Old Megan, something reckless and free. Toni padded barefoot into the bedroom, where Keisha stood in a fitted black romper, holding up a pair of silver hoops to each ear.
“You keeping it cute or nah?” Toni teased lightly.
Keisha smirked. “Always nah, babe. You know this.”
Toni smiled back, then opened the closet door and rifled through her limited options. She pulled out a simple white crop top and a pair of dark jeans. Comfortable. Neutral. Safe.
She had just pulled the top over her head when Keisha turned and gave her a slow once-over.
“That what we’re going with?” Keisha asked, not unkindly. “Jeans?”
Toni glanced down at herself. “Yeah.”
Keisha tilted her head. “He finally let you pick?”
Toni’s hands paused at her waistband. She didn’t answer right away. Just gave a little shrug. “He’s not coming.”
There was a quiet beat, not quite silence. The music thumped low behind them, but something shifted in the room.
Keisha walked closer, leaning on the edge of Toni’s bed. “So… what would you wear if he never was?”
Toni didn’t move.
She turned back to the mirror. Her reflection looked like someone trying not to flinch. Like someone still bracing for impact even after the car had stopped.
She studied the girl in the glass—dark eyes, softly lined lips, the faintest shadow of a bruise under foundation near her collarbone. Then she looked past her reflection, into the closet again. Toward the thing she hadn’t worn in over a year.
The yellow blouse.
It was buttery and bright, with long sleeves and tiny pearl buttons. A piece she bought on impulse once with Arianna in New Orleans. Deshawn said it made her look “too loud.” Too much.
But now—tonight—Toni reached for it.
She peeled off the crop top and slipped the blouse over her arms. Buttoned it slowly. It hung loose in a way that felt like breathing. Like room.
Keisha’s voice was soft now. “That color looks good on you.”
Toni didn’t answer right away. She just stared at herself.
“I forgot,” she finally whispered. “How it felt to choose.”
Keisha smiled. “Let’s go remind you.”
And as they stepped into the hallway, Toni didn’t look back at the closet. Not once.
~~~~~~~~~~
The quad glinted in the early afternoon, heat rising off the pavement in slow, shimmering waves. Cicadas droned in the oaks overhead, their hum layered beneath the buzz of students spilling out of the student union—laughing, dodging bikes, clutching iced drinks. Royce cut through it all with a loose stride, headphones in, though the music was paused. He didn’t like walking with both ears out. Too exposed.
He wasn’t headed anywhere special. Just killing time between team meetings and a class he already knew he wasn’t going to pay attention to. He felt tired in that way that didn’t touch the body—just sat behind the eyes, like a screen door slowly coming off the hinge.
He drifted toward the edge of the union patio, half-thinking about grabbing a smoothie and sitting down. That’s when he caught a glimpse of her.
Britni.
She was at one of the shaded tables along the perimeter, the kind no one ever fought for but everyone appreciated. Her head tilted back briefly as she laughed at something one of the girls at her table said—this bright, open sound that cracked the air just enough to draw a glance. She looked good. Not polished, not done up. Just settled. A yellow headband tucked her curls back loosely, and her glasses were slipping a little down her nose. Her laptop sat open in front of her, a bright slideshow mid-edit: “Cultural Responsiveness in Early Childhood Ed.”
She looked… light.
One of the girls beside her sipped from a smoothie and leaned in, teasing: “So you going or nah?”
Britni grinned, pulling her hoodie tighter across her arms despite the heat. “I already said yes.”
The table whooped in unison, exaggerated claps and fake gasps. Britni shook her head, eyes narrowing with mock embarrassment.
Royce stood half-shadowed behind a column, watching—not in that pressed, lingering way that invited trouble, but like someone unexpectedly catching the last few notes of a familiar melody.
He hadn’t spoken to her in months. They weren’t close before, and they weren’t anything now. No drama. No fall-out. Just time and distance, like wet ink that never dried right.
He adjusted his backpack. Part of him wanted to leave before she noticed. The other part already knew she had.
Britni looked up, catching him in her periphery. No surprise crossed her face. No hesitation either. Just a simple acknowledgment—one nod, chin barely lifted, like they were two people who’d been part of the same story once, long ago.
Royce gave a nod back. Small. Measured.
Nothing more.
He turned before it had the chance to become anything else.
As he walked, his shadow stretched beside him, long and angular. Behind him, laughter bubbled up again from her table—someone told a joke, someone groaned, someone else snorted loud enough to earn a "Girl, shut up".
Royce didn’t look back.
He didn’t need to.
Whatever weight used to sit on both their shoulders—it wasn’t there anymore. Not for her, anyway Just a ghost passing through the daylight, quiet enough to let go.
The heat wasn’t punishing yet. Just a quiet sizzle off the turf at Beaver Creek Golf Course, where the breeze came soft and slow through the cypress trees and the only real noise was Tyrell’s commentary and the low rumble of passing carts.
Royce adjusted his grip, eyes fixed on the ball, posture squared like Coach Lupoi had taught him to do in linebacker drills. Same mechanics, different game. Still about control.
“Don’t try to kill it,” Tyrell said from behind him, one hand on his hip, the other sipping a Gatorade. “You always try to kill it.”
Royce exhaled through his nose. “Just tryna get my money’s worth.”
He swung.
The ball lifted clean, arcing with a soft slice into the rough. Tyrell whistled low.
“Still better than last time.”
Royce smirked and stepped back, letting Tyrell approach the tee.
They didn’t talk much during the next few holes. They never really had to. Back when Royce was a senior—just a few months out of the hospital and not yet cleared for contact—it was Tyrell who got him out of the house. Introduced him to golf. Said it was something that made you patient again. Said you didn’t have to be healed to swing a club.
Now, watching Tyrell line up his shot in a faded Southern University polo and scuffed Jordan golf cleats, Royce felt that same quiet again. Familiar. Like exhaling through pain.
After Tyrell’s shot—a clean stripe down the fairway—they climbed into the cart. Tyrell didn’t start the engine. Just looked out toward the green.
“You remember my Uncle Charles?” he asked.
Royce nodded. “Yeah. From Tickfaw, right?”
“Yeah. He died last week.” Tyrell’s voice didn’t wobble. “Prostate cancer. Got real bad, real fast.”
Royce leaned back in the cart. “Damn. I’m sorry.”
Tyrell nodded slowly. “Ain’t seen him in like three years. Was on some bullshit. Pride stuff, mostly. Didn’t make time.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “That shit wrecked my cousins. Watching him go out without that peace.”
Royce watched the trees instead of Tyrell. He knew this wasn’t really about Charles. It wasn’t even really about regret.
Tyrell glanced at him. “All I’m saying is—don’t let too much time pass. That door don’t always stay open.”
Royce sat quiet. Then nodded once, more out of respect than agreement. “You sound like one of them ‘Fix Your Life’ podcast niggas.”
Tyrell chuckled and finally started the cart. “Ain’t that deep, Ro.”
Royce didn’t say anything for a beat. Then, as they rounded the bend toward the next hole, he stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Think I’ma start golfing more. Now that I’m rich and all.”
Tyrell glanced at him sideways. “Boy, please.”
Royce grinned. “Need a hobby besides press conferences and watching y’all be domestic.”
They rolled forward in the cart, the green unfolding in front of them, sun settling above the tree line. Tyrell cracked another joke. Royce let it land. But in the silence that followed, he kept hearing the thing Tyrell didn’t say out loud:
You ain’t got forever.
And some goodbyes don’t wait.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bathroom mirror fogged with the leftover steam of a too-hot shower, and Toni wiped a streak down the center with the edge of a towel. Her reflection stared back at her—half-fogged, half-exposed. She’d already done her makeup, light but careful, and her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders. The kind of look Deshawn used to like. Used to comment on.
In the next room, Keisha’s music pulsed from a Bluetooth speaker on the dresser. Old Megan, something reckless and free. Toni padded barefoot into the bedroom, where Keisha stood in a fitted black romper, holding up a pair of silver hoops to each ear.
“You keeping it cute or nah?” Toni teased lightly.
Keisha smirked. “Always nah, babe. You know this.”
Toni smiled back, then opened the closet door and rifled through her limited options. She pulled out a simple white crop top and a pair of dark jeans. Comfortable. Neutral. Safe.
She had just pulled the top over her head when Keisha turned and gave her a slow once-over.
“That what we’re going with?” Keisha asked, not unkindly. “Jeans?”
Toni glanced down at herself. “Yeah.”
Keisha tilted her head. “He finally let you pick?”
Toni’s hands paused at her waistband. She didn’t answer right away. Just gave a little shrug. “He’s not coming.”
There was a quiet beat, not quite silence. The music thumped low behind them, but something shifted in the room.
Keisha walked closer, leaning on the edge of Toni’s bed. “So… what would you wear if he never was?”
Toni didn’t move.
She turned back to the mirror. Her reflection looked like someone trying not to flinch. Like someone still bracing for impact even after the car had stopped.
She studied the girl in the glass—dark eyes, softly lined lips, the faintest shadow of a bruise under foundation near her collarbone. Then she looked past her reflection, into the closet again. Toward the thing she hadn’t worn in over a year.
The yellow blouse.
It was buttery and bright, with long sleeves and tiny pearl buttons. A piece she bought on impulse once with Arianna in New Orleans. Deshawn said it made her look “too loud.” Too much.
But now—tonight—Toni reached for it.
She peeled off the crop top and slipped the blouse over her arms. Buttoned it slowly. It hung loose in a way that felt like breathing. Like room.
Keisha’s voice was soft now. “That color looks good on you.”
Toni didn’t answer right away. She just stared at herself.
“I forgot,” she finally whispered. “How it felt to choose.”
Keisha smiled. “Let’s go remind you.”
And as they stepped into the hallway, Toni didn’t look back at the closet. Not once.
~~~~~~~~~~
The quad glinted in the early afternoon, heat rising off the pavement in slow, shimmering waves. Cicadas droned in the oaks overhead, their hum layered beneath the buzz of students spilling out of the student union—laughing, dodging bikes, clutching iced drinks. Royce cut through it all with a loose stride, headphones in, though the music was paused. He didn’t like walking with both ears out. Too exposed.
He wasn’t headed anywhere special. Just killing time between team meetings and a class he already knew he wasn’t going to pay attention to. He felt tired in that way that didn’t touch the body—just sat behind the eyes, like a screen door slowly coming off the hinge.
He drifted toward the edge of the union patio, half-thinking about grabbing a smoothie and sitting down. That’s when he caught a glimpse of her.
Britni.
She was at one of the shaded tables along the perimeter, the kind no one ever fought for but everyone appreciated. Her head tilted back briefly as she laughed at something one of the girls at her table said—this bright, open sound that cracked the air just enough to draw a glance. She looked good. Not polished, not done up. Just settled. A yellow headband tucked her curls back loosely, and her glasses were slipping a little down her nose. Her laptop sat open in front of her, a bright slideshow mid-edit: “Cultural Responsiveness in Early Childhood Ed.”
She looked… light.
One of the girls beside her sipped from a smoothie and leaned in, teasing: “So you going or nah?”
Britni grinned, pulling her hoodie tighter across her arms despite the heat. “I already said yes.”
The table whooped in unison, exaggerated claps and fake gasps. Britni shook her head, eyes narrowing with mock embarrassment.
Royce stood half-shadowed behind a column, watching—not in that pressed, lingering way that invited trouble, but like someone unexpectedly catching the last few notes of a familiar melody.
He hadn’t spoken to her in months. They weren’t close before, and they weren’t anything now. No drama. No fall-out. Just time and distance, like wet ink that never dried right.
He adjusted his backpack. Part of him wanted to leave before she noticed. The other part already knew she had.
Britni looked up, catching him in her periphery. No surprise crossed her face. No hesitation either. Just a simple acknowledgment—one nod, chin barely lifted, like they were two people who’d been part of the same story once, long ago.
Royce gave a nod back. Small. Measured.
Nothing more.
He turned before it had the chance to become anything else.
As he walked, his shadow stretched beside him, long and angular. Behind him, laughter bubbled up again from her table—someone told a joke, someone groaned, someone else snorted loud enough to earn a "Girl, shut up".
Royce didn’t look back.
He didn’t need to.
Whatever weight used to sit on both their shoulders—it wasn’t there anymore. Not for her, anyway Just a ghost passing through the daylight, quiet enough to let go.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16824
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Secrets for Secrets
The knock at Royce’s apartment door was soft, but persistent—the kind that didn’t demand attention so much as wait for it. When he opened it, Arianna stood there in oversized sunglasses and a Saints cap pulled low, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder.
“Damn,” he said, stepping aside. “You get famous or something?”
Arianna gave a half-smile and walked in. “Just trying not to let Baton Rouge sun ruin my skin.”
Royce smirked and closed the door. “Been a minute.”
“Almost a year.”
They didn’t hug. Neither of them were big on that. But there was something easy in the way they fell into conversation, like a song they both still knew the words to even if they hadn’t played it in a while.
Royce dropped onto the couch, tossing his phone on the coffee table. Arianna wandered the space, eyeing the cleats by the door, the playbook on the counter, the framed photo of Romeo and Roni still on the shelf. She didn’t say anything about it.
“So,” Royce said. “What brings you out here? You finally get tired of them white folks down there in Lafayette?”
Arianna sat across from him, crossing one leg over the other. “Nah. Just thought maybe you could use a visit. Been hearing your name a lot lately. Billboards. TikToks. Hype videos.”
Royce exhaled through his nose. “All noise.”
Arianna tilted her head. “And what’s real?”
He didn’t answer.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded flyer. “I’ve been doing these spoken word events on campus. There’s this group—mostly girls—real raw stuff. I started sharing a few pieces. People were… into it.”
Royce leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You? Reading poems out loud in public? Ain’t never know how to shut the fuck up.”
She laughed, full and unbothered. “Takes one to know one.”
He smiled but it didn’t last. “You talk to Toni?”
The air tightened.
Arianna nodded slowly. “She’s still with him.”
Royce sat back like he’d been shoved. “What?”
“I didn’t wanna tell you ‘cause I knew you’d react like this.”
“You mean like I care?” he snapped. “Like I don’t wanna see my cousin get dragged under by some sorry-ass nigga who puts hands on her?”
“Keep your voice down,” Arianna said, more gently than angry. “It’s not that I don’t care. I do. I’ve been there. I’ve tried. But Toni—she’s gotta want out. I think she’s close. But if you push, she’ll pull away.”
Royce clenched his jaw. “So we just wait?”
“We be there when she’s ready. That’s what we do.”
He didn’t respond right away. He just stared at a spot on the floor, nodding once.
“And Mike?” she added.
Royce looked up.
“He’s struggling too,” Arianna said. “Northwestern’s been harder than he thought. Classes, football, working. Financial aid got messed up—he might not be able to stay if he can’t pay.”
Royce rubbed his temple. “Why he ain’t say nothing to me?”
“You ain’t exactly easy to talk to, Ro.”
He flinched a little at the nickname—one only family used.
“I’m serious,” Arianna continued. “You’ve got all this attention, all this money, and you still walk around like the world owes you for losing Romeo. You think that makes people wanna come to you? Or does it just remind them you might not answer?”
He looked at her then—really looked. She wasn’t accusing him. She was just tired of holding the middle between cousins who needed help and one who didn’t know how to offer it.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said.
“You always do,” she replied. “But maybe stop acting like you gotta do it alone.”
Royce stood and crossed to the kitchen, grabbing two water bottles. He handed her one. “You eat yet?”
Arianna smiled, a little softer this time. “Nah. But I’m starving.”
“I know because them motherfuckers in Lafayette cooking with a whisper of seasoning,” he said.
And just like that, the weight between them eased. Not gone. But lighter.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was quiet—too quiet for a campus afternoon—but Effie didn’t turn on music. She didn’t need the usual hum of Nina Simone or the soft scratch of a lo-fi playlist to drown anything out today. There was only one box left in the corner of her room, taped shut with the same worn strip of blue painter’s tape she’d slapped across the top her freshman year.
It was dusty now, edges softened, sagging in the middle from being moved but never opened. She stood over it for a while, hands on her hips, then crouched down and slid it toward her. No ceremony. Just decision.
Her fingers hesitated on the tape for a beat before she peeled it back.
The top flaps opened with a whisper of cardboard and stale air. The first thing she saw was a pair of faded pink ballet slippers, the toes frayed, the satin stretched thin with time and sweat and memory. She picked them up gently, the ribbons still knotted from the last time she’d tied them.
Beneath them were folded programs—summer intensives, winter showcases, a flyer from that one recital they did in a church basement with barely-working heat. She thumbed through them slowly, pausing when she saw Paz’s name next to hers, the two of them listed in delicate serif fonts: “Pas de Deux: Josefina Reyes and Paz Reyes.”
Underneath the stack was a picture frame wrapped in a thin layer of bubble wrap, still cracked across the corner. She unwrapped it anyway. The photo inside had faded only slightly—the two of them, leaning against a railing on the Riverwalk, snowball stains on their shirts, summer sun caught in their curls. Effie was laughing, mid-sentence. Paz had one eyebrow raised, caught just before a smirk.
Effie ran her thumb across the glass, careful not to press near the fracture.
At the very bottom of the box sat a sealed envelope. Her other nickname—“Jose”—written in Paz’s handwriting. Neat. Slanted. Intact.
She stared at it for a long time.
Her hand hovered over it, then retreated. She didn’t open it.
Not today.
Instead, she reached for the slippers, retied the ribbons, and tucked them carefully beside the photo. She hung the picture above her desk using a small clear command hook, leveling it by eye.
Then she placed the envelope underneath the frame—not hidden, not displayed. Just present.
Afterward, she sat down on the bed, hands in her lap, eyes on the wall. The picture glowed faintly in the light filtering through her window. She didn’t cry. She didn’t flinch. She just breathed in, then out—slow and even.
For the first time, the past wasn’t a wound or a weight. It wasn’t something to fold into herself or tuck under the bed.
It was something she was allowed to carry.
And she was still here.
Just like the photo.
Just like the letter.
Just like her.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce was alone in his apartment, lights off except for the weak glow of the kitchen bulb he never bothered replacing. The shadows stretched long, walls humming with quiet. The air was still, save for the occasional creak of the building settling—one of those Baton Rouge nights where the humidity hung like a question that wouldn’t go away.
He lay back on the couch, phone on his chest, still in his workout gear. Practice had ended hours ago, but he hadn’t moved much since. Just scrolled. Closed and reopened apps. Looked at a blank Notes screen like it owed him something.
The screen lit up with a vibration.
Delpit: “Black legacy is usually built out of sacrifice. The question is, whose?”
Royce stared at it for a long time.
No follow-up. No explanation.
Just a quote.
It sat heavy, like a challenge and a eulogy all at once. Royce let the screen dim before locking it again.
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, then sat up slowly, arms on his knees. He didn’t even know where Delpit found this shit. Some obscure book probably. Or a lecture. Or a quote from a man who had to bleed to be remembered.
His phone lit again. Different name this time.
Roni (9:38 p.m.)
He swiped to answer, already knowing this wouldn’t be quick.
“Yo,” he said.
Her voice came through clear, calm. “You got a minute?”
“For you? Of course.”
She didn’t speak at first. Then: “I keep thinking about what you said that day. About what dying’s like.”
Royce felt his chest tighten a little. He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“That was months ago,” he said gently.
“I know,” she replied. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about it again.”
He didn’t interrupt.
She went on, softer now. “You said it was like falling asleep. Like blacking out.”
“Yeah.”
“But what happens after? If you don’t come back.”
He swallowed.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Ain’t nobody do.”
There was a long silence.
“I asked ‘cause I was scared then,” she admitted. “Now I’m mad.”
He furrowed his brow. “At who?”
“Reg,” she said without hesitation. “For doing it slow. For being sick in a way that feels like punishment. For making me care when I don’t want to.”
Royce shut his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Does that make me bad?”
“No,” he said quickly. “I want that nigga to die already, too.”
She didn’t answer.
“I think sometimes we confuse being related with owing somebody all the soft parts of us,” he said. “But you aint’t gotta hand your heart over to people just ‘cause y’all share blood. You can care. And still be mad. Still protect your peace.”
He could hear her breathing on the other end. No tears. Just quiet processing.
“You think he’s scared?” she asked after a while.
“Yeah,” Royce said. “I do.”
“Good,” she muttered.
Then, after another pause: “But I still hope it don’t hurt.”
Royce leaned back, eyes on the ceiling now.
“You got more love than I ever did.”
Roni’s voice was steady. “Maybe. Or maybe I just hate how it feels when nobody gives it to me.”
He didn’t have a comeback for that. Just a heartbeat in his throat.
“I’m glad you called,” he said.
“I figured you’d be the only one who wouldn’t tell me not to feel this way.”
“Nah,” he said. “I ain’t gonna do that. Too many folks out here pretending to be all kinds of shit. Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
She exhaled. “Okay. I’m gonna finish my math homework now.”
“Get that A, lil’ sis.”
She chuckled. “You sound like Tyrell.”
Royce grinned. “I’m hanging up now.”
She didn’t stop him.
And after the line went dead, Royce picked up his phone again. Delpit’s quote was still there at the top of the screen.
He started to type something back.
Then stopped.
And deleted the draft.
The knock at Royce’s apartment door was soft, but persistent—the kind that didn’t demand attention so much as wait for it. When he opened it, Arianna stood there in oversized sunglasses and a Saints cap pulled low, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder.
“Damn,” he said, stepping aside. “You get famous or something?”
Arianna gave a half-smile and walked in. “Just trying not to let Baton Rouge sun ruin my skin.”
Royce smirked and closed the door. “Been a minute.”
“Almost a year.”
They didn’t hug. Neither of them were big on that. But there was something easy in the way they fell into conversation, like a song they both still knew the words to even if they hadn’t played it in a while.
Royce dropped onto the couch, tossing his phone on the coffee table. Arianna wandered the space, eyeing the cleats by the door, the playbook on the counter, the framed photo of Romeo and Roni still on the shelf. She didn’t say anything about it.
“So,” Royce said. “What brings you out here? You finally get tired of them white folks down there in Lafayette?”
Arianna sat across from him, crossing one leg over the other. “Nah. Just thought maybe you could use a visit. Been hearing your name a lot lately. Billboards. TikToks. Hype videos.”
Royce exhaled through his nose. “All noise.”
Arianna tilted her head. “And what’s real?”
He didn’t answer.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded flyer. “I’ve been doing these spoken word events on campus. There’s this group—mostly girls—real raw stuff. I started sharing a few pieces. People were… into it.”
Royce leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You? Reading poems out loud in public? Ain’t never know how to shut the fuck up.”
She laughed, full and unbothered. “Takes one to know one.”
He smiled but it didn’t last. “You talk to Toni?”
The air tightened.
Arianna nodded slowly. “She’s still with him.”
Royce sat back like he’d been shoved. “What?”
“I didn’t wanna tell you ‘cause I knew you’d react like this.”
“You mean like I care?” he snapped. “Like I don’t wanna see my cousin get dragged under by some sorry-ass nigga who puts hands on her?”
“Keep your voice down,” Arianna said, more gently than angry. “It’s not that I don’t care. I do. I’ve been there. I’ve tried. But Toni—she’s gotta want out. I think she’s close. But if you push, she’ll pull away.”
Royce clenched his jaw. “So we just wait?”
“We be there when she’s ready. That’s what we do.”
He didn’t respond right away. He just stared at a spot on the floor, nodding once.
“And Mike?” she added.
Royce looked up.
“He’s struggling too,” Arianna said. “Northwestern’s been harder than he thought. Classes, football, working. Financial aid got messed up—he might not be able to stay if he can’t pay.”
Royce rubbed his temple. “Why he ain’t say nothing to me?”
“You ain’t exactly easy to talk to, Ro.”
He flinched a little at the nickname—one only family used.
“I’m serious,” Arianna continued. “You’ve got all this attention, all this money, and you still walk around like the world owes you for losing Romeo. You think that makes people wanna come to you? Or does it just remind them you might not answer?”
He looked at her then—really looked. She wasn’t accusing him. She was just tired of holding the middle between cousins who needed help and one who didn’t know how to offer it.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said.
“You always do,” she replied. “But maybe stop acting like you gotta do it alone.”
Royce stood and crossed to the kitchen, grabbing two water bottles. He handed her one. “You eat yet?”
Arianna smiled, a little softer this time. “Nah. But I’m starving.”
“I know because them motherfuckers in Lafayette cooking with a whisper of seasoning,” he said.
And just like that, the weight between them eased. Not gone. But lighter.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was quiet—too quiet for a campus afternoon—but Effie didn’t turn on music. She didn’t need the usual hum of Nina Simone or the soft scratch of a lo-fi playlist to drown anything out today. There was only one box left in the corner of her room, taped shut with the same worn strip of blue painter’s tape she’d slapped across the top her freshman year.
It was dusty now, edges softened, sagging in the middle from being moved but never opened. She stood over it for a while, hands on her hips, then crouched down and slid it toward her. No ceremony. Just decision.
Her fingers hesitated on the tape for a beat before she peeled it back.
The top flaps opened with a whisper of cardboard and stale air. The first thing she saw was a pair of faded pink ballet slippers, the toes frayed, the satin stretched thin with time and sweat and memory. She picked them up gently, the ribbons still knotted from the last time she’d tied them.
Beneath them were folded programs—summer intensives, winter showcases, a flyer from that one recital they did in a church basement with barely-working heat. She thumbed through them slowly, pausing when she saw Paz’s name next to hers, the two of them listed in delicate serif fonts: “Pas de Deux: Josefina Reyes and Paz Reyes.”
Underneath the stack was a picture frame wrapped in a thin layer of bubble wrap, still cracked across the corner. She unwrapped it anyway. The photo inside had faded only slightly—the two of them, leaning against a railing on the Riverwalk, snowball stains on their shirts, summer sun caught in their curls. Effie was laughing, mid-sentence. Paz had one eyebrow raised, caught just before a smirk.
Effie ran her thumb across the glass, careful not to press near the fracture.
At the very bottom of the box sat a sealed envelope. Her other nickname—“Jose”—written in Paz’s handwriting. Neat. Slanted. Intact.
She stared at it for a long time.
Her hand hovered over it, then retreated. She didn’t open it.
Not today.
Instead, she reached for the slippers, retied the ribbons, and tucked them carefully beside the photo. She hung the picture above her desk using a small clear command hook, leveling it by eye.
Then she placed the envelope underneath the frame—not hidden, not displayed. Just present.
Afterward, she sat down on the bed, hands in her lap, eyes on the wall. The picture glowed faintly in the light filtering through her window. She didn’t cry. She didn’t flinch. She just breathed in, then out—slow and even.
For the first time, the past wasn’t a wound or a weight. It wasn’t something to fold into herself or tuck under the bed.
It was something she was allowed to carry.
And she was still here.
Just like the photo.
Just like the letter.
Just like her.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce was alone in his apartment, lights off except for the weak glow of the kitchen bulb he never bothered replacing. The shadows stretched long, walls humming with quiet. The air was still, save for the occasional creak of the building settling—one of those Baton Rouge nights where the humidity hung like a question that wouldn’t go away.
He lay back on the couch, phone on his chest, still in his workout gear. Practice had ended hours ago, but he hadn’t moved much since. Just scrolled. Closed and reopened apps. Looked at a blank Notes screen like it owed him something.
The screen lit up with a vibration.
Delpit: “Black legacy is usually built out of sacrifice. The question is, whose?”
Royce stared at it for a long time.
No follow-up. No explanation.
Just a quote.
It sat heavy, like a challenge and a eulogy all at once. Royce let the screen dim before locking it again.
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, then sat up slowly, arms on his knees. He didn’t even know where Delpit found this shit. Some obscure book probably. Or a lecture. Or a quote from a man who had to bleed to be remembered.
His phone lit again. Different name this time.
Roni (9:38 p.m.)
He swiped to answer, already knowing this wouldn’t be quick.
“Yo,” he said.
Her voice came through clear, calm. “You got a minute?”
“For you? Of course.”
She didn’t speak at first. Then: “I keep thinking about what you said that day. About what dying’s like.”
Royce felt his chest tighten a little. He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“That was months ago,” he said gently.
“I know,” she replied. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about it again.”
He didn’t interrupt.
She went on, softer now. “You said it was like falling asleep. Like blacking out.”
“Yeah.”
“But what happens after? If you don’t come back.”
He swallowed.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Ain’t nobody do.”
There was a long silence.
“I asked ‘cause I was scared then,” she admitted. “Now I’m mad.”
He furrowed his brow. “At who?”
“Reg,” she said without hesitation. “For doing it slow. For being sick in a way that feels like punishment. For making me care when I don’t want to.”
Royce shut his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Does that make me bad?”
“No,” he said quickly. “I want that nigga to die already, too.”
She didn’t answer.
“I think sometimes we confuse being related with owing somebody all the soft parts of us,” he said. “But you aint’t gotta hand your heart over to people just ‘cause y’all share blood. You can care. And still be mad. Still protect your peace.”
He could hear her breathing on the other end. No tears. Just quiet processing.
“You think he’s scared?” she asked after a while.
“Yeah,” Royce said. “I do.”
“Good,” she muttered.
Then, after another pause: “But I still hope it don’t hurt.”
Royce leaned back, eyes on the ceiling now.
“You got more love than I ever did.”
Roni’s voice was steady. “Maybe. Or maybe I just hate how it feels when nobody gives it to me.”
He didn’t have a comeback for that. Just a heartbeat in his throat.
“I’m glad you called,” he said.
“I figured you’d be the only one who wouldn’t tell me not to feel this way.”
“Nah,” he said. “I ain’t gonna do that. Too many folks out here pretending to be all kinds of shit. Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
She exhaled. “Okay. I’m gonna finish my math homework now.”
“Get that A, lil’ sis.”
She chuckled. “You sound like Tyrell.”
Royce grinned. “I’m hanging up now.”
She didn’t stop him.
And after the line went dead, Royce picked up his phone again. Delpit’s quote was still there at the top of the screen.
He started to type something back.
Then stopped.
And deleted the draft.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13183
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
damn i got some reading to do
-
djp73
- Posts: 13183
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Caught up. Feels like a handful of folks got big changes coming. Here for it.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16824
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Show Me You Tough
The scrimmage hadn’t even started and it already felt like a war.
Sun blistered off helmets. Sweat soaked through sleeves before the first whistle. The energy on the LSU practice field was loud, urgent—weeks of hype stuffed into a single afternoon where nobody wanted to blink first.
Royce stood at the front of the defense as they jogged out, chinstrap already snapped, number 5 stretched tight across his chest. He didn’t hype anybody up. Didn’t bark. Didn’t gesture. Just walked to the line with the same cold focus that had gotten him here. Behind him, the rest of the defense followed—Earl to his right, Dorian and Gio anchoring the edges, Jay already jawing at someone across the way.
Coach Lanning stood off near midfield, arms crossed, watching with that look like he’d seen this a thousand times but still loved the smell of it.
First play came fast. Inside handoff. Royce read it before the ball was even secured. He shot the gap and met the back two steps behind the line, lifted him, and dumped him like it was a statement instead of a tackle. Helmets clapped together in celebration. Earl shouted, “Ain’t shit sweet!”
Second snap—tight end screen. Royce shed his block and burst into the flat like he had a personal grudge with the concept of yards after catch. The tight end’s cleats left the ground.
Third snap. Power. Royce flowed through traffic, sidestepped a pulling guard, and dragged the runner down before he could plant.
Three plays. Three tackles. All violence, no flair.
Then came the fourth.
Royce settled into his stance again, a half-grin forming behind the mouthguard. He could feel it—offense was trying to answer back.
Quarterback barked the cadence. Ball snapped. This time, Caden—big, fast, built like a Sunday problem—took the handoff. Motion left. Line pulled right. Royce saw it a half-step too late, and that’s all a dude like Caden needed.
Caden planted hard, gave a shake, and juked inside.
Royce lunged.
Air.
Caden was gone before Royce’s hand even brushed his hip, bursting through daylight, cleats churning up grass as he picked up a fat gain down the seam. Gio finally closed him out near the sideline.
The sideline popped.
“Got him!” someone shouted.
Royce bit down hard on his mouthguard, turning back as Caden jogged past.
“Don’t run from it next time,” Royce snapped. “Show me you tough, nigga.”
Caden didn’t miss a beat. “Nah, show me you can tackle with that pussy ass arm tackling shit.”
Even Coach Lanning smirked at that.
The defense erupted—Earl doubled over laughing, Jay clapping his gloves, Dorian pretending to wipe tears. But Royce wasn’t mad. He grinned through the burn of getting beat.
Because it meant Caden came with something.
And that’s what he wanted. Pressure. Smoke. Teeth.
The rest of the scrimmage thrashed forward with both sides playing like there was something on the line. Caden came downhill harder. Royce hunted louder. Trash talk filled the air like music. Pads cracked. Cleats squealed. Coaches stopped yelling and started watching.
It wasn’t clean.
It wasn’t supposed to be.
But when the horn blew and players trickled off the field, sweat-slick and grinning, it was clear to everybody what kind of team this was.
A team where even the leaders could get humbled and still square up.
A team where pride didn’t mean hiding your bruises—it meant demanding better the next play.
Royce slapped Caden’s shoulder as they walked off.
“Keep that same fucking energy, nigga,” he muttered.
Caden shot him a look. “Don’t worry about me, bro. You know I’m gonna spin.”
And Royce?
He smiled like he liked the sound of that.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alix had kicked off her shoes the second she walked through the door. Her hair was clipped up with the same pen she’d used to sketch fabric samples that afternoon, and the white tank top she wore was smudged with what looked like charcoal. It clung loose over the waistband of her sweats.
She didn’t even apologize when she opened the door and let Co in—just waved him toward the couch while balancing two bags of takeout in her other hand.
“You said Thai, right?”
He smiled, stepping in. “I say Thai every time.”
“Well,” she said, nudging the door shut with her foot, “at least you’re consistent.”
The apartment smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and candle wax, like she’d made a halfway attempt to make it look nice before giving up. One of her photography books was spread open across the coffee table, next to a mug of dried paint water and a roll of blue painter’s tape. A half-finished moodboard for a Roux client was tucked under the coffee table, scraps of rich red and honey-colored swatches poking out like the corner of a quilt.
She didn’t try to hide any of it.
That’s what struck him.
Co sat on the couch while she rummaged for plates and passed him a bottle of water. They ate from the cartons with plastic forks. Her bare feet brushed against his once, then didn’t move.
“You always this messy when no one’s watching?” he teased.
She shrugged. “You came after a ten-hour workday. This is the most cleaned up it gets.”
“I’m not complaining.”
She looked up then—really looked at him. “No?”
“No.” He leaned back, tapping the edge of his fork against the box. “I like this version of you.”
She blinked, caught off guard for just a second.
“I’m still editing,” she said, smiling but not deflecting.
Co’s gaze didn’t flinch. “That’s okay. Just don’t crop out the soft parts.”
The room stilled. Not awkward. Just quiet. Like both of them knew something had shifted and neither was rushing to name it.
Outside, Baton Rouge buzzed with a thousand Friday night distractions—honking horns, basslines thumping from passing cars, someone shouting down the street—but inside the apartment, there was only the sound of takeout cartons being set aside and Alix drawing one knee up under herself on the couch.
“I used to think softness was weakness,” she said eventually. “Like, if people saw that part, they’d use it.”
Co nodded slowly. “They still might.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“But it doesn’t mean it’s not worth showing.”
A moment passed. Alix turned back toward the coffee table, reached for her book, then hesitated. Instead, she leaned back and let herself sink into the couch, arms folded across her stomach, gaze distant but settled.
“I don’t know what this is,” she murmured.
He didn’t ask what she meant.
He just leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You don’t have to. Not yet.”
Another pause. Then she laughed, just under her breath. “You always say shit like that?”
He smiled. “Only when I mean it.”
And when she leaned her head against the cushion, eyes fluttering closed just for a second, she didn’t look like someone trying to be anything.
Just someone who’d stopped holding her breath.
And that, Co thought, was something worth not cropping out.
~~~~~~~~~~
The campus writing room was dimly lit, its walls taped with printed poems and photos from last semester’s showcases. The AC groaned somewhere in the ceiling, trying and failing to keep up with the humid August night. Arianna took the seat farthest from the windows, just close enough to feel the lazy sweep of a ceiling fan above. She adjusted her canvas tote beneath the chair, pulled out her notebook, and glanced around.
Most of the students were already settled—some with laptops open, others flipping through stapled copies of their work. The energy was soft, tentative. A girl with short braids and a chipped blue manicure was talking quietly to the facilitator. A guy in a Saints hoodie scribbled something on the back of a receipt.
Arianna hadn’t said much the last few sessions she’d attended. She listened, offered a few nods, laughed when it felt earned. But tonight was different.
She’d brought something.
The piece was handwritten, scrawled between old to-do lists and half-finished poems. She hadn't even given it a title.
When her turn came, she didn’t look up. Just cleared her throat once and began.
"Silence isn't still.
It's the creak of a door you didn’t lock
because you didn’t want them to hear.
It’s the bruise that doesn’t swell
because you learned how to breathe through pain quiet.
It’s not peace.
It’s panic, paused."
The words trembled in the air long after she stopped reading. She didn’t look up right away, fingers curled in the edge of her notebook, nails pressing crescents into the page.
No one clapped.
Not right away.
Then the girl with the chipped nails softly tapped her fingers together. Others followed, a ripple of sound that wasn’t applause so much as acknowledgment.
The facilitator murmured something—about rawness, about form, about truth—but Arianna barely registered it. Her ears buzzed, not from nerves, but from the adrenaline drop that always came after she’d said something out loud she hadn’t meant to admit.
She was repacking her bag afterward, shoving her notebook down between her keys and a folded flyer for the next open mic, when a voice stopped her.
“Hey.”
She turned.
It was the girl from earlier, the one who’d started the clapping. She was holding her own notebook tight to her chest, eyes steady but not hard.
“That hit,” she said simply.
Arianna offered a small smile. “Thanks.”
The girl nodded, hesitated. “I had a cousin like that. I didn’t know how to write about her until just now.”
Arianna didn’t know what to say to that. So she didn’t say anything. Just nodded, just once.
The girl left.
Arianna lingered.
She sat back down after everyone had cleared out, pulled her notebook out again, and flipped to a blank page.
She didn’t write anything yet.
Just sat with the silence.
This kind—the kind that didn’t threaten or shrink her—it felt new. Not like an absence, but a presence. Like space being made.
And maybe, for once, that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun was starting to dip behind the stadium, casting long gold streaks across the pavement as Royce pushed open the locker room doors. His curls were still damp, towel slung around his neck, gym bag hanging low on his shoulder. Beside him, Gio was mid-sentence—something about the new training staff’s obsession with hydration charts.
“They really got us pissin’ in cups like that’s gonna stop somebody from cramping,” Gio grumbled.
Dorian laughed, swinging his arm around Royce’s shoulder. “You just mad ‘cause your color chart always lookin’ like orange Gatorade, boy.”
Royce didn’t bother chiming in. His body ached in the familiar way it did after every long day, but his mind was somewhere else—half stuck in the weight room, half drifting toward the quiet pull of evening.
Then he saw her.
Effie was crouched just off the sidewalk near the edge of the quad, camera bag unzipped at her feet, sunlight catching in the curve of her braid. She was scanning the walkways, probably shooting b-roll for whatever project she was always editing at 2 a.m. in the media lab.
She hadn’t seen him yet.
Royce adjusted his bag and kept walking.
Right before he passed her, she raised her phone and clicked off a candid without even glancing up.
He slowed. “Delete that.”
Effie didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up.
“You look real,” she said. “That’s rare.”
Royce blinked, caught off guard, but his mouth twitched before he could stop it—a half-smirk curling at the corner.
Dorian nudged him. “We out?”
Royce gave a small shake of his head. “Y’all go. I’m chilling.”
Gio arched a brow but didn’t push it. “Bet. We gon’ fuck with you, big bro.”
They peeled off, talking shit about someone who'd fumbled a snap in walkthroughs. Royce stepped closer to Effie, watching her pack up a lens with quiet precision.
She zipped the bag, finally glanced up. “You need a ride?”
Royce unscrewed the cap of his protein shake. “I’m straight. I got my car over there.”
Effie didn’t press. Just nodded and slung the bag over her shoulder. She didn’t start walking either.
So he stood next to her.
They didn’t talk for a while. Just the soft ambient sounds of campus settling—voices in the distance, a golf cart whirring past the far lot, the shuffle of wind in the trees.
Royce took a sip. Watched her out the corner of his eye.
She looked different in this light. Not softer, not harder. Just… steady. Like the kind of person who didn’t mind quiet.
“You ever gonna let people see that version of you?” she asked suddenly, voice low, even.
Royce didn’t answer right away. Just rolled the bottle between his palms.
“What version is that?” he finally asked.
Effie looked at him then, really looked—eyes searching, but not intrusive.
“The one that doesn’t flinch when nobody’s looking,” she said.
Royce shifted his weight, gaze dropping to the concrete.
He didn’t smirk this time.
Just took another sip and let the silence stretch long between them.
She didn’t break it.
Neither did he.
The scrimmage hadn’t even started and it already felt like a war.
Sun blistered off helmets. Sweat soaked through sleeves before the first whistle. The energy on the LSU practice field was loud, urgent—weeks of hype stuffed into a single afternoon where nobody wanted to blink first.
Royce stood at the front of the defense as they jogged out, chinstrap already snapped, number 5 stretched tight across his chest. He didn’t hype anybody up. Didn’t bark. Didn’t gesture. Just walked to the line with the same cold focus that had gotten him here. Behind him, the rest of the defense followed—Earl to his right, Dorian and Gio anchoring the edges, Jay already jawing at someone across the way.
Coach Lanning stood off near midfield, arms crossed, watching with that look like he’d seen this a thousand times but still loved the smell of it.
First play came fast. Inside handoff. Royce read it before the ball was even secured. He shot the gap and met the back two steps behind the line, lifted him, and dumped him like it was a statement instead of a tackle. Helmets clapped together in celebration. Earl shouted, “Ain’t shit sweet!”
Second snap—tight end screen. Royce shed his block and burst into the flat like he had a personal grudge with the concept of yards after catch. The tight end’s cleats left the ground.
Third snap. Power. Royce flowed through traffic, sidestepped a pulling guard, and dragged the runner down before he could plant.
Three plays. Three tackles. All violence, no flair.
Then came the fourth.
Royce settled into his stance again, a half-grin forming behind the mouthguard. He could feel it—offense was trying to answer back.
Quarterback barked the cadence. Ball snapped. This time, Caden—big, fast, built like a Sunday problem—took the handoff. Motion left. Line pulled right. Royce saw it a half-step too late, and that’s all a dude like Caden needed.
Caden planted hard, gave a shake, and juked inside.
Royce lunged.
Air.
Caden was gone before Royce’s hand even brushed his hip, bursting through daylight, cleats churning up grass as he picked up a fat gain down the seam. Gio finally closed him out near the sideline.
The sideline popped.
“Got him!” someone shouted.
Royce bit down hard on his mouthguard, turning back as Caden jogged past.
“Don’t run from it next time,” Royce snapped. “Show me you tough, nigga.”
Caden didn’t miss a beat. “Nah, show me you can tackle with that pussy ass arm tackling shit.”
Even Coach Lanning smirked at that.
The defense erupted—Earl doubled over laughing, Jay clapping his gloves, Dorian pretending to wipe tears. But Royce wasn’t mad. He grinned through the burn of getting beat.
Because it meant Caden came with something.
And that’s what he wanted. Pressure. Smoke. Teeth.
The rest of the scrimmage thrashed forward with both sides playing like there was something on the line. Caden came downhill harder. Royce hunted louder. Trash talk filled the air like music. Pads cracked. Cleats squealed. Coaches stopped yelling and started watching.
It wasn’t clean.
It wasn’t supposed to be.
But when the horn blew and players trickled off the field, sweat-slick and grinning, it was clear to everybody what kind of team this was.
A team where even the leaders could get humbled and still square up.
A team where pride didn’t mean hiding your bruises—it meant demanding better the next play.
Royce slapped Caden’s shoulder as they walked off.
“Keep that same fucking energy, nigga,” he muttered.
Caden shot him a look. “Don’t worry about me, bro. You know I’m gonna spin.”
And Royce?
He smiled like he liked the sound of that.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alix had kicked off her shoes the second she walked through the door. Her hair was clipped up with the same pen she’d used to sketch fabric samples that afternoon, and the white tank top she wore was smudged with what looked like charcoal. It clung loose over the waistband of her sweats.
She didn’t even apologize when she opened the door and let Co in—just waved him toward the couch while balancing two bags of takeout in her other hand.
“You said Thai, right?”
He smiled, stepping in. “I say Thai every time.”
“Well,” she said, nudging the door shut with her foot, “at least you’re consistent.”
The apartment smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and candle wax, like she’d made a halfway attempt to make it look nice before giving up. One of her photography books was spread open across the coffee table, next to a mug of dried paint water and a roll of blue painter’s tape. A half-finished moodboard for a Roux client was tucked under the coffee table, scraps of rich red and honey-colored swatches poking out like the corner of a quilt.
She didn’t try to hide any of it.
That’s what struck him.
Co sat on the couch while she rummaged for plates and passed him a bottle of water. They ate from the cartons with plastic forks. Her bare feet brushed against his once, then didn’t move.
“You always this messy when no one’s watching?” he teased.
She shrugged. “You came after a ten-hour workday. This is the most cleaned up it gets.”
“I’m not complaining.”
She looked up then—really looked at him. “No?”
“No.” He leaned back, tapping the edge of his fork against the box. “I like this version of you.”
She blinked, caught off guard for just a second.
“I’m still editing,” she said, smiling but not deflecting.
Co’s gaze didn’t flinch. “That’s okay. Just don’t crop out the soft parts.”
The room stilled. Not awkward. Just quiet. Like both of them knew something had shifted and neither was rushing to name it.
Outside, Baton Rouge buzzed with a thousand Friday night distractions—honking horns, basslines thumping from passing cars, someone shouting down the street—but inside the apartment, there was only the sound of takeout cartons being set aside and Alix drawing one knee up under herself on the couch.
“I used to think softness was weakness,” she said eventually. “Like, if people saw that part, they’d use it.”
Co nodded slowly. “They still might.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“But it doesn’t mean it’s not worth showing.”
A moment passed. Alix turned back toward the coffee table, reached for her book, then hesitated. Instead, she leaned back and let herself sink into the couch, arms folded across her stomach, gaze distant but settled.
“I don’t know what this is,” she murmured.
He didn’t ask what she meant.
He just leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You don’t have to. Not yet.”
Another pause. Then she laughed, just under her breath. “You always say shit like that?”
He smiled. “Only when I mean it.”
And when she leaned her head against the cushion, eyes fluttering closed just for a second, she didn’t look like someone trying to be anything.
Just someone who’d stopped holding her breath.
And that, Co thought, was something worth not cropping out.
~~~~~~~~~~
The campus writing room was dimly lit, its walls taped with printed poems and photos from last semester’s showcases. The AC groaned somewhere in the ceiling, trying and failing to keep up with the humid August night. Arianna took the seat farthest from the windows, just close enough to feel the lazy sweep of a ceiling fan above. She adjusted her canvas tote beneath the chair, pulled out her notebook, and glanced around.
Most of the students were already settled—some with laptops open, others flipping through stapled copies of their work. The energy was soft, tentative. A girl with short braids and a chipped blue manicure was talking quietly to the facilitator. A guy in a Saints hoodie scribbled something on the back of a receipt.
Arianna hadn’t said much the last few sessions she’d attended. She listened, offered a few nods, laughed when it felt earned. But tonight was different.
She’d brought something.
The piece was handwritten, scrawled between old to-do lists and half-finished poems. She hadn't even given it a title.
When her turn came, she didn’t look up. Just cleared her throat once and began.
"Silence isn't still.
It's the creak of a door you didn’t lock
because you didn’t want them to hear.
It’s the bruise that doesn’t swell
because you learned how to breathe through pain quiet.
It’s not peace.
It’s panic, paused."
The words trembled in the air long after she stopped reading. She didn’t look up right away, fingers curled in the edge of her notebook, nails pressing crescents into the page.
No one clapped.
Not right away.
Then the girl with the chipped nails softly tapped her fingers together. Others followed, a ripple of sound that wasn’t applause so much as acknowledgment.
The facilitator murmured something—about rawness, about form, about truth—but Arianna barely registered it. Her ears buzzed, not from nerves, but from the adrenaline drop that always came after she’d said something out loud she hadn’t meant to admit.
She was repacking her bag afterward, shoving her notebook down between her keys and a folded flyer for the next open mic, when a voice stopped her.
“Hey.”
She turned.
It was the girl from earlier, the one who’d started the clapping. She was holding her own notebook tight to her chest, eyes steady but not hard.
“That hit,” she said simply.
Arianna offered a small smile. “Thanks.”
The girl nodded, hesitated. “I had a cousin like that. I didn’t know how to write about her until just now.”
Arianna didn’t know what to say to that. So she didn’t say anything. Just nodded, just once.
The girl left.
Arianna lingered.
She sat back down after everyone had cleared out, pulled her notebook out again, and flipped to a blank page.
She didn’t write anything yet.
Just sat with the silence.
This kind—the kind that didn’t threaten or shrink her—it felt new. Not like an absence, but a presence. Like space being made.
And maybe, for once, that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun was starting to dip behind the stadium, casting long gold streaks across the pavement as Royce pushed open the locker room doors. His curls were still damp, towel slung around his neck, gym bag hanging low on his shoulder. Beside him, Gio was mid-sentence—something about the new training staff’s obsession with hydration charts.
“They really got us pissin’ in cups like that’s gonna stop somebody from cramping,” Gio grumbled.
Dorian laughed, swinging his arm around Royce’s shoulder. “You just mad ‘cause your color chart always lookin’ like orange Gatorade, boy.”
Royce didn’t bother chiming in. His body ached in the familiar way it did after every long day, but his mind was somewhere else—half stuck in the weight room, half drifting toward the quiet pull of evening.
Then he saw her.
Effie was crouched just off the sidewalk near the edge of the quad, camera bag unzipped at her feet, sunlight catching in the curve of her braid. She was scanning the walkways, probably shooting b-roll for whatever project she was always editing at 2 a.m. in the media lab.
She hadn’t seen him yet.
Royce adjusted his bag and kept walking.
Right before he passed her, she raised her phone and clicked off a candid without even glancing up.
He slowed. “Delete that.”
Effie didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up.
“You look real,” she said. “That’s rare.”
Royce blinked, caught off guard, but his mouth twitched before he could stop it—a half-smirk curling at the corner.
Dorian nudged him. “We out?”
Royce gave a small shake of his head. “Y’all go. I’m chilling.”
Gio arched a brow but didn’t push it. “Bet. We gon’ fuck with you, big bro.”
They peeled off, talking shit about someone who'd fumbled a snap in walkthroughs. Royce stepped closer to Effie, watching her pack up a lens with quiet precision.
She zipped the bag, finally glanced up. “You need a ride?”
Royce unscrewed the cap of his protein shake. “I’m straight. I got my car over there.”
Effie didn’t press. Just nodded and slung the bag over her shoulder. She didn’t start walking either.
So he stood next to her.
They didn’t talk for a while. Just the soft ambient sounds of campus settling—voices in the distance, a golf cart whirring past the far lot, the shuffle of wind in the trees.
Royce took a sip. Watched her out the corner of his eye.
She looked different in this light. Not softer, not harder. Just… steady. Like the kind of person who didn’t mind quiet.
“You ever gonna let people see that version of you?” she asked suddenly, voice low, even.
Royce didn’t answer right away. Just rolled the bottle between his palms.
“What version is that?” he finally asked.
Effie looked at him then, really looked—eyes searching, but not intrusive.
“The one that doesn’t flinch when nobody’s looking,” she said.
Royce shifted his weight, gaze dropping to the concrete.
He didn’t smirk this time.
Just took another sip and let the silence stretch long between them.
She didn’t break it.
Neither did he.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7836
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Their interactions will never not bother me on a spiritual level-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16824
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Royce can’t win with you. Man isn’t just trying to fuck this chick and you can SPIRITUAL issues with itCaptain Canada wrote: ↑30 May 2025, 11:00
