Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16776
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Chinese Bandits Back
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djp73
- Posts: 13169
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Phew barely beat em. Surprised no write up for that one
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16776
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16776
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Momentum
The steakhouse wasn’t flashy. No valet, no posted menus with gold trim. Just tinted glass and low lighting behind heavy doors—quiet power disguised as simplicity.
Royce pulled the door open himself. No entourage, no jewelry tonight. Delpit’s instructions had been clear: “No suits, just strategy.”
Inside, the private room was already occupied when he arrived. Delpit stood from the head of the table and gestured him over. Billy was there too, nodding once as Royce approached. Two plates of untouched food, a carafe of water sweating on the table, a tablet face down between them.
Royce sat slowly, his eyes flicking around the room. Linen napkins. Subdued jazz playing in the background. This wasn’t celebration.
This was preparation.
Delpit poured him a glass of water, sliding it across the table like an offering.
“You know how many guys sit in this exact chair,” he said, “and blow it before they ever touch a dime?”
Royce didn’t answer. Just leaned back, waiting.
Billy spoke next. “They think being the face of something means smiling for the camera, quoting Bible verses in interviews, and pretending they give a fuck about fans.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t never had to pretend.”
“Exactly,” Delpit said. “That’s why we called this dinner.”
Billy leaned forward. “You’re on every shortlist worth a damn—Butkus, Bednarik, Lombardi. If your production holds, you’re a finalist for all three.”
Royce exhaled, slow. “And?”
“And you’ve got a seven-figure brand without a logo,” Delpit said. “That’s rare.”
Royce shook his head. “I’m not trying to be the face of anything. I’m just trying to ball.”
Delpit smiled faintly. “Then show them the mind behind it.”
Royce narrowed his eyes. “What that even mean?”
“It means they already got you in a box,” Billy said. “Football player. Tragic background. Tough recovery. Hot temper. Makes plays. Maybe makes the league.”
“Maybe doesn’t,” Delpit added flatly.
Royce’s jaw twitched.
“But,” Delpit continued, “what if instead of reacting to the image, you start defining it?”
Royce folded his arms. “You mean PR?”
“We mean control,” Billy said. “Brand meetings. Deal clauses. A long-term presence. Every white executive wants a Black kid they can show off at shareholder meetings—until that kid reminds them who made him.”
“Unless,” Delpit added, “that kid walks in already knowing who he is. And what he’s worth.”
Royce didn’t reply immediately. His eyes dropped to the edge of the table, fingertips tracing the smooth line of the wood.
Billy pulled the tablet over and opened a file. Charts. Numbers. Names.
“This,” he said, “is the media schedule for the top five players in college football this season. Not the best. The most visible. Bryce Calderon got a deal with Bose just for showing up to practice with headphones. They put a mic on him during warmups and cut a commercial from it.”
Royce smirked. “Motherfucker soft.”
“Don’t matter,” Delpit said. “He’s rich.”
Royce leaned back. “Y’all trying to make me into some shit I ain’t.”
“No,” Billy said. “We’re trying to help you get paid to be exactly who you are. But that only works if you stop letting other people write your script.”
There was silence for a beat.
Royce finally picked up his water. Drank. Set it down. “I ain’t built for speeches. Y’all know that.”
“Then don’t give speeches,” Delpit said. “Drop truths. One sentence at a time. Every mic, every camera, every interview—answer questions with vision. Let people know you came from blood and bricks but learned how to read rooms. They want a story?”
He leaned in. “Make sure it’s yours.”
Royce sat with that. Then nodded once.
Billy tapped the tablet again. “We’ll get the press team ready. You’re gonna get asked about the deal soon.”
Royce tilted his head. “Which deal?”
Billy smiled. “The one you’re about to take.”
Royce didn’t answer. Not yet. But he didn’t say no.
As dinner was served—medium-rare steak, roasted vegetables, no cameras—Royce sat a little straighter.
He still wasn’t smiling.
But he was starting to plan what came after.
Not just the next play.
The next move.
~~~~~~~~~~
The knock came just after ten. Soft. Rhythmic. Like someone who meant to be heard but not wake up the whole house.
Alix peeled herself away from her screen and the half-rendered elevation view she’d been tweaking for an hour, padding barefoot down the hallway. Most of the apartment was dark—Ashlee’s door cracked open with the faint blue of her humidifier glowing inside, and Madi’s laugh filtering low from her FaceTime call behind a closed door.
She opened the front door quietly.
Co stood there in navy scrubs, a brown paper bag in one hand, two lemonades in the other, and a loose exhaustion clinging to his shoulders like static.
“Hey,” she said, voice dropping into something warm.
“I know it’s late,” he replied, glancing past her. “Didn’t mean to wake anybody.”
“You didn’t. Come in.”
He toed off his shoes at the door without being asked and followed her into the only room with light still on—her bedroom. The soft shuffle of jazz filtered through her speaker. She'd been looping a playlist all evening: Coltrane, a little Erroll Garner, a brush of keys to keep her breathing steady.
“Everything okay?” she asked, already setting a cushion on the floor.
“Long shift,” he muttered, sinking to the rug. “Woman coded during turnover. We got her back, but…” He shook his head once. “Makes it hard to just go home.”
She didn’t push.
Instead, she sat beside him, legs crossed, back against the side of her bed as he unpacked the food. Shrimp and grits, buttery greens, two slices of cornbread wrapped in parchment like they were precious. He handed her a lemonade without a word.
They ate for a few minutes without speaking. The only sound between them was the clink of plastic forks and the slow rhythm of the jazz.
Eventually, she said, “I’ve got a pitch tomorrow.”
Co glanced over, swallowing the last bite of cornbread. “Something big?”
Alix nodded, resting her bowl on the floor. “Boutique hotel renovation. Creole-style building off Esplanade. They want the interior to center Black Southern heritage. Something restorative. Historic.”
Co raised an eyebrow. “That’s… real.”
“Yeah.”
“You nervous?”
She laughed under her breath. “More than a little.”
His expression shifted—curious, but not skeptical.
“I’ve been racking my brain,” she continued, “trying to figure out how to approach it without overstepping. I want to do it right. But I’m a white woman pitching a space that’s supposed to feel like it was built for and by people whose histories don’t include me. I’ve got a Black stepdad. He raised me. I love him. But even that feels like a footnote here.”
Co stayed quiet.
“I’ve seen people get it wrong,” she added, looking down. “Make it aesthetic. Decorative. Like pain’s just something to match the curtains to.”
“And you don’t want to do that.”
“I’d rather not do it at all than do it like that.”
Her voice cracked a little on that last sentence, not dramatically—but enough for him to hear the weight behind it.
Co reached over and nudged her leg lightly with his knee. “Then don’t.”
She blinked. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he said. “You already asking the right questions. You already uncomfortable. That’s step one.”
She exhaled slowly.
“I just… I want to make something that holds people. Not just impresses them. Holds them. Honors them.”
Co didn’t say anything right away.
Then, without ceremony, he leaned over and rested his head against her shoulder. Not heavy. Not tentative either. Just placed there like it belonged.
She didn’t move.
Her body softened where he touched her, the tension she’d been holding in her jaw finally slipping away.
“That’s what you already do,” he said, voice muffled by the fabric of her shirt.
She stared ahead, into the half-lit space of her room, where her laptop screen still glowed with a half-finished mood board. A sepia photo of a sugarcane field. A textured plaster wall. A silhouette of a woman wrapped in indigo.
“I’m not trying to be a savior,” she whispered. “I just want to get it right.”
“You’re not trying to save anything,” he murmured. “You’re trying to make space.”
The jazz dipped into something softer. Outside, the streets were still.
Inside, Co exhaled against her shoulder like the tension he carried in from the hospital had finally found somewhere to go.
No flirtation. No need to name what this was. Just food on the floor, crossed legs, and the kind of closeness you can only earn when the world goes quiet.
No rush.
Just belief.
The steakhouse wasn’t flashy. No valet, no posted menus with gold trim. Just tinted glass and low lighting behind heavy doors—quiet power disguised as simplicity.
Royce pulled the door open himself. No entourage, no jewelry tonight. Delpit’s instructions had been clear: “No suits, just strategy.”
Inside, the private room was already occupied when he arrived. Delpit stood from the head of the table and gestured him over. Billy was there too, nodding once as Royce approached. Two plates of untouched food, a carafe of water sweating on the table, a tablet face down between them.
Royce sat slowly, his eyes flicking around the room. Linen napkins. Subdued jazz playing in the background. This wasn’t celebration.
This was preparation.
Delpit poured him a glass of water, sliding it across the table like an offering.
“You know how many guys sit in this exact chair,” he said, “and blow it before they ever touch a dime?”
Royce didn’t answer. Just leaned back, waiting.
Billy spoke next. “They think being the face of something means smiling for the camera, quoting Bible verses in interviews, and pretending they give a fuck about fans.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t never had to pretend.”
“Exactly,” Delpit said. “That’s why we called this dinner.”
Billy leaned forward. “You’re on every shortlist worth a damn—Butkus, Bednarik, Lombardi. If your production holds, you’re a finalist for all three.”
Royce exhaled, slow. “And?”
“And you’ve got a seven-figure brand without a logo,” Delpit said. “That’s rare.”
Royce shook his head. “I’m not trying to be the face of anything. I’m just trying to ball.”
Delpit smiled faintly. “Then show them the mind behind it.”
Royce narrowed his eyes. “What that even mean?”
“It means they already got you in a box,” Billy said. “Football player. Tragic background. Tough recovery. Hot temper. Makes plays. Maybe makes the league.”
“Maybe doesn’t,” Delpit added flatly.
Royce’s jaw twitched.
“But,” Delpit continued, “what if instead of reacting to the image, you start defining it?”
Royce folded his arms. “You mean PR?”
“We mean control,” Billy said. “Brand meetings. Deal clauses. A long-term presence. Every white executive wants a Black kid they can show off at shareholder meetings—until that kid reminds them who made him.”
“Unless,” Delpit added, “that kid walks in already knowing who he is. And what he’s worth.”
Royce didn’t reply immediately. His eyes dropped to the edge of the table, fingertips tracing the smooth line of the wood.
Billy pulled the tablet over and opened a file. Charts. Numbers. Names.
“This,” he said, “is the media schedule for the top five players in college football this season. Not the best. The most visible. Bryce Calderon got a deal with Bose just for showing up to practice with headphones. They put a mic on him during warmups and cut a commercial from it.”
Royce smirked. “Motherfucker soft.”
“Don’t matter,” Delpit said. “He’s rich.”
Royce leaned back. “Y’all trying to make me into some shit I ain’t.”
“No,” Billy said. “We’re trying to help you get paid to be exactly who you are. But that only works if you stop letting other people write your script.”
There was silence for a beat.
Royce finally picked up his water. Drank. Set it down. “I ain’t built for speeches. Y’all know that.”
“Then don’t give speeches,” Delpit said. “Drop truths. One sentence at a time. Every mic, every camera, every interview—answer questions with vision. Let people know you came from blood and bricks but learned how to read rooms. They want a story?”
He leaned in. “Make sure it’s yours.”
Royce sat with that. Then nodded once.
Billy tapped the tablet again. “We’ll get the press team ready. You’re gonna get asked about the deal soon.”
Royce tilted his head. “Which deal?”
Billy smiled. “The one you’re about to take.”
Royce didn’t answer. Not yet. But he didn’t say no.
As dinner was served—medium-rare steak, roasted vegetables, no cameras—Royce sat a little straighter.
He still wasn’t smiling.
But he was starting to plan what came after.
Not just the next play.
The next move.
~~~~~~~~~~
The knock came just after ten. Soft. Rhythmic. Like someone who meant to be heard but not wake up the whole house.
Alix peeled herself away from her screen and the half-rendered elevation view she’d been tweaking for an hour, padding barefoot down the hallway. Most of the apartment was dark—Ashlee’s door cracked open with the faint blue of her humidifier glowing inside, and Madi’s laugh filtering low from her FaceTime call behind a closed door.
She opened the front door quietly.
Co stood there in navy scrubs, a brown paper bag in one hand, two lemonades in the other, and a loose exhaustion clinging to his shoulders like static.
“Hey,” she said, voice dropping into something warm.
“I know it’s late,” he replied, glancing past her. “Didn’t mean to wake anybody.”
“You didn’t. Come in.”
He toed off his shoes at the door without being asked and followed her into the only room with light still on—her bedroom. The soft shuffle of jazz filtered through her speaker. She'd been looping a playlist all evening: Coltrane, a little Erroll Garner, a brush of keys to keep her breathing steady.
“Everything okay?” she asked, already setting a cushion on the floor.
“Long shift,” he muttered, sinking to the rug. “Woman coded during turnover. We got her back, but…” He shook his head once. “Makes it hard to just go home.”
She didn’t push.
Instead, she sat beside him, legs crossed, back against the side of her bed as he unpacked the food. Shrimp and grits, buttery greens, two slices of cornbread wrapped in parchment like they were precious. He handed her a lemonade without a word.
They ate for a few minutes without speaking. The only sound between them was the clink of plastic forks and the slow rhythm of the jazz.
Eventually, she said, “I’ve got a pitch tomorrow.”
Co glanced over, swallowing the last bite of cornbread. “Something big?”
Alix nodded, resting her bowl on the floor. “Boutique hotel renovation. Creole-style building off Esplanade. They want the interior to center Black Southern heritage. Something restorative. Historic.”
Co raised an eyebrow. “That’s… real.”
“Yeah.”
“You nervous?”
She laughed under her breath. “More than a little.”
His expression shifted—curious, but not skeptical.
“I’ve been racking my brain,” she continued, “trying to figure out how to approach it without overstepping. I want to do it right. But I’m a white woman pitching a space that’s supposed to feel like it was built for and by people whose histories don’t include me. I’ve got a Black stepdad. He raised me. I love him. But even that feels like a footnote here.”
Co stayed quiet.
“I’ve seen people get it wrong,” she added, looking down. “Make it aesthetic. Decorative. Like pain’s just something to match the curtains to.”
“And you don’t want to do that.”
“I’d rather not do it at all than do it like that.”
Her voice cracked a little on that last sentence, not dramatically—but enough for him to hear the weight behind it.
Co reached over and nudged her leg lightly with his knee. “Then don’t.”
She blinked. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he said. “You already asking the right questions. You already uncomfortable. That’s step one.”
She exhaled slowly.
“I just… I want to make something that holds people. Not just impresses them. Holds them. Honors them.”
Co didn’t say anything right away.
Then, without ceremony, he leaned over and rested his head against her shoulder. Not heavy. Not tentative either. Just placed there like it belonged.
She didn’t move.
Her body softened where he touched her, the tension she’d been holding in her jaw finally slipping away.
“That’s what you already do,” he said, voice muffled by the fabric of her shirt.
She stared ahead, into the half-lit space of her room, where her laptop screen still glowed with a half-finished mood board. A sepia photo of a sugarcane field. A textured plaster wall. A silhouette of a woman wrapped in indigo.
“I’m not trying to be a savior,” she whispered. “I just want to get it right.”
“You’re not trying to save anything,” he murmured. “You’re trying to make space.”
The jazz dipped into something softer. Outside, the streets were still.
Inside, Co exhaled against her shoulder like the tension he carried in from the hospital had finally found somewhere to go.
No flirtation. No need to name what this was. Just food on the floor, crossed legs, and the kind of closeness you can only earn when the world goes quiet.
No rush.
Just belief.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7811
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Alix's likability rating has taken a hit but we still on her team ... for now.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16776
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
I apologized for that update broCaptain Canada wrote: ↑05 Jun 2025, 08:56Alix's likability rating has taken a hit but we still on her team ... for now.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16776
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Big Black and Blue
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7811
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Dismantled their ass. Fraud ass team.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16776
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
No mercy
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16776
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47