No Reason to Call
The lot behind the ops center was half-empty by the time Royce reached his car.
The team bus had dropped them off thirty minutes ago—just after midnight. Some guys stayed behind, dragging pads into the locker room. Others piled into Ubers or rode off in twos and threes, talking about the win like it hadn’t already faded behind them.
Royce said a few words. Dapped up Gio. Nodded at Dorian.
Then he walked alone to the far corner of the lot, where the black Corvette sat beneath the floodlights like something set apart. Still spotless. Still his.
The newness of it hadn’t worn off—not because it was flashy, but because it was his name on the title. His money. His choice.
He got in, shut the door, and sat there for a second with the engine purring low beneath him.
Nine tackles. One for loss. No touchdowns allowed on his watch. He’d done everything the coaches asked.
And it still didn’t feel like enough.
He tapped his phone screen.
Effie
you up?
There was a pause long enough for him to consider unsending it.
Then the bubble appeared.
yeah.
He stared at it for a moment before typing again.
can i see you?
Another beat.
i’ll come to you.
nah. I’ll come there
…
Her apartment smelled like vanilla and eucalyptus when she cracked the door open. She was in leggings and a faded LSU crewneck, no makeup, eyes alert but soft. Like she’d been expecting the night to call her.
Royce stood under the hallway light in black joggers and the same hoodie he wore off the bus. His keys swung once in his hand before he slipped them into his pocket.
“You hungry?” she asked.
He nodded, and she stepped aside.
Inside, the living room was dim, lit only by the glow of a muted movie—something old and slow, maybe Denzel, maybe Sidney Poitier. She’d been half-watching, half-existing.
He dropped onto the floor without needing permission. She joined him, cross-legged, her socked foot brushing his shin as she opened the container of leftover mac and cheese she’d pulled from the fridge.
“Not warm,” she said.
“Don’t need it to be.”
They ate off the same plate, trading the fork without comment. On screen, a man moved through shadows with deliberate pacing. The volume stayed off.
No one said much.
Royce leaned back against the edge of the couch, arms resting on his knees. Effie sat with her spine straight, face lit faintly by the screen, hair tucked up, quiet but not detached.
The silence between them wasn’t awkward.
It was permission.
It was what he came for.
When the food was gone, she pushed the plate to the side and stretched her legs out in front of her. Royce shifted, rested his forearms on his thighs, and stared at the floor a second longer before finally speaking.
“You ever feel like you’re only good at surviving?”
Effie turned her head slowly. Her eyes met his, unflinching.
“Yeah,” she said. Then, quieter: “For a long time.”
He didn’t press. Just nodded once, eyes dropping back to the floor.
She continued. “But surviving isn’t the same as living.”
The words hung there. Not delicate. Not heavy. Just true.
Royce exhaled through his nose. “Feels close sometimes.”
“It does,” she said. “But they’re not. Surviving is what you do when you have no other choice. Living is what you do when you make one.”
He didn’t respond. Not out of disagreement. Just because silence was all he had to offer that didn’t feel performative.
Effie didn’t seem to need more.
She stood first, stretching her arms behind her back with a soft crack in her shoulder. He stayed seated, watching her pick up the empty container and rinse it in the sink.
When she made toward the door, he got up and walked to it.
At the door, Royce lingered with one hand on the frame.
Effie stood across from him, arms folded loosely, her body half-turned like she wasn’t sure whether to stay planted or walk him out. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it just felt unfinished.
“You played great tonight,” she said.
He gave a small shrug. “You ain’t watch that shit.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That mean it don’t matter?”
He didn’t answer.
Effie stepped closer, just enough to close the space between them.
“Thanks for coming,” she said.
“I didn’t want to be alone,” he admitted.
“You weren’t.”
She reached for the door and opened it for him. The hallway outside was quiet, dimly lit, the scent of someone else’s late-night leftovers drifting from down the hall.
Royce stepped out, turning back to look at her one last time.
She didn’t step out after him. Just stood in the doorway, watching.
“Get home safe,” she said softly.
Royce turned, the weight of the night settling back on his shoulders as the door clicked quietly shut behind him.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike stared at the ceiling fan turning slow overhead, the blades clicking faintly with every full rotation like a clock that didn’t know what time it was.
His phone sat face-up on the nightstand, screen dark. The dorm room smelled faintly of sweat and damp laundry detergent. He hadn’t taken his cleats out of his duffel after the game. Didn’t bother. They hadn’t touched grass tonight.
Not for him.
Kickoff had come and gone, and he’d spent every quarter pacing the same three yards behind the receivers coach, helmet tucked under his arm, hope folded tighter with every possession. No reps. No look. Not even a special teams sub.
When the final whistle blew, he couldn’t even remember the score.
Only the emptiness.
He rolled onto his side and reached for the phone, thumb hovering over the contact list until he found her name.
Ari.
u up?
It was only a few seconds before the typing bubble appeared.
yeah. you good?
can i call?
always.
He hit dial before he could change his mind.
The line rang once.
“Hey,” Arianna said, voice soft, familiar.
Mike exhaled into the receiver.
She waited.
“I didn’t play,” he said, finally. “Not even close.”
Arianna didn’t fill the space with cheer or excuses. Just stayed quiet in a way that told him she was still listening.
“I’m supposed to be patient, right?” he added, voice a little sharper now. “Like, ‘keep working, your time’s coming.’ But man…” He rubbed his palm against his forehead. “What if I’m not even waiting for something I want?”
He could hear a shift on the other end—her adjusting in her bed maybe. A breath.
“You ever have a dream that felt so real,” he continued, “you thought it was your life? Like—you were in it. Deep. Like, yeah, this is what I’m supposed to be doing. And then…”
His voice faltered.
“Then you start waking up.”
Arianna’s voice came quiet through the line. “And it’s not yours anymore.”
He nodded even though she couldn’t see it. “Feels like I’m waking up mid-dream and realizing it was someone else’s.”
The words sat in the air between them, untouched. True in a way that didn’t need explanation.
He thought she might say something then. Maybe tell him to stick it out. Remind him how many people would kill for his spot.
But she didn’t.
She just said, “Okay.”
That one word cracked something open in him.
“Everybody back home,” he said, “they keep asking me how it’s going. If I’m gonna transfer. If I’m gonna ‘make it out.’ Like football’s the only road.”
“It’s the one they saw you on,” she said. “Doesn’t mean it’s the only one there is.”
His throat tightened. “I used to think the field was where I felt most like me.”
“But?”
“But now I don’t feel like anybody when I’m out there.”
Silence again. Then:
“You’re allowed to outgrow a dream, Mike Mike.”
He closed his eyes. Her voice didn’t rush anything.
“I just…” He swallowed. “I don’t want to disappoint everybody.”
“Everybody who?” she asked.
He didn’t have an answer for that.
Arianna let the quiet stretch again. Then said gently, “You’re not disappointing me.”
The words landed softer than he expected. Like a hand on his shoulder in the dark.
“I don’t know what I want yet,” he admitted.
“You don’t have to,” she said. “You just have to keep waking up.”
He grinned, small but honest. “You always gotta go philosopher mode?”
Arianna snorted lightly. “Just keeping the little brother in check.”
He smiled wider now, the edge of his voice relaxing. “You ever get tired of being the only one who gets it?”
She was quiet a beat. “Yeah. But I’d rather be that than watch you go through it alone.”
His throat tightened again, but he didn’t fight it.
“You’re not disappointing me,” she said. “You hear me?”
“Yeah,” he said. Voice low, but steady. “I hear you.”
The fan above him kept turning, though.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16775
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16775
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Eyes on Me
The film room was cold. Always was. Concrete floors, cheap ceiling tiles, and rows of padded chairs that squeaked when someone shifted wrong. But nobody was shifting today.
Everyone was still.
Coach Lupoi stood at the front with the remote in one hand and his pointer in the other, eyes narrowed at the screen like he was daring it to blink.
“Run it back,” he muttered, hitting rewind.
The projector flickered.
On-screen, Royce exploded through the B-gap, helmet low, shoulders squared. The pulling guard barely got a hand on him before Royce swallowed the running back three yards behind the line.
The room exhaled collectively.
Coach Lupoi paused it at the moment of contact. “Look at this. Look.”
The screen froze on Royce mid-lunge—gloves at the back’s waist, cleats still in the turf, eyes locked in like a scope.
“You see how early he keys the guard?” Lupoi said, scanning the room. “Before the ball’s even snapped, he’s shifted six inches left. That’s what puts him in position. That’s film. That’s trust in prep.”
No one said a word. But heads nodded.
Royce didn’t.
He just stared at the screen like it didn’t matter that it was him. Like he was watching somebody else. Like he was still trying to figure out what he missed.
Lupoi ran it again. Slower this time.
“Most of y’all,” he said, turning toward the safeties, “are reading the mesh. He’s reading the guard’s weight before the quarterback even gets the snap.”
He pointed at Dorian. “Where were your feet on this play?”
Dorian rubbed his jaw. “Two steps deeper.”
“And why?”
“Because… Royce shifted,” he admitted.
Lupoi turned to the room. “You hear that? You’re not waiting for the play to tell you where to be. You’re watching him.”
Royce finally looked up.
A few guys were already glancing his way—linebackers, sure. But safeties too. Even a few d-linemen in the back row, nodding low, like they’d picked up something off his angle.
“Next clip,” Lupoi said.
Another play loaded. This time, Tennessee. Royce tracked the motion, slid just enough to his right, and knifed into the backfield before the pulling tackle had even crossed the hash.
TFL. Loud one. Crowd noise cut off by shoulder pads cracking like dry wood.
Coach paused it again. “You wanna know why he’s getting looked at for every defensive award there is?” he asked. “This right here. Anticipation. Timing. Finish.”
Royce leaned back slightly in his seat, arms folded.
Not smug.
Just quiet.
They kept going. More clips. Different offenses, different formations—but the same throughline in every play: him.
At some point, Lupoi didn’t even narrate anymore. He’d just pause the screen and let the freeze frame do the talking.
A helmet tilted exactly right.
A split-second adjustment before the snap.
A tackle that stopped forward motion cold.
By the end of the session, even the freshmen weren’t looking at the screen anymore. They were looking at Royce.
When the lights clicked on, Lupoi turned to the room. “You don’t have to be him,” he said. “But if you’re on the field with him, you damn well better be watching him. You might learn something.”
The guys started to stand, murmurs low and charged. A few smacked Royce on the shoulder as they passed, not showy—just recognition. Like something had shifted.
Because it had.
Royce sat for a moment longer, staring at the screen even as it went blue. The projector buzzed in the ceiling. The chairs squeaked behind him as they emptied out.
He hadn’t said a word the entire session.
But he’d felt it—clear as contact.
They weren’t just listening to the coaches anymore.
They were watching him.
Every read. Every lean. Every inch of movement.
The weight of that wasn’t loud. It didn’t announce itself.
But it settled over his shoulders like pads before kickoff.
Not pressure.
Responsibility.
And whether he asked for it or not, it was his now.
He stood, letting the silence trail behind him as he left the room.
No words.
Just the understanding.
You are the standard now.
~~~~~~~~~~
Effie was three hours into editing when her phone buzzed on the edge of her desk.
She didn’t look at it right away. The Lightroom sliders needed finessing—shadows pulled just enough to shape the curve of the burned frame, contrast up two clicks, warmth down one. The photo was stark. A narrow hallway, scorched at the edges. But the light slanting through the open door at the far end made it feel like something survived.
Then the screen lit up again.
This time she glanced.
Calendar: “Paz’s Birthday”
The goblin emoji at the end was hers. A choice made years ago, back when birthdays meant cake and shared playlists, not silence. Back when Paz was just Effie’s little sister and not a name she avoided saying out loud. Effie stared at it. The bright balloons and confetti at odds with the weight in her chest.
She didn’t swipe it away.
Not this time.
She closed her laptop, slipped on her shoes, and grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door. On her way out, she paused, phone still in her hand. A blank text thread with “Mom” hovered at the top. She locked the screen and tucked it into her pocket.
The florist near the corner of State and Highland was still open. Barely. The kind of place that didn’t carry pre-made bouquets or fancy arrangements, just buckets of blooms set out like colors waiting to be chosen.
Effie didn’t browse.
She went straight to the last bucket on the right—lilies, roses, chrysanthemums—and picked out a single white carnation. Clean. Unassuming. Quiet.
The clerk, a tired woman with a soft Cajun drawl, raised an eyebrow. “Just the one?”
Effie nodded.
The woman wrapped it gently in tissue paper, then clear cellophane, sealing it with a thin strip of tape. “For someone special?”
Effie gave a small smile. “Something like that.”
…
The LSU campus crisis center didn’t look like much. Just a low-slung brick building with an overgrown lawn and a ramp that creaked under your feet. The sign was wooden, the paint chipped at the corners. But the lights inside were warm, the kind you could see from the sidewalk. Like an invitation.
Effie didn’t take it.
She stood across the street for a while, watching students come and go—some in pairs, some alone. Most of them walked fast, heads down, backpacks heavy. Nobody lingered.
She waited until the sidewalk emptied.
Then crossed.
The steps to the front door were worn. The kind that had carried hundreds of anxious feet. Maybe thousands. She wondered how many girls had climbed those stairs with shaking hands. How many had been like Paz. How many had been like her.
She set the flower down on the top step. Not on the doormat. Not in front of the door. Just to the left, tucked between the railing and the wall. Like something meant to be seen only by the right person.
No note.
No name.
Just presence.
She didn’t go inside.
She didn’t need to.
On the walk back to her apartment, the air was cool and dry, Baton Rouge pretending it had seasons. Effie pulled her jacket tighter, her feet slow but steady.
She didn’t cry.
Not because it didn’t still hurt—but because today, it didn’t need to.
Remembering wasn’t the same as reopening.
And grief, for once, didn’t feel like punishment.
It just felt like love, placed carefully at someone else’s door.
A single white flower.
Left behind. But not forgotten.
The film room was cold. Always was. Concrete floors, cheap ceiling tiles, and rows of padded chairs that squeaked when someone shifted wrong. But nobody was shifting today.
Everyone was still.
Coach Lupoi stood at the front with the remote in one hand and his pointer in the other, eyes narrowed at the screen like he was daring it to blink.
“Run it back,” he muttered, hitting rewind.
The projector flickered.
On-screen, Royce exploded through the B-gap, helmet low, shoulders squared. The pulling guard barely got a hand on him before Royce swallowed the running back three yards behind the line.
The room exhaled collectively.
Coach Lupoi paused it at the moment of contact. “Look at this. Look.”
The screen froze on Royce mid-lunge—gloves at the back’s waist, cleats still in the turf, eyes locked in like a scope.
“You see how early he keys the guard?” Lupoi said, scanning the room. “Before the ball’s even snapped, he’s shifted six inches left. That’s what puts him in position. That’s film. That’s trust in prep.”
No one said a word. But heads nodded.
Royce didn’t.
He just stared at the screen like it didn’t matter that it was him. Like he was watching somebody else. Like he was still trying to figure out what he missed.
Lupoi ran it again. Slower this time.
“Most of y’all,” he said, turning toward the safeties, “are reading the mesh. He’s reading the guard’s weight before the quarterback even gets the snap.”
He pointed at Dorian. “Where were your feet on this play?”
Dorian rubbed his jaw. “Two steps deeper.”
“And why?”
“Because… Royce shifted,” he admitted.
Lupoi turned to the room. “You hear that? You’re not waiting for the play to tell you where to be. You’re watching him.”
Royce finally looked up.
A few guys were already glancing his way—linebackers, sure. But safeties too. Even a few d-linemen in the back row, nodding low, like they’d picked up something off his angle.
“Next clip,” Lupoi said.
Another play loaded. This time, Tennessee. Royce tracked the motion, slid just enough to his right, and knifed into the backfield before the pulling tackle had even crossed the hash.
TFL. Loud one. Crowd noise cut off by shoulder pads cracking like dry wood.
Coach paused it again. “You wanna know why he’s getting looked at for every defensive award there is?” he asked. “This right here. Anticipation. Timing. Finish.”
Royce leaned back slightly in his seat, arms folded.
Not smug.
Just quiet.
They kept going. More clips. Different offenses, different formations—but the same throughline in every play: him.
At some point, Lupoi didn’t even narrate anymore. He’d just pause the screen and let the freeze frame do the talking.
A helmet tilted exactly right.
A split-second adjustment before the snap.
A tackle that stopped forward motion cold.
By the end of the session, even the freshmen weren’t looking at the screen anymore. They were looking at Royce.
When the lights clicked on, Lupoi turned to the room. “You don’t have to be him,” he said. “But if you’re on the field with him, you damn well better be watching him. You might learn something.”
The guys started to stand, murmurs low and charged. A few smacked Royce on the shoulder as they passed, not showy—just recognition. Like something had shifted.
Because it had.
Royce sat for a moment longer, staring at the screen even as it went blue. The projector buzzed in the ceiling. The chairs squeaked behind him as they emptied out.
He hadn’t said a word the entire session.
But he’d felt it—clear as contact.
They weren’t just listening to the coaches anymore.
They were watching him.
Every read. Every lean. Every inch of movement.
The weight of that wasn’t loud. It didn’t announce itself.
But it settled over his shoulders like pads before kickoff.
Not pressure.
Responsibility.
And whether he asked for it or not, it was his now.
He stood, letting the silence trail behind him as he left the room.
No words.
Just the understanding.
You are the standard now.
~~~~~~~~~~
Effie was three hours into editing when her phone buzzed on the edge of her desk.
She didn’t look at it right away. The Lightroom sliders needed finessing—shadows pulled just enough to shape the curve of the burned frame, contrast up two clicks, warmth down one. The photo was stark. A narrow hallway, scorched at the edges. But the light slanting through the open door at the far end made it feel like something survived.
Then the screen lit up again.
This time she glanced.
Calendar: “Paz’s Birthday”
The goblin emoji at the end was hers. A choice made years ago, back when birthdays meant cake and shared playlists, not silence. Back when Paz was just Effie’s little sister and not a name she avoided saying out loud. Effie stared at it. The bright balloons and confetti at odds with the weight in her chest.
She didn’t swipe it away.
Not this time.
She closed her laptop, slipped on her shoes, and grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door. On her way out, she paused, phone still in her hand. A blank text thread with “Mom” hovered at the top. She locked the screen and tucked it into her pocket.
The florist near the corner of State and Highland was still open. Barely. The kind of place that didn’t carry pre-made bouquets or fancy arrangements, just buckets of blooms set out like colors waiting to be chosen.
Effie didn’t browse.
She went straight to the last bucket on the right—lilies, roses, chrysanthemums—and picked out a single white carnation. Clean. Unassuming. Quiet.
The clerk, a tired woman with a soft Cajun drawl, raised an eyebrow. “Just the one?”
Effie nodded.
The woman wrapped it gently in tissue paper, then clear cellophane, sealing it with a thin strip of tape. “For someone special?”
Effie gave a small smile. “Something like that.”
…
The LSU campus crisis center didn’t look like much. Just a low-slung brick building with an overgrown lawn and a ramp that creaked under your feet. The sign was wooden, the paint chipped at the corners. But the lights inside were warm, the kind you could see from the sidewalk. Like an invitation.
Effie didn’t take it.
She stood across the street for a while, watching students come and go—some in pairs, some alone. Most of them walked fast, heads down, backpacks heavy. Nobody lingered.
She waited until the sidewalk emptied.
Then crossed.
The steps to the front door were worn. The kind that had carried hundreds of anxious feet. Maybe thousands. She wondered how many girls had climbed those stairs with shaking hands. How many had been like Paz. How many had been like her.
She set the flower down on the top step. Not on the doormat. Not in front of the door. Just to the left, tucked between the railing and the wall. Like something meant to be seen only by the right person.
No note.
No name.
Just presence.
She didn’t go inside.
She didn’t need to.
On the walk back to her apartment, the air was cool and dry, Baton Rouge pretending it had seasons. Effie pulled her jacket tighter, her feet slow but steady.
She didn’t cry.
Not because it didn’t still hurt—but because today, it didn’t need to.
Remembering wasn’t the same as reopening.
And grief, for once, didn’t feel like punishment.
It just felt like love, placed carefully at someone else’s door.
A single white flower.
Left behind. But not forgotten.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7811
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
The glazing of Royce in the film room is crazy 
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16775
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Best mufuckin player in the country. Watch your mouth, buddy
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16775
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Big Play Ro
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16775
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Self Pride
Sunday moved different after a win.
No meetings. No pads. Just recovery lifts and film if you wanted it. The ops center stayed open, but quiet. Trainers worked on ankles and shoulders, guys took turns on the cold tubs, and coaches kept to themselves unless someone really screwed up.
Royce hadn’t.
Two interceptions.
Nineteen in his career. One short of the record.
He didn’t feel sore. Just used.
He parked the Corvette in front of his building and killed the engine, letting the silence stretch for a second longer than necessary. His phone buzzed on the passenger seat before he even opened the door.
Effie: So… I saw your name during the game. A lot. I think you caught the ball? From the wrong team? Twice?? Is that normal or did you steal someone else’s job?
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he picked up the phone.
Also, are you a linebacker or a cornerback now? Or like… a defensive quarterback? That’s not a thing but it feels like it should be.
He leaned his head against the seat and typed:
still a linebacker
just saw it before they did
nothing crazy
A moment passed. Then another buzz.
Nothing crazy = you doing magic with your eyes and being in two places at once.
you really don’t get football huh
Nope. But I get people. And you’re allowed to be proud of yourself.
…
She opened the door that evening in fuzzy socks and an old LSU hoodie that looked like it might’ve belonged to a dude before it belonged to her. The smell of microwaved popcorn lingered faintly in the air, and her laptop was open on the coffee table, paused mid-video.
“Hey,” she said, moving aside to let him in.
Royce stepped in, pulled his hoodie off with one hand, and dropped onto the couch like gravity had been waiting for him all day.
“No popcorn for me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re supposed to bring snacks when you do hero shit.”
“That what we’re calling it now?”
Effie flopped down beside him, pulling the sleeves over her hands. “If I caught two balls from the other team in one night, I’d demand parades.”
Royce smirked, resting his head back. “You’d get tired of people clapping real quick.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. But I’d still let myself enjoy it.”
He glanced over. “That what this is? You tryna teach me how to enjoy myself?”
“Somebody has to.”
They sat in it for a moment, the room hushed except for the low hum of her space heater kicking on in the corner.
Royce stared at the ceiling. “You think I’m more than this?”
Effie turned to him slowly. “More than what?”
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “Football. Grief. All the shit people think when they look at me.”
She didn’t speak right away.
Royce turned his head. “For real.”
Effie didn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t still be coming around if I didn’t think so.”
He searched her face, like he was looking for the catch. The condition.
There wasn’t one.
“Alright,” he said eventually, his voice quieter now. “Cause I don’t know who I am without all that yet.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “Just… don’t forget there’s more to learn.”
The quiet stretched again, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like rest.
Outside, the Sunday sun had finally dipped behind the buildings, casting the room in that last amber light of the weekend. Monday would come. Practice. Pressure. Headlines.
But right now?
It was enough to sit still.
To breathe.
To be more than a position. More than a past.
Just present. And seen.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alix didn’t hear the praise at first.
She was too busy watching the cursor blink in the corner of her screen, half-expecting the email to evaporate. But it didn’t. It sat there—subject line: Lobby Concept – Initial Feedback, bolded in her inbox like it had something important to say.
She clicked it open.
“Love the tonal restraint. Elegant. Sophisticated. Warm.”
“Strong understanding of regional materials and how to layer them without falling into cliché.”
“There’s care in this. Keep going.”
She blinked. Read it again.
And again.
Across the apartment, her printer whirred to life.
Co showed up an hour later, fresh off a long shift. Scrubs half-zipped, stethoscope looped around his neck like he hadn’t noticed he was still wearing it. His eyes were tired, but the kind of tired that meant present, not done.
Alix didn’t say anything at first. Just handed him the sheet of paper—her concept rendering, printed on glossy 11x17.
He tilted his head, taking it in.
A pale clay floor. Exposed pine beams. A mural in soft blues and ochres behind the check-in desk, abstract but rooted—evoking cane fields, river currents, quilting patterns without saying so aloud. The lighting was warm. Gentle. It didn’t announce itself. It held.
“Damn,” he said. “This is the lobby?”
She nodded, chewing her lip. “First draft. They liked it.”
“They said that?”
She pointed to her laptop. “It’s in writing. I triple-checked.”
Co looked back down at the page.
Then at her.
“You gonna hang it?”
Alix raised an eyebrow. “Hang it?”
“On the wall. With tape or a push pin. Don’t matter.”
She gave a short laugh. “It’s a draft.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said simply.
“That’s not the same thing.”
He stepped around the counter, placing the rendering gently on the table. “Designers hang art too. Even if it’s their own.”
“Feels weird,” she murmured.
“You made something beautiful,” he said again, softer now. “That shouldn’t be quiet.”
Alix didn’t respond.
But later, after he’d left—after they’d eaten leftover étouffée on the couch and she’d fallen asleep with her feet under his thigh and the heater humming in the corner—she stood alone in her room, the soft light from the hallway slanting across her drafting table.
The printout lay flat, corners slightly curled.
She picked it up.
Found a roll of painter’s tape in the bottom drawer of her supply bin.
And without ceremony, without even really looking up until it was done, she pressed all four corners against the wall above her desk.
Not perfect.
Not permanent.
But visible.
She stepped back and looked at it the way someone else might. Not as something that needed to be fixed, or finessed, or justified.
Just something that deserved to be seen.
The paper rustled lightly in the draft of the heating vent.
Not loud.
But not quiet either.
~~~~~~~~~~
The wind off Cane River was cooler than usual, that soft Louisiana kind of breeze that carried both the weight of the day and the promise of stillness. Mike leaned against the hood of his car, parked just off the riverwalk where the old stone levee flattened into dirt. The sun was dipping low behind the water, casting long streaks of amber across the ripples. Streetlamps hadn’t turned on yet. The town was holding its breath.
Laila sat beside him, ankles crossed, sipping the last of a warm bottle of sweet tea. Her hair was up, edges slick and neat like she’d done them just for the visit, though her shoes were already kicked off and forgotten in the grass. Bare feet. Polished toes. Her presence, like always, felt grounded. Like someone who saw you exactly where you were—and didn’t rush to move you from it.
“I don’t know,” she was saying, fingers peeling at the label on the bottle, “my professor said we’re supposed to categorize behavior patterns before we diagnose, but sometimes people are just reacting to life. That’s not pathology. That’s survival.”
Mike didn’t answer.
His hands were folded in his lap, eyes trained on the curve of the lake where a cypress stump cut the light in half.
He let the words hang for a second. Then cut through them with his own.
“I’m done with football.”
Laila blinked, bottle paused mid-air. “Like… for the season?”
He turned toward her, voice low but solid. “For good.”
The breeze caught her curls and lifted them gently at her temple. She didn’t speak right away. Just leaned back on her palms and looked at him—not startled, not skeptical. Just searching.
“What happened?”
He dragged one hand down his face before answering. “I used to think it was all I had. That helmet, that jersey. The way people lit up when I said I played.”
Laila nodded, listening without interruption.
“But every time I suited up,” he continued, “it felt like I was putting on somebody else’s dream. Not mine.”
He let the words settle like silt in water. There was no bitterness in his tone—just the soft kind of truth you don’t learn how to say until you’ve lived through the lie.
Laila sat up straight again, wrapping her arms around her knees. “You sure?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“I mean…” she smiled faintly, “you’re not even gonna miss the free gear?”
He huffed a laugh through his nose. “I got enough hoodies to last me two lifetimes.”
She laughed too, but softly. Then: “You were always more than that jersey. I knew that before you did.”
Mike looked at her then. Really looked. The sky behind her was burning out into that dark blue softness that came just before the stars. He nodded.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For seeing it. Before I could.”
She shrugged like it was nothing. But the way her mouth set after said otherwise.
“I just want to build something different now,” he said.
Laila didn’t hesitate. “Then build it.”
He turned his gaze back toward the water, the reflection of the sun folding slowly into dusk. The breeze rolled across the lake, catching their clothes, their silence, their shared stillness.
“I’m still here,” she added.
She didn’t say it like a promise.
She said it like a fact.
And Mike didn’t need to say anything back.
They just sat on the hood of his car as the last of the light disappeared behind the riverbank—no crowd, no field, no helmet between him and the world.
Just the girl who knew who he was before he did.
And the quiet that finally felt earned.
Sunday moved different after a win.
No meetings. No pads. Just recovery lifts and film if you wanted it. The ops center stayed open, but quiet. Trainers worked on ankles and shoulders, guys took turns on the cold tubs, and coaches kept to themselves unless someone really screwed up.
Royce hadn’t.
Two interceptions.
Nineteen in his career. One short of the record.
He didn’t feel sore. Just used.
He parked the Corvette in front of his building and killed the engine, letting the silence stretch for a second longer than necessary. His phone buzzed on the passenger seat before he even opened the door.
Effie: So… I saw your name during the game. A lot. I think you caught the ball? From the wrong team? Twice?? Is that normal or did you steal someone else’s job?
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he picked up the phone.
Also, are you a linebacker or a cornerback now? Or like… a defensive quarterback? That’s not a thing but it feels like it should be.
He leaned his head against the seat and typed:
still a linebacker
just saw it before they did
nothing crazy
A moment passed. Then another buzz.
Nothing crazy = you doing magic with your eyes and being in two places at once.
you really don’t get football huh
Nope. But I get people. And you’re allowed to be proud of yourself.
…
She opened the door that evening in fuzzy socks and an old LSU hoodie that looked like it might’ve belonged to a dude before it belonged to her. The smell of microwaved popcorn lingered faintly in the air, and her laptop was open on the coffee table, paused mid-video.
“Hey,” she said, moving aside to let him in.
Royce stepped in, pulled his hoodie off with one hand, and dropped onto the couch like gravity had been waiting for him all day.
“No popcorn for me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re supposed to bring snacks when you do hero shit.”
“That what we’re calling it now?”
Effie flopped down beside him, pulling the sleeves over her hands. “If I caught two balls from the other team in one night, I’d demand parades.”
Royce smirked, resting his head back. “You’d get tired of people clapping real quick.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. But I’d still let myself enjoy it.”
He glanced over. “That what this is? You tryna teach me how to enjoy myself?”
“Somebody has to.”
They sat in it for a moment, the room hushed except for the low hum of her space heater kicking on in the corner.
Royce stared at the ceiling. “You think I’m more than this?”
Effie turned to him slowly. “More than what?”
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “Football. Grief. All the shit people think when they look at me.”
She didn’t speak right away.
Royce turned his head. “For real.”
Effie didn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t still be coming around if I didn’t think so.”
He searched her face, like he was looking for the catch. The condition.
There wasn’t one.
“Alright,” he said eventually, his voice quieter now. “Cause I don’t know who I am without all that yet.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “Just… don’t forget there’s more to learn.”
The quiet stretched again, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like rest.
Outside, the Sunday sun had finally dipped behind the buildings, casting the room in that last amber light of the weekend. Monday would come. Practice. Pressure. Headlines.
But right now?
It was enough to sit still.
To breathe.
To be more than a position. More than a past.
Just present. And seen.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alix didn’t hear the praise at first.
She was too busy watching the cursor blink in the corner of her screen, half-expecting the email to evaporate. But it didn’t. It sat there—subject line: Lobby Concept – Initial Feedback, bolded in her inbox like it had something important to say.
She clicked it open.
“Love the tonal restraint. Elegant. Sophisticated. Warm.”
“Strong understanding of regional materials and how to layer them without falling into cliché.”
“There’s care in this. Keep going.”
She blinked. Read it again.
And again.
Across the apartment, her printer whirred to life.
Co showed up an hour later, fresh off a long shift. Scrubs half-zipped, stethoscope looped around his neck like he hadn’t noticed he was still wearing it. His eyes were tired, but the kind of tired that meant present, not done.
Alix didn’t say anything at first. Just handed him the sheet of paper—her concept rendering, printed on glossy 11x17.
He tilted his head, taking it in.
A pale clay floor. Exposed pine beams. A mural in soft blues and ochres behind the check-in desk, abstract but rooted—evoking cane fields, river currents, quilting patterns without saying so aloud. The lighting was warm. Gentle. It didn’t announce itself. It held.
“Damn,” he said. “This is the lobby?”
She nodded, chewing her lip. “First draft. They liked it.”
“They said that?”
She pointed to her laptop. “It’s in writing. I triple-checked.”
Co looked back down at the page.
Then at her.
“You gonna hang it?”
Alix raised an eyebrow. “Hang it?”
“On the wall. With tape or a push pin. Don’t matter.”
She gave a short laugh. “It’s a draft.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said simply.
“That’s not the same thing.”
He stepped around the counter, placing the rendering gently on the table. “Designers hang art too. Even if it’s their own.”
“Feels weird,” she murmured.
“You made something beautiful,” he said again, softer now. “That shouldn’t be quiet.”
Alix didn’t respond.
But later, after he’d left—after they’d eaten leftover étouffée on the couch and she’d fallen asleep with her feet under his thigh and the heater humming in the corner—she stood alone in her room, the soft light from the hallway slanting across her drafting table.
The printout lay flat, corners slightly curled.
She picked it up.
Found a roll of painter’s tape in the bottom drawer of her supply bin.
And without ceremony, without even really looking up until it was done, she pressed all four corners against the wall above her desk.
Not perfect.
Not permanent.
But visible.
She stepped back and looked at it the way someone else might. Not as something that needed to be fixed, or finessed, or justified.
Just something that deserved to be seen.
The paper rustled lightly in the draft of the heating vent.
Not loud.
But not quiet either.
~~~~~~~~~~
The wind off Cane River was cooler than usual, that soft Louisiana kind of breeze that carried both the weight of the day and the promise of stillness. Mike leaned against the hood of his car, parked just off the riverwalk where the old stone levee flattened into dirt. The sun was dipping low behind the water, casting long streaks of amber across the ripples. Streetlamps hadn’t turned on yet. The town was holding its breath.
Laila sat beside him, ankles crossed, sipping the last of a warm bottle of sweet tea. Her hair was up, edges slick and neat like she’d done them just for the visit, though her shoes were already kicked off and forgotten in the grass. Bare feet. Polished toes. Her presence, like always, felt grounded. Like someone who saw you exactly where you were—and didn’t rush to move you from it.
“I don’t know,” she was saying, fingers peeling at the label on the bottle, “my professor said we’re supposed to categorize behavior patterns before we diagnose, but sometimes people are just reacting to life. That’s not pathology. That’s survival.”
Mike didn’t answer.
His hands were folded in his lap, eyes trained on the curve of the lake where a cypress stump cut the light in half.
He let the words hang for a second. Then cut through them with his own.
“I’m done with football.”
Laila blinked, bottle paused mid-air. “Like… for the season?”
He turned toward her, voice low but solid. “For good.”
The breeze caught her curls and lifted them gently at her temple. She didn’t speak right away. Just leaned back on her palms and looked at him—not startled, not skeptical. Just searching.
“What happened?”
He dragged one hand down his face before answering. “I used to think it was all I had. That helmet, that jersey. The way people lit up when I said I played.”
Laila nodded, listening without interruption.
“But every time I suited up,” he continued, “it felt like I was putting on somebody else’s dream. Not mine.”
He let the words settle like silt in water. There was no bitterness in his tone—just the soft kind of truth you don’t learn how to say until you’ve lived through the lie.
Laila sat up straight again, wrapping her arms around her knees. “You sure?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“I mean…” she smiled faintly, “you’re not even gonna miss the free gear?”
He huffed a laugh through his nose. “I got enough hoodies to last me two lifetimes.”
She laughed too, but softly. Then: “You were always more than that jersey. I knew that before you did.”
Mike looked at her then. Really looked. The sky behind her was burning out into that dark blue softness that came just before the stars. He nodded.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For seeing it. Before I could.”
She shrugged like it was nothing. But the way her mouth set after said otherwise.
“I just want to build something different now,” he said.
Laila didn’t hesitate. “Then build it.”
He turned his gaze back toward the water, the reflection of the sun folding slowly into dusk. The breeze rolled across the lake, catching their clothes, their silence, their shared stillness.
“I’m still here,” she added.
She didn’t say it like a promise.
She said it like a fact.
And Mike didn’t need to say anything back.
They just sat on the hood of his car as the last of the light disappeared behind the riverbank—no crowd, no field, no helmet between him and the world.
Just the girl who knew who he was before he did.
And the quiet that finally felt earned.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16775
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Suit Yourself
Royce had barely set his keys down when there was a knock at the door.
Not urgent. Not impatient. Just precise—three taps, evenly spaced. The kind of knock that didn’t ask for permission so much as announce a schedule.
He opened it to find a sharply dressed man in a dark button-down and carrying a garment bag in one hand, a measuring kit in the other.
“Mr. Lafitte?” the man asked, with the slight lilt of someone not quite local.
“Who’s asking?”
“Elias. Billy sent me.”
Royce leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “For what?”
The man smiled professionally. “Dinner prep. We’ve got a short window to get you right.”
Royce didn’t move. “I already got suits. Custom ones.”
Elias didn’t blink. “And I’m sure they fit you well. But this isn’t about fit. It’s about signal.”
Before Royce could answer, another voice cut in—from behind him.
“Let the man in,” Delpit called from the couch.
Royce turned, startled. He hadn’t even noticed Delpit walk in.
“How you get in here?” Royce asked.
Delpit shrugged. “You left the side door unlocked. Again.”
Royce opened the door fully, stepping aside for Elias. “Y’all serious with this?”
Delpit leaned back on the couch, one arm thrown over the cushion, sipping from a bottle of water like he owned the place.
“This ain’t about looking rich,” he said. “It’s about looking like you got somewhere to be.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “I do got somewhere to be. Film room. Weight room. The field.”
Delpit grinned. “You wanna build something that lasts, Ro? Gotta move like the spotlight’s yours before they hand it to you.”
Elias was already unzipping the bag, revealing a charcoal suit with a subtle herringbone weave. Not flashy. Just serious. The shirt was cream, crisp and warm. No tie yet. That part was still undecided.
Royce sighed, muttering something under his breath as he pulled his hoodie off and stepped forward.
Elias was efficient, respectful. Adjusted the hem. Noted the slope of Royce’s shoulders. Tucked in a sleeve pin and stepped back.
“You don’t need to be anyone else,” Elias said quietly, smoothing the jacket across Royce’s frame. “Just let the outside match what’s already shifting inside.”
Royce met his gaze in the mirror.
Didn’t say anything.
Because something was shifting. He could feel it in his stomach. That dull churn of becoming. Not the kind that shouts. The kind that creeps in quietly and rearranges what you think you are.
Delpit stood behind him now, arms folded. “You’re not just a player anymore. You’re a presence.”
Royce frowned slightly. “So I gotta wear suits to prove that?”
“No,” Delpit said. “You wear suits so they assume it. And then you walk in and make ‘em learn why.”
Royce stared at himself in the mirror.
He looked taller.
Heavier in a way that had nothing to do with weight.
He adjusted the cuff at his wrist, then stepped back half a pace.
“I don’t know if this is me,” he said finally.
Delpit stepped up beside him. “Or maybe it’s the next version of you.”
The silence hung there.
Not tense—just full.
Royce didn’t answer.
But he didn’t take the suit off either.
Just stood there, watching the reflection of a man who looked like he had somewhere to be. Even if he wasn’t sure where yet.
~~~~~~~~~~
Effie sat cross-legged in the editing lab, her headphones pushed halfway off her ears, one hand cradling her chin, the other resting idle on the trackpad. The room was dim but quiet, lit only by the pale glow of screens and the low hum of overworked Macs. The hum was constant, familiar. It was the kind of silence you could disappear into if you needed.
She should’ve been halfway through her project by now. Everyone else in the class had already filtered out, leaving only her and a sophomore in the back who was passed out on his keyboard.
Her cursor hovered over the same photo she’d opened twenty minutes ago.
She hadn’t meant to find it. It wasn’t part of her assignment. Just a folder she’d forgotten to label from two phones ago, synced up to her cloud. When she clicked it open, there it was:
Her and Paz. Summer sun slashing through a screen door. They were standing in someone’s backyard—Houston, maybe. A white plastic cup in Paz’s hand. Laughing. Mid-motion, hair blurred, mouth open, like she’d just said something sharp and knew it landed. Effie was in the corner of the frame, barely in focus. Paz was in the center. Unclear. Alive.
Effie had already cropped it five different ways.
First to center Paz’s face.
Then to cut the blur out.
Then tighter.
Then again, this time trying to adjust the motion with the sharpness tool. Dragging sliders. Watching pixels harden. Then break.
She sat back, biting the inside of her cheek. Her cursor hovered over the crop box again.
The photo stared back, refusing to be tamed.
“Trying to rescue the moment?” a voice said behind her.
She looked up. Her professor—Dr. Min—stood with her arms folded across her chest, her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Effie pulled off her headphones. “Sorry, I didn’t realize it was past time.”
Dr. Min waved it off, eyes still on the screen. “You’ve cropped that five times in the last five minutes.”
Effie gave a half-shrug. “The motion’s bad. I was trying to clean it.”
Dr. Min tilted her head. “Is it bad? Or just honest?”
Effie didn’t answer.
Dr. Min stepped forward and tapped the corner of the screen lightly. “Maybe you don’t have to fix the frame. Maybe you just need to sit with it.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. Just offered a quiet nod, then walked on, heels clicking lightly as she disappeared down the hall.
Effie sat there.
The image still open. Her cursor still blinking.
She reached for the crop tool again.
Paused.
And closed it.
The photo remained on screen—unpolished, slightly blurred, too bright in one corner. But it breathed. It moved. It held something.
Effie stared at it for a long time.
Then she opened a new tab and saved it under a different folder.
Not for class.
Just for her.
She didn’t crop it again.
Royce had barely set his keys down when there was a knock at the door.
Not urgent. Not impatient. Just precise—three taps, evenly spaced. The kind of knock that didn’t ask for permission so much as announce a schedule.
He opened it to find a sharply dressed man in a dark button-down and carrying a garment bag in one hand, a measuring kit in the other.
“Mr. Lafitte?” the man asked, with the slight lilt of someone not quite local.
“Who’s asking?”
“Elias. Billy sent me.”
Royce leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “For what?”
The man smiled professionally. “Dinner prep. We’ve got a short window to get you right.”
Royce didn’t move. “I already got suits. Custom ones.”
Elias didn’t blink. “And I’m sure they fit you well. But this isn’t about fit. It’s about signal.”
Before Royce could answer, another voice cut in—from behind him.
“Let the man in,” Delpit called from the couch.
Royce turned, startled. He hadn’t even noticed Delpit walk in.
“How you get in here?” Royce asked.
Delpit shrugged. “You left the side door unlocked. Again.”
Royce opened the door fully, stepping aside for Elias. “Y’all serious with this?”
Delpit leaned back on the couch, one arm thrown over the cushion, sipping from a bottle of water like he owned the place.
“This ain’t about looking rich,” he said. “It’s about looking like you got somewhere to be.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “I do got somewhere to be. Film room. Weight room. The field.”
Delpit grinned. “You wanna build something that lasts, Ro? Gotta move like the spotlight’s yours before they hand it to you.”
Elias was already unzipping the bag, revealing a charcoal suit with a subtle herringbone weave. Not flashy. Just serious. The shirt was cream, crisp and warm. No tie yet. That part was still undecided.
Royce sighed, muttering something under his breath as he pulled his hoodie off and stepped forward.
Elias was efficient, respectful. Adjusted the hem. Noted the slope of Royce’s shoulders. Tucked in a sleeve pin and stepped back.
“You don’t need to be anyone else,” Elias said quietly, smoothing the jacket across Royce’s frame. “Just let the outside match what’s already shifting inside.”
Royce met his gaze in the mirror.
Didn’t say anything.
Because something was shifting. He could feel it in his stomach. That dull churn of becoming. Not the kind that shouts. The kind that creeps in quietly and rearranges what you think you are.
Delpit stood behind him now, arms folded. “You’re not just a player anymore. You’re a presence.”
Royce frowned slightly. “So I gotta wear suits to prove that?”
“No,” Delpit said. “You wear suits so they assume it. And then you walk in and make ‘em learn why.”
Royce stared at himself in the mirror.
He looked taller.
Heavier in a way that had nothing to do with weight.
He adjusted the cuff at his wrist, then stepped back half a pace.
“I don’t know if this is me,” he said finally.
Delpit stepped up beside him. “Or maybe it’s the next version of you.”
The silence hung there.
Not tense—just full.
Royce didn’t answer.
But he didn’t take the suit off either.
Just stood there, watching the reflection of a man who looked like he had somewhere to be. Even if he wasn’t sure where yet.
~~~~~~~~~~
Effie sat cross-legged in the editing lab, her headphones pushed halfway off her ears, one hand cradling her chin, the other resting idle on the trackpad. The room was dim but quiet, lit only by the pale glow of screens and the low hum of overworked Macs. The hum was constant, familiar. It was the kind of silence you could disappear into if you needed.
She should’ve been halfway through her project by now. Everyone else in the class had already filtered out, leaving only her and a sophomore in the back who was passed out on his keyboard.
Her cursor hovered over the same photo she’d opened twenty minutes ago.
She hadn’t meant to find it. It wasn’t part of her assignment. Just a folder she’d forgotten to label from two phones ago, synced up to her cloud. When she clicked it open, there it was:
Her and Paz. Summer sun slashing through a screen door. They were standing in someone’s backyard—Houston, maybe. A white plastic cup in Paz’s hand. Laughing. Mid-motion, hair blurred, mouth open, like she’d just said something sharp and knew it landed. Effie was in the corner of the frame, barely in focus. Paz was in the center. Unclear. Alive.
Effie had already cropped it five different ways.
First to center Paz’s face.
Then to cut the blur out.
Then tighter.
Then again, this time trying to adjust the motion with the sharpness tool. Dragging sliders. Watching pixels harden. Then break.
She sat back, biting the inside of her cheek. Her cursor hovered over the crop box again.
The photo stared back, refusing to be tamed.
“Trying to rescue the moment?” a voice said behind her.
She looked up. Her professor—Dr. Min—stood with her arms folded across her chest, her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Effie pulled off her headphones. “Sorry, I didn’t realize it was past time.”
Dr. Min waved it off, eyes still on the screen. “You’ve cropped that five times in the last five minutes.”
Effie gave a half-shrug. “The motion’s bad. I was trying to clean it.”
Dr. Min tilted her head. “Is it bad? Or just honest?”
Effie didn’t answer.
Dr. Min stepped forward and tapped the corner of the screen lightly. “Maybe you don’t have to fix the frame. Maybe you just need to sit with it.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. Just offered a quiet nod, then walked on, heels clicking lightly as she disappeared down the hall.
Effie sat there.
The image still open. Her cursor still blinking.
She reached for the crop tool again.
Paused.
And closed it.
The photo remained on screen—unpolished, slightly blurred, too bright in one corner. But it breathed. It moved. It held something.
Effie stared at it for a long time.
Then she opened a new tab and saved it under a different folder.
Not for class.
Just for her.
She didn’t crop it again.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16775
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Statement Game
“Good afternoon, folks, and welcome to Death Valley—Tiger Stadium in Baton Rouge, Louisiana—where the number one team in the nation, your LSU Tigers, are set to take on the fifth-ranked Tennessee Volunteers in what promises to be a heavyweight SEC showdown. I’m Thomas Jackson alongside Marlon Reed, and Marlon, the air down here is electric.”
“It’s what you live for, T.J.—late October, ranked matchups, and a sold-out Tiger Stadium just begging to explode. LSU comes in undefeated, 6–0, riding the back of a defense that’s allowed just 14 points per game. And at the center of that defense? Senior linebacker Royce Lafitte. He’s been playing like a man possessed.”
“He’s not just playing like it—he is. Two interceptions last week against Auburn, five tackles for loss in the last three games, and the emotional anchor of this team. But let’s not forget, the Vols didn’t come to play homecoming. Tennessee, led by sophomore quarterback Jake Merklinger, has turned heads all season.”
“Oh yeah. Kid’s got the poise of a senior and the arm of a cannon. Already with over 2,000 passing yards and 19 touchdowns on the season. He’s fearless in the pocket, and he’s got two wideouts in Wingo and Sanders who can stretch the field vertically. But this LSU secondary? They feast on QBs who get greedy.”
“That’s right. And the stakes couldn’t be higher. LSU trying to protect its number one ranking, Tennessee looking to knock them off and make their own case for the playoff. We’ve got a sold-out stadium, gold towels spinning, the band queued up, and kickoff just minutes away.”
“This is the kind of game where legends are born, T.J. You want to talk Heisman campaigns, Butkus Award watchlists, draft stock—this is the stage. Royce Lafitte’s name is already in lights. Today, he’s got a chance to make it shine even brighter.”
“No doubt. The tunnel’s rumbling now, folks. LSU in those classic home jerseys—white tops, gold pants, gold helmets—and you can feel the buzz.”
“Buckle up, y’all. Tigers. Vols. Number one versus number five. This ain’t just a game.”
“It’s a statement.”
…
“Collins in the gun—three wide to the right, Sampson alone on the boundary left. Third down and seven from the Tennessee twenty-eight... Tigers looking to extend a one-possession lead.”
“Watch the safety creeping—could be single-high... Sampson’s got that one-on-one.”
“Collins takes the snap—drops back, eyes downfield—he wants it all—unleashes a high spiral to the left side!”
“He’s got Sampson on a go!”
“Sampson tracks it over his shoulder—got separation—makes the grab inside the five!—AND WALKS IT IN! TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!”
“Woooo! That’s grown-man separation from the senior Shelton Sampson Jr.! Beat his man clean off the line and Rickie dropped it in the bucket!”
“A 28-yard strike from the redshirt senior Collins to the vet Sampson Jr., and Tiger Stadium is rocking! LSU now up 14-0 with the extra point pending—and the Volunteers felt that one.”
“You want timing? You want touch? That’s three years of chemistry on display right there. Collins. Sampson. Money.”
…
“First and goal from the Tennessee nine—LSU already up 14–0 and looking to pour it on early here in Death Valley. Collins in the shotgun, Sampson lined up wide right...”
“You gotta bracket him here if you're Tennessee—Shelton's already got one today, and he’s cooking.”
“Collins claps for it—gets the snap—fakes the handoff to Durham—drops back, pressure coming off the edge—he steps up, fires—"
“Corner route!”
“End zone—SAMPSON'S THERE—GOT IT! TOUCHDOWN, LSU!”
“Sheeeesh! That’s two for the senior, and that one was textbook! Beat the corner off the stem, turned it upfield, and Rickie Collins just floated it right into the bread basket.”
“Nine-yard strike—Collins to Sampson Jr.—and the Tigers are rolling! Twenty-one unanswered points on the number five team in the country, and this stadium is lit.”
“That’s a redshirt senior quarterback putting it where only his guy can get it, and a senior wideout who’s looking like a Sunday player every snap.”
“Sampson with his second of the afternoon—LSU with their third—and with 10:41 to go in the second quarter, it’s 21–nothing, Tigers.”
…
The ball snapped, and Royce was already moving.
Peyton Lewis had barely received the handoff before Royce shot through the B-gap like a fired shell, his eyes locked on the back’s hips, not the ball. The Tennessee left guard barely got a hand on him—just enough to tug at air—as Royce slipped under his reach, shoulders tight, steps staccato but exact.
One beat. That’s all he needed.
Lewis tried to plant and bounce outside, but Royce hit him low and hard, shoulder exploding into the runner’s thigh pad with a thud that silenced the closest section of orange in Tiger Stadium. The collision bent Lewis backward—legs swept from beneath him—and his cleats scrabbled against the turf before he crumpled, the ball still miraculously in his grasp but two yards behind where he started.
Royce didn’t linger.
He popped up with a snap, chest heaving, adrenaline flooding every limb. He turned to the LSU sideline and flexed both arms, voice ragged as he screamed, “THAT’S MINE!” and pounded his chest twice. Jay was first there, slapping Royce’s helmet so hard it knocked his chinstrap loose.
“Fuck yeah, Royce!” he barked. “Put that boy in reverse!”
Tylen and De’Shawn were close behind, shoulder bumping him in rhythm. Kolaj came up late, just grinning and shaking his head. “They gon’ learn today.”
But Royce wasn’t smiling.
He paced back toward the huddle, jaw tight, mind already moving to the next down. The energy on the field surged, but inside, he kept it coiled—fire without flare.
He glanced at the Tennessee sideline.
Jake Merklinger stood with his hands on his hips, staring across at him.
Royce didn’t blink.
Just raised a single finger and pointed down at the turf.
This was his house.
…
“TOUCHDOWN LSU!”
…
“TOUCHDOWN LSU!”
…
“TOUCHDOWN LSU!”
…
Midway through the third quarter, and the game was already bleeding out. LSU up 35–7, Tiger Stadium still roaring like it was tied. The kind of crowd that didn’t care about margins—only about message.
Tennessee had the ball just past midfield. Third and four. Not quite desperation territory, but the kind of down where tendencies showed their teeth.
Royce crouched low behind the line, one hand brushing the turf. The Volunteers shifted into a tight trips formation. Merklinger barked something under center, motioned the tight end. Royce didn’t flinch. He’d seen this on film.
Jet motion. Zone left. Designed to freeze the backer just long enough for the cutback lane to open.
Not today.
As soon as the ball snapped, Royce shot the gap—again. The left guard reached for him, late and desperate. The running back, some second-string freshman now rotated in, never saw it coming.
Royce met him a yard deep in the backfield, arms wrapping just under the pads, feet driving like pistons. The hit wasn’t loud, but it was final. The kind of tackle that made a point more than it made a highlight.
Fourth down.
He stood, no celebration this time. No arm flex. No roar.
Just turned back to the LSU sideline, nodded once.
Let the crowd do the talking.
As he jogged toward the bench, Justin caught up, helmet tilted back, eyes wide. “Man, you in every gap right now.”
Royce just smirked, eyes scanning the field as the Tennessee punt unit shuffled on.
“Then maybe they should stop leaving the fucking door open.”
Behind him, the student section erupted into another round of chants. Cameras followed his walk to the sideline. Coaches clapped. Delpit, up in a private box somewhere, was probably smiling behind dark lenses.
Royce didn’t care about the cameras. Or the draft buzz. Or the scoreboard.
He cared about the hit. The read. The stillness of knowing he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
Again.
…
“Five minutes and change left on the clock, and listen to this crowd—Tiger Stadium still buzzing as LSU leads Tennessee 46 to 14. And here comes the wave from the sideline—Dan Lanning is emptying the bench.”
“This ain’t mop-up duty against a cupcake team, T.J.—this is a top-five Tennessee squad. Number five in the country. And LSU’s putting in the twos, the threes, the walk-ons. That’s domination.”
“You dream about this as a freshman—getting your first snaps in a game like this. Malachi Francis checking in at safety. Collin Hurley at quarterback. Brennan Joseph and Kaleb Griffin coming on at receiver. The future of LSU football taking the field in front of a sold-out Tiger Stadium—with the outcome already decided.”
“Lanning’s message couldn’t be clearer: this isn’t just about this week. This is about depth. About culture. About letting the nation know LSU doesn’t rebuild—they reload.”
“So with five minutes to play and a 32-point lead over the number five team in the country… the Tigers hand the reins to the next generation.”
“Go ahead and log that. LSU didn’t just win tonight—they announced themselves. And they did it so loud, the whole country’s gonna hear it.”
“Good afternoon, folks, and welcome to Death Valley—Tiger Stadium in Baton Rouge, Louisiana—where the number one team in the nation, your LSU Tigers, are set to take on the fifth-ranked Tennessee Volunteers in what promises to be a heavyweight SEC showdown. I’m Thomas Jackson alongside Marlon Reed, and Marlon, the air down here is electric.”
“It’s what you live for, T.J.—late October, ranked matchups, and a sold-out Tiger Stadium just begging to explode. LSU comes in undefeated, 6–0, riding the back of a defense that’s allowed just 14 points per game. And at the center of that defense? Senior linebacker Royce Lafitte. He’s been playing like a man possessed.”
“He’s not just playing like it—he is. Two interceptions last week against Auburn, five tackles for loss in the last three games, and the emotional anchor of this team. But let’s not forget, the Vols didn’t come to play homecoming. Tennessee, led by sophomore quarterback Jake Merklinger, has turned heads all season.”
“Oh yeah. Kid’s got the poise of a senior and the arm of a cannon. Already with over 2,000 passing yards and 19 touchdowns on the season. He’s fearless in the pocket, and he’s got two wideouts in Wingo and Sanders who can stretch the field vertically. But this LSU secondary? They feast on QBs who get greedy.”
“That’s right. And the stakes couldn’t be higher. LSU trying to protect its number one ranking, Tennessee looking to knock them off and make their own case for the playoff. We’ve got a sold-out stadium, gold towels spinning, the band queued up, and kickoff just minutes away.”
“This is the kind of game where legends are born, T.J. You want to talk Heisman campaigns, Butkus Award watchlists, draft stock—this is the stage. Royce Lafitte’s name is already in lights. Today, he’s got a chance to make it shine even brighter.”
“No doubt. The tunnel’s rumbling now, folks. LSU in those classic home jerseys—white tops, gold pants, gold helmets—and you can feel the buzz.”
“Buckle up, y’all. Tigers. Vols. Number one versus number five. This ain’t just a game.”
“It’s a statement.”
…
“Collins in the gun—three wide to the right, Sampson alone on the boundary left. Third down and seven from the Tennessee twenty-eight... Tigers looking to extend a one-possession lead.”
“Watch the safety creeping—could be single-high... Sampson’s got that one-on-one.”
“Collins takes the snap—drops back, eyes downfield—he wants it all—unleashes a high spiral to the left side!”
“He’s got Sampson on a go!”
“Sampson tracks it over his shoulder—got separation—makes the grab inside the five!—AND WALKS IT IN! TOUCHDOWN TIGERS!”
“Woooo! That’s grown-man separation from the senior Shelton Sampson Jr.! Beat his man clean off the line and Rickie dropped it in the bucket!”
“A 28-yard strike from the redshirt senior Collins to the vet Sampson Jr., and Tiger Stadium is rocking! LSU now up 14-0 with the extra point pending—and the Volunteers felt that one.”
“You want timing? You want touch? That’s three years of chemistry on display right there. Collins. Sampson. Money.”
…
“First and goal from the Tennessee nine—LSU already up 14–0 and looking to pour it on early here in Death Valley. Collins in the shotgun, Sampson lined up wide right...”
“You gotta bracket him here if you're Tennessee—Shelton's already got one today, and he’s cooking.”
“Collins claps for it—gets the snap—fakes the handoff to Durham—drops back, pressure coming off the edge—he steps up, fires—"
“Corner route!”
“End zone—SAMPSON'S THERE—GOT IT! TOUCHDOWN, LSU!”
“Sheeeesh! That’s two for the senior, and that one was textbook! Beat the corner off the stem, turned it upfield, and Rickie Collins just floated it right into the bread basket.”
“Nine-yard strike—Collins to Sampson Jr.—and the Tigers are rolling! Twenty-one unanswered points on the number five team in the country, and this stadium is lit.”
“That’s a redshirt senior quarterback putting it where only his guy can get it, and a senior wideout who’s looking like a Sunday player every snap.”
“Sampson with his second of the afternoon—LSU with their third—and with 10:41 to go in the second quarter, it’s 21–nothing, Tigers.”
…
The ball snapped, and Royce was already moving.
Peyton Lewis had barely received the handoff before Royce shot through the B-gap like a fired shell, his eyes locked on the back’s hips, not the ball. The Tennessee left guard barely got a hand on him—just enough to tug at air—as Royce slipped under his reach, shoulders tight, steps staccato but exact.
One beat. That’s all he needed.
Lewis tried to plant and bounce outside, but Royce hit him low and hard, shoulder exploding into the runner’s thigh pad with a thud that silenced the closest section of orange in Tiger Stadium. The collision bent Lewis backward—legs swept from beneath him—and his cleats scrabbled against the turf before he crumpled, the ball still miraculously in his grasp but two yards behind where he started.
Royce didn’t linger.
He popped up with a snap, chest heaving, adrenaline flooding every limb. He turned to the LSU sideline and flexed both arms, voice ragged as he screamed, “THAT’S MINE!” and pounded his chest twice. Jay was first there, slapping Royce’s helmet so hard it knocked his chinstrap loose.
“Fuck yeah, Royce!” he barked. “Put that boy in reverse!”
Tylen and De’Shawn were close behind, shoulder bumping him in rhythm. Kolaj came up late, just grinning and shaking his head. “They gon’ learn today.”
But Royce wasn’t smiling.
He paced back toward the huddle, jaw tight, mind already moving to the next down. The energy on the field surged, but inside, he kept it coiled—fire without flare.
He glanced at the Tennessee sideline.
Jake Merklinger stood with his hands on his hips, staring across at him.
Royce didn’t blink.
Just raised a single finger and pointed down at the turf.
This was his house.
…
“TOUCHDOWN LSU!”
…
“TOUCHDOWN LSU!”
…
“TOUCHDOWN LSU!”
…
Midway through the third quarter, and the game was already bleeding out. LSU up 35–7, Tiger Stadium still roaring like it was tied. The kind of crowd that didn’t care about margins—only about message.
Tennessee had the ball just past midfield. Third and four. Not quite desperation territory, but the kind of down where tendencies showed their teeth.
Royce crouched low behind the line, one hand brushing the turf. The Volunteers shifted into a tight trips formation. Merklinger barked something under center, motioned the tight end. Royce didn’t flinch. He’d seen this on film.
Jet motion. Zone left. Designed to freeze the backer just long enough for the cutback lane to open.
Not today.
As soon as the ball snapped, Royce shot the gap—again. The left guard reached for him, late and desperate. The running back, some second-string freshman now rotated in, never saw it coming.
Royce met him a yard deep in the backfield, arms wrapping just under the pads, feet driving like pistons. The hit wasn’t loud, but it was final. The kind of tackle that made a point more than it made a highlight.
Fourth down.
He stood, no celebration this time. No arm flex. No roar.
Just turned back to the LSU sideline, nodded once.
Let the crowd do the talking.
As he jogged toward the bench, Justin caught up, helmet tilted back, eyes wide. “Man, you in every gap right now.”
Royce just smirked, eyes scanning the field as the Tennessee punt unit shuffled on.
“Then maybe they should stop leaving the fucking door open.”
Behind him, the student section erupted into another round of chants. Cameras followed his walk to the sideline. Coaches clapped. Delpit, up in a private box somewhere, was probably smiling behind dark lenses.
Royce didn’t care about the cameras. Or the draft buzz. Or the scoreboard.
He cared about the hit. The read. The stillness of knowing he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
Again.
…
“Five minutes and change left on the clock, and listen to this crowd—Tiger Stadium still buzzing as LSU leads Tennessee 46 to 14. And here comes the wave from the sideline—Dan Lanning is emptying the bench.”
“This ain’t mop-up duty against a cupcake team, T.J.—this is a top-five Tennessee squad. Number five in the country. And LSU’s putting in the twos, the threes, the walk-ons. That’s domination.”
“You dream about this as a freshman—getting your first snaps in a game like this. Malachi Francis checking in at safety. Collin Hurley at quarterback. Brennan Joseph and Kaleb Griffin coming on at receiver. The future of LSU football taking the field in front of a sold-out Tiger Stadium—with the outcome already decided.”
“Lanning’s message couldn’t be clearer: this isn’t just about this week. This is about depth. About culture. About letting the nation know LSU doesn’t rebuild—they reload.”
“So with five minutes to play and a 32-point lead over the number five team in the country… the Tigers hand the reins to the next generation.”
“Go ahead and log that. LSU didn’t just win tonight—they announced themselves. And they did it so loud, the whole country’s gonna hear it.”
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7811
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Bat the piss out of them boys. This might be the one.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16775
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Mollywhopped if you will