Weight of the Moment
Britni stood near the back of the classroom, one hip leaning into a low bookshelf, clipboard angled against her chest like a quiet shield. The room smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and pencil shavings, and the heat kicked softly beneath the windows. Second graders in puffy coats and Velcro shoes wriggled in their seats, half listening, half inventing distractions that made sense only to seven-year-olds.
She wasn’t leading today. Just observing.
Her mentor teacher stood at the board walking through a simple subtraction exercise, her tone smooth, practiced, the kind of steady rhythm that years in a classroom carved deep. Britni wasn’t watching the numbers. She was watching the pauses. The way the teacher shifted her body to redirect focus without raising her voice. The soft “try again” instead of “no.” The patience that lived not in tone but in timing.
She scribbled notes in the margin of her observation sheet:
Pauses after correction. Model mistakes. Use their names often.
And then:
Patience = a muscle. Not a mood.
A boy near the front raised his hand mid-problem.
The teacher glanced back. “You have a question about the math?”
He shook his head earnestly. “No. My dog, Nugget? He chewed through my backpack.”
Britni smiled before she could stop herself.
The teacher chuckled, redirected the class back to the equation, and let the boy talk through Nugget’s crimes for a few seconds longer than she had to. Britni jotted down another note:
Let them tell the story. Even if it’s not the lesson. It still matters.
Lunch in the breakroom was quiet. Just the hum of the vending machine and the steady churn of the coffeemaker. Britni sat in a corner chair, her binder open across her lap, one foot tucked beneath her.
She flipped through her lesson plans—color-coded tabs, sticky notes at every other page, hand-drawn stars over the ones she felt good about.
Tucked into the front pocket of the binder was a photo.
She didn’t pull it out all the way. Just slid it up enough to see his grin.
Romeo.
In a crooked paper crown, frosting on the corner of his mouth, laughing at something just out of frame. It was his birthday—one she’d helped throw in the park a year before he died. She’d made cupcakes and brought those tiny basketball trophies for prizes. He hated how much fun he’d had. Said it was too corny. Grinned the whole time anyway.
The photo’s edges were frayed. The colors had faded.
But Britni didn’t look at it the way she used to.
She didn’t stare long enough to memorize it again. Didn’t press it flat like she was afraid it might disappear. She didn’t need to hold it like it was slipping away.
She just kept it close.
After school, the sun had started dipping, the sky edged with that hazy amber that always made the world feel thinner.
Britni walked out through the side door, tote bag slung over one shoulder, sneakers scuffed from pacing classroom rows. Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket.
Malcolm:
How were the kids?
She didn’t overthink it.
Loud. Messy. Beautiful.
A pause.
Then she typed again.
Dinner later?
His response came back a minute later. A heart emoji.
Simple. Certain.
That night, back in her apartment, Britni lit a candle.
Not a memorial. Not a ritual for the grief. Just… light. The kind that smelled like vanilla and soft pine. The kind that warmed, not mourned.
She curled up on the couch, binder in her lap again, her lesson plan spread out in pencil across the top sheet. Tomorrow’s activity: writing about a person who made them feel seen.
Her fingers drifted down the page and rested there.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t freeze.
She just breathed.
Not because it was easy.
Because she could.
Because she was still here.
Still writing.
Not letting go of Romeo.
But not stuck in that chapter either.
Just turning the page.
One child,
one note,
one soft breath at a time.
Almost there.
~~~~~~~~~~
The hotel room was dim, wrapped in the kind of hush that comes when the world knows not to knock too loudly. The curtains were drawn, a faint sliver of city light spilling through the crease. The TV played low on mute—SportsCenter cycling through the same pre-draft footage, analysts debating linebacker tiers and first-round sleepers. Royce Lafitte’s name flickered along the bottom ticker like a metronome.
He wasn’t watching.
Not really.
He sat on the edge of the bed, black joggers, hoodie sleeves pushed up, his phone loose in one hand. Effie was curled beneath the covers behind him, sleeping soft and deep, one foot half-bare, her breath steady against the quiet.
Royce pulled up a folder in his drive labeled simply:
Old Tape.
He didn’t open the highlights first.
He opened a scan of his Terrebonne playbook—drawn up by a coach who’d only half believed in him and a team that treated him like an afterthought unless Romeo vouched for him. Most of the paper was blurred, but he remembered the calls anyway.
“Ram Buck Slash.”
“Over 2 Stay Spy.”
“Fire Red 9.”
He remembered drawing coverage notes in the margins with a borrowed pen. He remembered Romeo—RB1, golden and fast—teasing him on the ride home, telling him if he wanted to hit somebody, he should do it with his chest.
He flipped next to his U-High folder. Rehab season. Rebirth season. Every clip showed him tighter, leaner, still learning how to trust his knee again. One shot showed him breaking on a screen pass and cracking a running back who thought Royce was slower than he looked.
They never made that mistake twice.
The final folder was labeled:
2027 Title Run.
Delpit had sent him a tight montage. Music under it. Clean cuts. Every hit, every stop, every time Royce called the front and shifted the whole defense just before the snap. It ended with confetti in Houston, arms raised, players swarming Rickie as the scoreboard flashed:
LSU 38 – Georgia 17.
He paused the video before the trophy lift.
Stood up, the bed creaking behind him, and walked into the bathroom.
The light above the mirror flickered, then held. The tile was cold under his feet, the glass fogged just slightly from an earlier shower. He looked at himself—not just at his face, but into it.
Not the version people saw on draft profiles.
The real one.
He leaned forward.
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” he whispered.
He could hear Romeo’s voice, clear and low, from games long past.
Always.
Royce’s voice caught in his throat. Then again, louder:
“Yes, I am.”
A beat.
“Yes, I am.”
He stayed there a moment longer, hand pressed to the edge of the sink.
Then he flicked the light off and padded back to the bed.
Effie had shifted in her sleep, her back now facing him, one leg stretched toward the edge. Her ankle peeked from beneath the blanket, bare and still. He sat back down, slow, and rested his hand on it, thumb brushing absent circles along her skin.
Not for comfort.
Not from nerves.
Just something to tether him. Something real.
The draft was tomorrow.
But his journey?
That had already been written. In Terrebonne. In the U-High rehab room. In Death Valley under lights. In every name he'd carried and every silence he'd outlasted.
He didn’t need a pick number to tell him who he was.
He already knew.
And tomorrow, the world would learn too.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16691
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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djp73
- Posts: 13078
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Good to see Britni moving forward.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16303
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16691
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Getting Our Guy
The green room was cooler than Royce expected.
Not cold. Just sterile. Artificial. It reminded him of a hospital waiting room, if that room had LED lights, cameras in every corner, and a hundred million people watching from the outside. Behind the curtain, the NFL machine was churning—glossy highlight packages, instant suit reactions, shoe closeups, sponsors waiting to tweet. But at his table, the world moved slower. Tighter.
A square of stillness amid all the spectacle.
Royce sat in a charcoal suit, no tie. The sleeves fit just right. Billy had made sure of that. The watch on his wrist caught the edge of the overhead lights and flickered every so often, like a steady metronome.
He didn’t shift. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t fidget.
His posture was calm, but his eyes were sharp—tracking the board with every pick, scanning the stage, watching where the cameras lingered. He wasn’t here to play nervous. He was here to listen.
Effie sat to his right, her hand resting atop his. Her nails were painted a soft gray, almost matching his suit. Her thumb moved in slow, steady strokes across his knuckle—a rhythm meant to ground, not distract.
They hadn’t said much since pick ten.
She just leaned over once, about twenty minutes earlier, and whispered, “You already know where you belong. Let them catch up.”
Across the table, Rana sat stiff-backed, her hand on Roni’s knee, occasionally squeezing it when the TV screen shifted to linebacker prospects. Roni hadn’t stopped bouncing her foot, even though she tried. She wore a black on black Saints hoodie—an oversized one that hung past her waist. “I’m manifesting,” she’d said that morning, grinning through a Pop-Tart.
Tyrell sat beside them, relaxed in posture, but Royce could see the focus in his jaw. The way he nodded after every pick, like he was ticking off a list. Mike and Arianna had flanked the far side of the table, with Toni nestled between them. Mike had one AirPod in, pretending not to be nervous. Arianna kept typing things into her Notes app like it was helping her breathe. Toni just smiled every time someone said Royce’s name onscreen.
And they had said it.
A lot.
“Linebacker depth in this class starts with Lafitte.”
“Royce Lafitte—instinctive, polished, violent.”
“Character kid. Overcomer. Champion.”
But every time his name came up, the draft rolled on.
Pick eleven.
Pick twelve.
Pick thirteen.
Each one brought another flicker of tension. Not panic. Not yet. But that slow build of expectation: if not now… when?
Then—
His phone lit up.
Philadelphia area code.
The noise in the green room didn’t change immediately. The stage lights didn’t flicker. No music played.
But the whole table shifted.
Royce blinked once. Picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
His voice didn’t waver. He nodded slowly, listening, one hand bracing against the table.
“Yes, sir,” he said after a beat. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not big, not showy. Just truthful. “I’m ready. You won’t regret it.”
He set the phone down.
And just then—
The TV switched.
The broadcast desk cut to the commissioner’s podium. Graphics sliding onto the screen.
“We have a trade.”
Mike’s eyes widened. Roni grabbed Rana’s wrist.
“The Philadelphia Eagles and New Orleans Saints have…”
“Philadelphia is now on the clock…”
Effie inhaled sharply.
Minutes later.
“…and with the 14th pick in the 2028 NFL Draft…”
Royce stood. Calm. Cap still on the table.
“…the Philadelphia Eagles select: Royce Lafitte. Linebacker. LSU.”
The green room erupted.
Roni leapt to her feet. Rana cried and laughed at the same time. Arianna grabbed Mike by the sleeve and shook him, and he yelled something incoherent that didn’t matter except it was joy. Tyrell stood and clapped once, then just nodded like he’d known all along.
Toni? Toni didn’t move.
She just smiled. Full. Quiet. Certain.
Effie stood beside Royce, her hand brushing his back, and he turned just enough to press his forehead briefly to hers. She was already crying. Silently.
No cameras caught it.
That part was just for them.
A stagehand appeared at his elbow. “Ready?”
Royce nodded.
He picked up the black-and-kelly-green cap and turned it over once in his hands. The underside of the brim read Fly Eagles Fly. He placed it on his head, adjusting it just slightly.
Then his phone buzzed again.
One new message.
Delpit: Told you.
Royce smiled.
Not wide.
But real.
He looked around the table once more—at every piece of his story sitting there with him. Effie. Rana. Roni. Tyrell. Arianna. Mike. Toni. All the silence. All the noise. All the grief and growth and grit that had brought him here.
This wasn’t the end of the story.
This was the leap.
And Royce Lafitte was ready to fly.
The green room was cooler than Royce expected.
Not cold. Just sterile. Artificial. It reminded him of a hospital waiting room, if that room had LED lights, cameras in every corner, and a hundred million people watching from the outside. Behind the curtain, the NFL machine was churning—glossy highlight packages, instant suit reactions, shoe closeups, sponsors waiting to tweet. But at his table, the world moved slower. Tighter.
A square of stillness amid all the spectacle.
Royce sat in a charcoal suit, no tie. The sleeves fit just right. Billy had made sure of that. The watch on his wrist caught the edge of the overhead lights and flickered every so often, like a steady metronome.
He didn’t shift. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t fidget.
His posture was calm, but his eyes were sharp—tracking the board with every pick, scanning the stage, watching where the cameras lingered. He wasn’t here to play nervous. He was here to listen.
Effie sat to his right, her hand resting atop his. Her nails were painted a soft gray, almost matching his suit. Her thumb moved in slow, steady strokes across his knuckle—a rhythm meant to ground, not distract.
They hadn’t said much since pick ten.
She just leaned over once, about twenty minutes earlier, and whispered, “You already know where you belong. Let them catch up.”
Across the table, Rana sat stiff-backed, her hand on Roni’s knee, occasionally squeezing it when the TV screen shifted to linebacker prospects. Roni hadn’t stopped bouncing her foot, even though she tried. She wore a black on black Saints hoodie—an oversized one that hung past her waist. “I’m manifesting,” she’d said that morning, grinning through a Pop-Tart.
Tyrell sat beside them, relaxed in posture, but Royce could see the focus in his jaw. The way he nodded after every pick, like he was ticking off a list. Mike and Arianna had flanked the far side of the table, with Toni nestled between them. Mike had one AirPod in, pretending not to be nervous. Arianna kept typing things into her Notes app like it was helping her breathe. Toni just smiled every time someone said Royce’s name onscreen.
And they had said it.
A lot.
“Linebacker depth in this class starts with Lafitte.”
“Royce Lafitte—instinctive, polished, violent.”
“Character kid. Overcomer. Champion.”
But every time his name came up, the draft rolled on.
Pick eleven.
Pick twelve.
Pick thirteen.
Each one brought another flicker of tension. Not panic. Not yet. But that slow build of expectation: if not now… when?
Then—
His phone lit up.
Philadelphia area code.
The noise in the green room didn’t change immediately. The stage lights didn’t flicker. No music played.
But the whole table shifted.
Royce blinked once. Picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
His voice didn’t waver. He nodded slowly, listening, one hand bracing against the table.
“Yes, sir,” he said after a beat. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not big, not showy. Just truthful. “I’m ready. You won’t regret it.”
He set the phone down.
And just then—
The TV switched.
The broadcast desk cut to the commissioner’s podium. Graphics sliding onto the screen.
“We have a trade.”
Mike’s eyes widened. Roni grabbed Rana’s wrist.
“The Philadelphia Eagles and New Orleans Saints have…”
“Philadelphia is now on the clock…”
Effie inhaled sharply.
Minutes later.
“…and with the 14th pick in the 2028 NFL Draft…”
Royce stood. Calm. Cap still on the table.
“…the Philadelphia Eagles select: Royce Lafitte. Linebacker. LSU.”
The green room erupted.
Roni leapt to her feet. Rana cried and laughed at the same time. Arianna grabbed Mike by the sleeve and shook him, and he yelled something incoherent that didn’t matter except it was joy. Tyrell stood and clapped once, then just nodded like he’d known all along.
Toni? Toni didn’t move.
She just smiled. Full. Quiet. Certain.
Effie stood beside Royce, her hand brushing his back, and he turned just enough to press his forehead briefly to hers. She was already crying. Silently.
No cameras caught it.
That part was just for them.
A stagehand appeared at his elbow. “Ready?”
Royce nodded.
He picked up the black-and-kelly-green cap and turned it over once in his hands. The underside of the brim read Fly Eagles Fly. He placed it on his head, adjusting it just slightly.
Then his phone buzzed again.
One new message.
Delpit: Told you.
Royce smiled.
Not wide.
But real.
He looked around the table once more—at every piece of his story sitting there with him. Effie. Rana. Roni. Tyrell. Arianna. Mike. Toni. All the silence. All the noise. All the grief and growth and grit that had brought him here.
This wasn’t the end of the story.
This was the leap.
And Royce Lafitte was ready to fly.
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djp73
- Posts: 13078
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
hate the eagles but glad to see Royce made it!
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16691
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
You Died So I Could Live
The drive was long and flat, the kind of stretch Royce could’ve driven with his eyes closed.
The sun hung low behind them, casting a soft orange along the edges of the road, shadows of telephone poles slicing across the hood of the rental car every few seconds. He hadn’t said much since they left Baton Rouge. Just drummed his fingers against the wheel to the beat of whatever played low through the speakers—something slow, something old. A little brass in it. The kind of song his uncle used to hum before he got too tired to carry the notes all the way through.
Effie was asleep in the passenger seat. Her face turned slightly toward the window, mouth parted just enough to show she was fully out. She’d caught a red-eye to meet him in Louisiana after his whirlwind of flights—Philly, then back south. Her curls were tied up messily, one hand curled beneath her cheek, the other resting in her lap.
Royce glanced at her briefly.
Even now, when it was quiet, when no one was asking him what it felt like to go top-15, when there were no lights or suits or microphones, she was still here. Still his. That meant more than any damn media day.
He turned off the highway and into the streets of his old neighborhood in Houma.
The tires thudded over seams in the road, and even though the houses were mostly the same—same chain link fences, same sun-warped porches—everything looked smaller now. The trees weren’t as tall as he remembered. The buildings leaned a little more.
Effie stirred as he slowed the car to a stop near the end of a narrow block. Her eyes opened slow, still heavy with sleep.
“You good?” she asked, voice low, rough with travel.
Royce nodded toward the pavement just outside her window.
“That’s where he died,” he said.
She didn’t ask who. She didn’t need to.
Royce’s voice was quiet but even. “And where I died.”
Effie unbuckled slowly and leaned over, wrapping her arms around him. It wasn’t dramatic. Just real. One hand pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, her forehead resting against the side of his neck.
They didn’t sit there long. Just long enough for the moment to settle into the air between them.
Then she let go.
And he drove on.
…
The graveyard sat behind the old church, tucked between a row of oaks and the bayou that ran like a quiet wound through the edge of town. The sky had turned pale gray by the time they pulled in. Evening was close.
Royce didn’t wait.
He walked through the gate and up the narrow dirt path without needing to look. Effie followed behind but stayed back once they reached the Lafitte plot.
He stood for a second, then knelt down in front of the grave.
Romeo Lafitte
2004–2022
Beloved son. Brother. Forever running.
There were a few old flowers laid there—probably from Roni or someone from the neighborhood who still remembered. The stone was clean. Royce ran his fingers lightly over the edge of it, brushing away a few dry leaves.
Then he laughed once, quiet and low.
“I made it, Rome,” he said. “All the way to the NFL.”
He shook his head, breath catching at the corner of his mouth. “That’s some fucking crazy shit, huh?”
The wind moved through the trees above, brushing against the branches like a hand sliding over piano keys.
Royce stayed kneeling. Not because he couldn’t stand.
Because he didn’t want to rush it.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his Eagles draft cap. Held it for a second. Then placed it at the foot of the grave, brim facing forward.
He didn’t need to say anything else.
Romeo would’ve known.
The scoreboard was different now.
But the game?
Still the same.
~~~~~~~~~~
August 2016
The asphalt shimmered under the late summer sun, wavy with heat and the smell of old rubber and spilled soda. The street was quiet except for the steady thump-thump of a ball being bounced against the cracked pavement and the rhythmic slap of sneaker soles on concrete.
Royce and Romeo were sweaty, shirtless, scrappy. They’d been playing for almost an hour, pausing only when a car rolled by or when one of them went limping from a stubbed toe or scraped elbow. Neither had any plans to stop.
Royce gripped the slightly deflated football with both hands, spinning it once on his fingertips like he’d seen quarterbacks do on ESPN. "I’m Mike Vick," he said, eyes narrow, voice full of challenge.
Romeo scoffed. “Man, you was Vick last game.”
“Nuh uh. You said you was Marshawn, remember? Beast Mode.”
“I said I was Marshawn, but I played like Reggie Bush.”
Royce shot back, “Reggie don’t fumble four times.”
Romeo smirked and didn’t bite. He bounced once on the balls of his feet and took the ball from Royce’s hands without asking.
“Fine,” he said, taking a few steps back and cradling the ball against his chest like it was something sacred. “I’m Rome Lafitte. Starting running back for the Saints. Number twenty-eight.”
Royce blinked, then grinned. “That ain’t even a real person.”
“Gon’ be,” Romeo said, and then took off sprinting barefoot down the street, jersey rag flapping over one shoulder, weaving past an empty trash can like it was a linebacker. “Rome Lafitte, touchdown! In the Dome, baby!”
His voice echoed between the shotgun houses, sweet and full of everything he hadn’t yet lost.
Royce jogged to the edge of the street but stopped short. Let him have it.
Then, from inside the house, Reg’s voice rang out, low and impatient. “Rome! Come look at this, man!”
Romeo skidded to a stop and turned, panting, eyes shining. “I’ll be back. Don’t start without me.”
He darted toward the porch, bounding up the steps two at a time.
Royce stood still in the middle of the street for a moment, then walked to the curb and sat down slowly. The concrete was hot under his thighs. He placed the ball between his feet, toes pinching it steady, and gave it a spin.
It wobbled a little before settling.
He didn’t look up.
Didn’t call after his brother.
Just muttered to himself, quiet and sure, like a promise whispered in a church pew.
“I’m gonna be in the NFL, too.”
He said it again, under his breath.
Not loud.
Not for Romeo.
Just for him.
The drive was long and flat, the kind of stretch Royce could’ve driven with his eyes closed.
The sun hung low behind them, casting a soft orange along the edges of the road, shadows of telephone poles slicing across the hood of the rental car every few seconds. He hadn’t said much since they left Baton Rouge. Just drummed his fingers against the wheel to the beat of whatever played low through the speakers—something slow, something old. A little brass in it. The kind of song his uncle used to hum before he got too tired to carry the notes all the way through.
Effie was asleep in the passenger seat. Her face turned slightly toward the window, mouth parted just enough to show she was fully out. She’d caught a red-eye to meet him in Louisiana after his whirlwind of flights—Philly, then back south. Her curls were tied up messily, one hand curled beneath her cheek, the other resting in her lap.
Royce glanced at her briefly.
Even now, when it was quiet, when no one was asking him what it felt like to go top-15, when there were no lights or suits or microphones, she was still here. Still his. That meant more than any damn media day.
He turned off the highway and into the streets of his old neighborhood in Houma.
The tires thudded over seams in the road, and even though the houses were mostly the same—same chain link fences, same sun-warped porches—everything looked smaller now. The trees weren’t as tall as he remembered. The buildings leaned a little more.
Effie stirred as he slowed the car to a stop near the end of a narrow block. Her eyes opened slow, still heavy with sleep.
“You good?” she asked, voice low, rough with travel.
Royce nodded toward the pavement just outside her window.
“That’s where he died,” he said.
She didn’t ask who. She didn’t need to.
Royce’s voice was quiet but even. “And where I died.”
Effie unbuckled slowly and leaned over, wrapping her arms around him. It wasn’t dramatic. Just real. One hand pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, her forehead resting against the side of his neck.
They didn’t sit there long. Just long enough for the moment to settle into the air between them.
Then she let go.
And he drove on.
…
The graveyard sat behind the old church, tucked between a row of oaks and the bayou that ran like a quiet wound through the edge of town. The sky had turned pale gray by the time they pulled in. Evening was close.
Royce didn’t wait.
He walked through the gate and up the narrow dirt path without needing to look. Effie followed behind but stayed back once they reached the Lafitte plot.
He stood for a second, then knelt down in front of the grave.
Romeo Lafitte
2004–2022
Beloved son. Brother. Forever running.
There were a few old flowers laid there—probably from Roni or someone from the neighborhood who still remembered. The stone was clean. Royce ran his fingers lightly over the edge of it, brushing away a few dry leaves.
Then he laughed once, quiet and low.
“I made it, Rome,” he said. “All the way to the NFL.”
He shook his head, breath catching at the corner of his mouth. “That’s some fucking crazy shit, huh?”
The wind moved through the trees above, brushing against the branches like a hand sliding over piano keys.
Royce stayed kneeling. Not because he couldn’t stand.
Because he didn’t want to rush it.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his Eagles draft cap. Held it for a second. Then placed it at the foot of the grave, brim facing forward.
He didn’t need to say anything else.
Romeo would’ve known.
The scoreboard was different now.
But the game?
Still the same.
~~~~~~~~~~
August 2016
The asphalt shimmered under the late summer sun, wavy with heat and the smell of old rubber and spilled soda. The street was quiet except for the steady thump-thump of a ball being bounced against the cracked pavement and the rhythmic slap of sneaker soles on concrete.
Royce and Romeo were sweaty, shirtless, scrappy. They’d been playing for almost an hour, pausing only when a car rolled by or when one of them went limping from a stubbed toe or scraped elbow. Neither had any plans to stop.
Royce gripped the slightly deflated football with both hands, spinning it once on his fingertips like he’d seen quarterbacks do on ESPN. "I’m Mike Vick," he said, eyes narrow, voice full of challenge.
Romeo scoffed. “Man, you was Vick last game.”
“Nuh uh. You said you was Marshawn, remember? Beast Mode.”
“I said I was Marshawn, but I played like Reggie Bush.”
Royce shot back, “Reggie don’t fumble four times.”
Romeo smirked and didn’t bite. He bounced once on the balls of his feet and took the ball from Royce’s hands without asking.
“Fine,” he said, taking a few steps back and cradling the ball against his chest like it was something sacred. “I’m Rome Lafitte. Starting running back for the Saints. Number twenty-eight.”
Royce blinked, then grinned. “That ain’t even a real person.”
“Gon’ be,” Romeo said, and then took off sprinting barefoot down the street, jersey rag flapping over one shoulder, weaving past an empty trash can like it was a linebacker. “Rome Lafitte, touchdown! In the Dome, baby!”
His voice echoed between the shotgun houses, sweet and full of everything he hadn’t yet lost.
Royce jogged to the edge of the street but stopped short. Let him have it.
Then, from inside the house, Reg’s voice rang out, low and impatient. “Rome! Come look at this, man!”
Romeo skidded to a stop and turned, panting, eyes shining. “I’ll be back. Don’t start without me.”
He darted toward the porch, bounding up the steps two at a time.
Royce stood still in the middle of the street for a moment, then walked to the curb and sat down slowly. The concrete was hot under his thighs. He placed the ball between his feet, toes pinching it steady, and gave it a spin.
It wobbled a little before settling.
He didn’t look up.
Didn’t call after his brother.
Just muttered to himself, quiet and sure, like a promise whispered in a church pew.
“I’m gonna be in the NFL, too.”
He said it again, under his breath.
Not loud.
Not for Romeo.
Just for him.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7716
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
I go away for one weekend and this dude just runs through the ending. Goddamn..
Anyways, salute. That was a fun one.
Anyways, salute. That was a fun one.
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djp73
- Posts: 13078
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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Soapy
- Posts: 16303
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
