Dying to Live

[Caesar]

Shake Back

[Captain Canada]

His shit gon' be burnin after going to a party with Meech and his people

[Caesar]

His shit gon' be burnin after going to a party with Meech and his people

Now why would you wish such a thing on this man?

[The JZA]

PUT EM ON HIS ASS!

[Caesar]

Party Animals

The night hummed with energy as Royce walked into a party with Alix, a couple of her friends, and a group of his teammates. The celebration had been in full swing long before they arrived, and the off-campus house was packed with bodies moving to the bass-heavy beat of a Kevin Gates track blasting through the speakers. Sweat clung to the air, mingling with the scent of cheap cologne, spilled liquor.

Royce’s phone buzzed in his pocket as they crossed the threshold. He glanced down at the screen.

’Big ups, lil’ bruh. Y’all showed out today. Hood real proud. And you just won the block a bag.’

Royce couldn’t help his stomach churning as he read the message. The mention of money added a weight to Meech’s presence in his life that he wasn’t ready for. He knew what happened to people who affected the money of people like Meech. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and forced a smile, trying to shake off the unease as Dewon handed him a plastic cup of some neon-colored drink.

“Fuck is this?” Royce asked, staring down into the cup.

“Shit, I don’t know. It was in a big ass jug and it tasted alright. Drink up, my nigga. You got a lot to celebrate tonight,” Dewon said, clinking their cups together. “But make sure you go home with your girl because I’m tired of hearing y’all fucking.”

“Get your own bitch and you wouldn’t have to hear nothing,” Royce laughed.

“You the one got sack chasers running behind you,” Dewon shot back.

Royce shrugged, raising the cup to his lips. The first sip burned just enough to distract him from the text from Meech, and by the third, he stopped caring what it was.

…

The party moved around Royce like a blurry carousel. His teammates retold exaggerated version of their game highlights to a small crowd in the kitchen. Alix stood off to the side with her friends, nursing her drink, her eyes flicking to Royce every few minutes as if on instinct.

Royce found himself in the middle of the living room, leaning against a wall as a girl he didn’t recognize slid closer to him. She was pretty in a way that felt deliberate—her hair perfectly curled, her lipstick a sharp crimson that matched her nails. Her voice was syrupy, and her smile too wide as she laid a hand on his arm.

“You were amazing out there today,” she said, eyes gleaming. “You were really laying them out.”

Royce smirked, the buzz from the liquor loosening his usual apprehension about random people approaching him. “Shit. Them niggas were trash.”

“Trash?” she said with a laugh, leaning in closer. “Boy, stop. You’re just better. I’d love to find out what other ways you’re better.”

Her hand lingered on his form before drifting downward to his wrist, where she lightly traced the edge of his watch with her finger. She tilted her head and gave him a coy smile.

“This is nice,” she said, running her nail lightly along the band. “You’ve got taste. A guy who plays hard and looks good doing it? Dangerous combination.”

Royce laughed. He shifted his weight, pulling his arm back slightly, but she just stepped closer.

“Where’d you get it?” she asked, her voice dropping into something softer, more intimate. “Because I know this didn’t come from no mall kiosk.”

“Nah. Got it a couple weeks ago. Thought it’d be a nice upgrade.”

“Well, it suits you,” she said, her fingers now resting lightly on the face of the watch. She looked up at him. “A man like you deserves the finer things.”

Royce felt the heat of her gaze and the growing tension in the slim space between them. He looked around the room and saw Alix watching, her drink lowered, her expression sharp and unreadable.

Alix walked over squeezing in the space between Royce and the girl, Alix’s arm wrapping around Royce’s waist. It was not-so-subtle positioning to force the girl to step back.

“Hey, babe,” she said brightly, her tone polished but firm as she looked up at Royce. Her eyes locked onto the girl’s, and though her smile was polite, her body language was anything but. “You keep touching his watch. Do you like it? I helped him pick it out. I can give you some suggestions if you’re looking for one for your man.”

The girl hesitated, her hand slipping away from Royce’s wrist as she took a further step back. “Yeah, it’s beautiful,” she said, her syrupy tone faltering.

“It is,” Alix agreed, her smile tightening. “Anyway, hate to interrupt, but I need to borrow him for a second.”

“Oh, sure,” the girl said, glancing between Royce and Alix. “I was just—”

“Thanks!” Alix said, her tone clipped but sweet. She turned to step in front of Royce, wrapping her arms around his neck, her back to the girl as she rolled her eyes and walked away.

“Making friends?” she asked, her fingers running along the back of his neck. Her voice was light but edged with steel.

“You the one that offered to help her shop for a watch. It wasn’t even like that though,” Royce said, hooking his arm around hers to bring his drink up to his lips.

She rolled her eyes. “You want to get out of here?”

He looked down at her, noticing the look in her eyes. He nodded. “We gotta go back to yours, though. Dewon and J.J. said you too loud.”

Alix laughed, shaking her head. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

…

Royce lay between Alix’s legs, his head on her stomach and his legs hanging awkwardly off the bed. She ran her fingers across his scalp, the silence of her dorm room a stark contrast to the chaos of the party they’d just left.

“Surprised you didn’t get whiskey dick with how much you drank tonight,” she said, looking down at him. “Also didn’t know that you started drinking like that.”

He sucked his teeth. He stared across the room at her roommate’s stuff, noticing the absurd—to him—number of family pictures she’d put all over the walls. He could swear he saw Romeo’s face, twisted and mangled in one of them. Closing his eyes to shut out the images, he sighed.

His voice was low and unsteady. “This football shit’s a lot.”

“What do you mean?” Alix asked, her brows furrowed. “You’re killing it out there. Like even Marc talks about you and how you’re playing. He doesn’t even really like you if I’m being honest.”

“Why doesn’t he like me?” Royce laughed.

“Because you’ve never done the whole ‘hey, I’m Royce and I’m dating your daughter’ thing. He’s going to miss out on that since he just has Darius.”

“We gotta be dating for me to go meet your parents. I’d be pissed if some random ass nigga came up to me to tell me him and my daughter were just fucking.”

Alix’s fingers stilled momentarily before resuming the lazy back and forth motion through his hair.

“Back to the problem,” she said, her voice a bit colder than she intended. “You’ve been playing football all your life. I don’t understand why it’s suddenly a problem. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be out there in front of all those people. I’d be scared I’d embarrass myself, but I’d feel that whether it was 1,000 or 100,000 people.”

He tilted his head up to look at her. “Because, if I’m on some real shit, I feel like I don’t belong out there. Every fucking play, every fucking snap. I’m in my head thinking I shouldn’t be on that field.”

“Because of the shooting?” she asked, her voice softening.

“Nah,” he muttered. “I mean, yeah, but not like I shouldn’t be here because I should’ve died type shit. I feel like a fraud. Like I’m pretending to be some shit that I’m really not. I just can’t help feeling like I’m replacing Rome even though I’m not trying to.”

Alix placed her hand on his face. “Listen to me. You’re not pretending. You’ve worked for everything you’ve and you deserve to be out on that field. It’s fucking LSU. They wouldn’t put you out there if you weren’t meant to be out there. We’re not talking about a fucking charity.”

“You just saying that shit because I just gave you some good dick,” Royce said, his lips curving into a faint smile.

“I’d say it even if we weren’t… I said it because I meant it,” she said, her voice firm. “If you can’t believe it, I’ll believe it for you until you do.”

Royce looked back at the wall of pictures across the room. “Thanks,” he muttered.

She didn’t respond, just went back to running her fingers through his hair. Moments later, he was asleep, his breathing deep and even.

…

Alix stirred, rubbing at her eyes. She groped around on the nightstand for her phone and tried to sit up, but Royce still lay on top of her. Turning her head, she saw that light from the floodlights outside still streamed through the window and her roommate, Ashlee, was now in her bed, turned toward the wall.

Alix looked down at Royce, noticing the way he clung to her in his sleep, his grip on her sides almost uncomfortably tight.

He looked so small from that angle despite the muscle he’d put on over the last few months.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending this is enough,” she whispered into the quiet room. Her voice breaking slightly, but Royce didn’t stir.

Sighing to herself, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

[Captain Canada]

Damn, Royce really clueless huh

[Caesar]

Helluva Promise

The fluorescent lights of LSU’s testing center buzzed faintly as Royce leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lazily on the edge of the table. He glanced around the room at the other students huddled over the keyboards, steam seeming to rise from their scalps as they tried to draw on whatever knowledge they had to pass whatever test they were tasking.

The bold “C” on his exam glared at him from the computer screen, but he barely blinked. A “C” was fine—good, even. It kept him eligible which was all that mattered—as long as he continued to play the way he was. That story would change if he started to struggle or started to cause problems for the coaching staff.

“Cs get degrees,” he whispered under his breath.

He scrolled through the correct answers almost on instinct. It didn’t matter what he missed. As long as he didn’t miss a tackle that led to a touchdown. Every day proved more to him that anything he did looking at a textbook was just something meant to keep the NCAA from looking into the program.

He exited out of the test, stretched his arms above his head and stood up, heading to the front of the room to retrieve his backpack. As he slung it over his shoulder, he reminded himself that he needed to find someone much smarter than him to do his work for him like he did back in high school. There were undoubtedly no shortage of girls willing to help him out, a little quid pro quo.

Royce shook his head at the thought as he left the building. This part of the quad was quiet, the kind of sterile quiet that made everything sound louder than it was. He was almost at the top of the steps when a familiar voice rang out behind him.

“Royce.”

He kept walking, rolling his eyes before the name had fully registered. He knew that voice too well—sharp, cutting, like it was made to get under his skin. Britni. His pace didn’t slow. Maybe she’d get the hint.

“Royce!” she called again, louder this time, her tone laced with a mix of accusation and amusement.

Royce sighed and turned, his face the picture of indifference. “What the fuck you want?”

Britni stood a few steps away, arms crossed over her chest, her head tilted like she was sizing him up. Her expression was severe, quiet anger in every line. The expression that had been eternally set on her face every time he’d seen her.

“I told your little girlfriend about you,” she said casually. “The real you.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Ain’t got a girlfriend, but even if I did, ain’t nothing you know about that you need to be telling anyone.”

Britni laughed, loud and hollow. “That’s exactly why I told that white girl what she needed to hear that I knew you weren’t telling her. You know, because you’re a damaged person that got Romeo killed.”

“You weren’t fucking there. You keep saying that shit when you were down the bayou at some church nigga shit when the motherfucker you claim to love so much was laying on the street dying,” Royce snapped. “You want to talk about fault? Bitch, you need to look at yourself.”

Her expression faltered, edging on tears, but she quickly recovered. “I don’t know how you can live with yourself. It’s crazy that you walk around here like you do. That’s why I’m going to make sure you don’t risk anyone else’s life by dragging them into your shit.”

“What shit, Britni?” Royce held his hands out and looked around dramatically. “We’re at fucking LSU. I play fucking football. The most shit I’m gonna get into is some motherfucker threatening me on social media because we lose to Alabama. Be for real and get out of that fucking fantasy world you’re in.”

“You’re hood filth, Royce. Just because you live somewhere else doesn’t change that,” Britni shot back.

Royce sucked his teeth. “Hood filth? Auntie Ruckus over here. Don’t worry, bitch, massa gon’ think you’re one of the good ones, mamie.”

Britni’s eyes narrowed. “We can both pretend that you don’t invite bullshit into your life, and we can both pretend that just because you’re on these white people’s football team that you’re somehow changed, but you and I both know none of that changes who you are.”

Royce shrugged, shifting his backpack higher on his shoulder. “You’ve been holding onto this whole ‘tear Royce down’ shit for a while now. Starting to feel a little weird to be real with you. If you want to fuck on some weird shit because I look like Romeo, just say that. You ain’t my type so you’ll have to take a no, but at least we’ll know where we stand.”

Her jaw tightened, her nails digging into her crossed arms. “You’re pathetic, you know that? You’re just a scared little bitch. You know that if you let anyone in, they’re going to leave when they find out who you really are. But you don’t have to worry, I promise that I’m going to make sure people know.”

Royce’s face didn’t change. If her words landed, they didn’t show. He shifted his weight lazily from one foot to the other, glancing over his shoulder toward the rest of the quad. “You done, Nancy Drew?”

Britni let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “That white girl is only bothering with you because she knows that if she waits it out long enough that you’ll start tricking. You won’t make it to the NFL, though. You’ll end up dead, like you killed Romeo, or in jail, like your father, before then. And you’ll just drag her down, probably with some little kid you stuck her with while you’re behind bars.”

“Thanks for the feedback. You want me to bring that to my supervisor or something? Make some changes? You look like a ‘call the manager’ bitch,” Royce laughed.

Britni brushed past him toward the stairs. “Everything you’ve done is going to catch up to you, Royce. Everything you will do will, too. You can’t keep pretending forever. The whole world will know who you are.”

Royce pointed at her, snapping his fingers as if looking for the words. “You keep saying shit like that. You need to find a therapist and find one quick. I heard they got free therapy here. You should go check that out.”

“Fuck you, Royce,” Britni snapped. And with that, she swung open the door to walk into the testing center.

“Hope you fail, bitch.” Royce threw over his shoulder as he turned back down the sidewalk to try to find something to do before his next class.

[Caesar]

Get You Ridin’

“It’s your boy, Big Al the Car Guy. Come holla at me on Airline Highway. Good credit, bad credit, no credit. As long as you can prove you make $2,000 a month on paper, I can get you riding today. Part-time, full-time, SSI, child support, food stamps. You don’t need your mama or your auntie. Just put it on paper. I’m not new to this, I’m true to this. Come holla at me. Tell ‘em, Royce,” the car salesman said, gesturing wildly with his hands.

Royce struggled not to laugh as he recited the line, he’d been given by the dealership’s “social media manager,” “Come down to Millenium Auto Group and get with my guy, Big Al. He’ll have you taking what you want right off the lot.”

“Just like the honey badger, huh?! Big Al the Car Guy, Airline Highway, Millenium Auto Group. Come see your boy.”

…

The check was crisp, fresh from the car dealership’s social media manager. Royce held it between his fingers as he sat in the parking lot. He had half a mind to get back out of his car and try to buy something from Big Al the Car Guy, kicking himself for not suggesting a discount on top of the money.

Five thousand dollars they’d paid him, just for filming a 15-second part of a commercial where he had to say 24 words and posting a few photos on Instagram and tagging the dealership. It was easy money. Stupid easy, almost.

The dealership had him lean against a shiny, black Scatpack with his arms crossed as they snapped the photos. They’d told him to look tough. The tagline they’d cooked up wasn’t subtle or unique, drawing comparisons between Royce and former LSU star Tyrann Mathieu given the headlines Royce was making for the number of turnovers he’d forced so far.

They’d done their research, a surprise for a small used car dealership, but while Royce smiled for the cameras, shook hands and pocketed the check, the whole thing left him feeling like he’d shown up to be someone else.

~~~~~~~~~~

Royce returned to his apartment, a couple bags from the mall ins his hand. The designer logos stamped on the glossy paper bags practically screamed money well spent. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, maneuvering through the narrow hallway to his room, dropping the bags on the floor next to his duffel bag.

“Damn, my guy, you rob someone?” J.J.’s voice came from the living room.

Royce walked out of his room and into the kitchen, leaning on the counter as he sent a couple texts. “Pretty much. Them motherfuckers just gave me five G’s for like thirty minutes of work. Might as well have run off on the plug.”

J.J. whistled as he paused Madden. He leaned back on the couch and shook his head. “Must be fucking nice to be getting them deals. Not having to pay no bills, for no food, nothing and you getting thousands. This is gonna get plenty of young Black men in trouble.”

“Shit, I’ll take it. I’ll have a couple bands to get a good lawyer to get me out of whatever I’m into,” Royce laughed as he went to sit down next to J.J. He picked up a controller and gestured to the screen. “Quit out that shit so I can kick your ass.”

Dewon appeared from the hallway, going into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. He held his phone up and shouted to Royce. “You the Honey Badger now, nigga?”

Royce sucked his teeth as he scrolled through the teams on the screen, settling on the Chiefs. “That’s some shit they wanted to say. I thought it was mad corny, but I’ll let them call me Billy Cannon’s white ass if they gonna pay me for it.”

“This why I’m about to hit the portal,” Dewon said to J.J. “I could be at some MAC school making bank.”

“At a MAC school? Be for fucking real, bruh,” J.J. laughed as he picked the Saints.

“I got a potna at Western Michigan. He got a few hundred bucks already. It ain’t no stupid money, but he’s probably balling in whatever bullshit, podunk town that shit in,” Royce said as he looked at the notifications he’d just gotten.

Dewon sat down in the chair in the living room. “Just make sure that when I get up there, you tell your boy to hook me up so we can all be winning.”

“You could stay your ass here and get on that field, too. You a receiver. Kyren, Chris, all them, they make the shit I’m getting look like some play money,” Royce said, waving him off. “Just don’t do them shootout celes. Stick to the dancing.”

J.J. laughed. “Airing the bitch out is why they be on TV, especially that nigga Kyren. He got the whole country doing that shit.”

“Facts,” Dewon added.

Royce laughed with them before picking up his phone and looking at the comments the Instagram posts were getting. As he stared at the screen, his humor faded. In the back of his head, he could hear Romeo’s voice, low and cutting. It should’ve been me.

He paused the game and stood abruptly. “I’m about to get something to drink. Y’all good?”

J.J. and Dewon both nodded, changing the conversation to something else.

Royce went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from it. He took a quick swig from the bottle before shoving it back inside, getting a bottle of water out instead. The water was cold, but it didn’t help.

The weight of everything pressed down on him. It all felt like a mask he was trying too hard to keep on.

Taking a few steadying breaths, he walked back into the living room and picked up the controller from the table.

“You know you about to get your skunked right?” he asked J.J., his tone humorous.

“Nigga picked the Chiefs and trying to talk shit,” J.J. said to Dewon, pointing at Royce with his thumb. “Fraud ass nigga.”

Royce laughed, but in the back of his head, fraud felt like the right description.

~~~~~~~~~~

Royce strolled into the small grocery store tucked into the same parking lot as his apartment complex. He pulled out one of his AirPods, letting the faint sound of music drift into the background as he grabbed a basket and wandered aimlessly through the aisles.

He didn’t really need anything. Mostly, he just needed to get out of his own head.

Turning a corner, Royce paused when he saw a familiar figure in front of the refrigerated section. Effie was standing there, holding a carton of almond milk in one hand while scanning the labels on a row of yogurts. She was dressed in a simple tank top and jeans, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail.

“I’ve always been a fan of Chobani,” he said as he walked up beside her.

She looked up, her face breaking into a faint smile when she recognized Royce. “Yeah, that’s why you’re in here? To get some yogurt for a late night sweet treat?”

“You caught me. The guys can’t know though,” he said, motioning vaguely in the direction of the apartments outside. “They’ll clown me for weeks if they know I’m not just eating steak and potatoes.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Effie said with a mock conspiratorially tone.

“What are you doing on this side of the campus? You stay over here?”

She shrugged, placing the almond milk and a few yogurts in her basket. “My boyfriend lives in West Campus. I’m just picking up a few things for him while he’s in class.”

Royce leaned on his basket. “Boyfriend huh? And he drinks almond milk and eats yogurt? Sounds like a dude who tells people he has an ‘upset tummy’ all the time.”

She laughed softly, her eyes sparkling. “That’s what people call toxic masculinity, I think.”

“Sounds like you aren’t willing to defend your man,” Royce teased. “You settling for a man who won’t be a provider? Afraid to get his hands dirty?”

Effie shook her head, amused. “Are you trying to say that you’re the type of man who is willing to be a provider? You don’t want a 50/50 girlie?”

“Nah. I’m trying to be a stay-at-home husband to be a hundred with you,” Royce said, his grin widening. “Gotta do something with my time if I don’t end up going to the league, you know? Real domestic type of dude.”

“You don’t strike me as the cooking and cleaning type,” she said, giving him a look that he couldn’t quite place.

Royce glanced down at her basket, his eyes landing on the various goods. He gestured toward the basket. “I didn’t think you were the shop for a man type either and here we are, both being all kinds of surprising.”

“Surprising is one way I’d put it,” she said, a small smirk forming on her lips.

“But now that I’ve run into you a second time, I think you should finally let me get your number,” he said, standing up and stepping around the basket to get a little closer to her. He smiled. “As a friend, of course. You know, since you have a boyfriend.”

Effie gave him a teasing smile. “I told you to find me on IG. I don’t feel like you want it bad enough since you haven’t yet.”

“Why send me on a scavenger hunt when you can just pop your number in my phone and call it a day?” Royce shrugged.

“My yogurt’s going to melt because of you,” she said, but the smile didn’t leave her lips.

He reached into his pocket and held up his phone. “Then, I guess you better hurry up and give me your number, so your boyfriend isn’t drinking that Chobani.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, pulling her basket in front of her and starting to walk down the aisle past him. When they were next to one another, she took the phone from him.

“252325,” Royce said, leaning back on his basket.

Effie glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes before putting the code in to unlock it. She navigated to his contacts and put her number in, handing the phone back so he could click save.

“You don’t have a girlfriend, huh? I don’t want to have any girls sneaking up behind me mid-lecture to choke me out,” she said, her tone playful.

“Nah, I’m committed, love,” Royce said, a grin spreading across her face. “Besides, friends, remember? I don’t break up happy homes.”

Effie rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide her smile. “Bye, Royce.”

“I’ll see you around, Josefina,” Royce called after her as she walked away.

[Caesar]

The Struggle

Malik sat on a worn leather couch in the common room in his dorm at Baylor, his eyes fixed on the muted TV playing highlights from last week’s games. The endless loops of dazzling catches, bone-crushing hits, and game-winning plays moved in slow motion, but none of it featured Baylor. None of it featured him.

He shifted uncomfortably, his phone buzzing in his hand. He need to check to know what it was—another email from one of the companies that had promised him an NIL deal before he committed. He’d already skimmed a few of them that morning. Polite but pointed reminders about performance clauses, subtle hints that if he wasn’t producing on the field—or even on the field—their investment wasn’t justified.

Promises. That’s all they were. The coaches’ words echoed in his head like a bad song on repeat: ”You’ll be in line for a starting role, Malik. We see you as a crucial piece of the secondary.”

Now, weeks into the season, he was barely a blip on the depth chart. Not even garbage time against Tarleton. TARLETON.

He exhaled sharply, gripping his phone together as frustration bubbled to the surface. He opened Instagram and immediately regretted it. His feed was flooded with highlights from other players, guys who were making it—guys like Royce. Meanwhile, he was sitting here on a couch that smelled like stale piss and regret, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.

“Yo, what’s good, Mal?”

The voice startled him, and he glanced up to see Kenny, one of the older DBs, walking into the room and sitting in a chair across from him. Kenny had been around long enough to know how the system worked, and Malik appreciated that he didn’t sugarcoat things.

“Yeah,” Malik lied, tossing his phone onto the scuffed coffee table in front of him.

Kenny ripped open a protein bar and took a bite. “You look like a motherfucker just kicked your dog.”

Malik ran his hand over his face. “Might as well had. Shit wouldn’t get any worse than it feel right now. I’m up here living like a regular ass student. A real live fucking student-athlete. It’s some bullshit.”

Kenny smirked but didn’t respond immediately. He finished chewing, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You just gotta keep grinding until they put you out there on the field.”

Malik shook his head, his jaw tightening. “Man, they ain’t say shit about doing no fucking grinding for a spot before I got here. I heard I’d be getting major PT by week two or three. Motherfuckers ain’t even put me in against an FCS school.”

Kenny nodded, a sympathetic look on his face. “Yeah, that’s rough.”

“Rough?” Malik’s voice rose, his frustration spilling out. He sat forward, his hands gesturing wildly. “It’s fucking bullshit. I ain’t come here to sit on no fucking bench. I could’ve at least gone to a party school if I was going to sit on the sidelines. And don’t even get me started on the NIL shit. They’re acting like I’m the one not showing up. Like I’m the one telling the coaches to not put me in.”

Kenny leaned back, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “You think about saying something to the collective? Like ol’ boy at UNLV.

Malik sighed, leaning back again and crossing his arms. “Yeah, I thought about that shit. But is that going to solve anything? They’re going to tell me to go fuck myself here and hit that portal. Then I definitely ain’t playing for the rest of the season.”

“Dawg, you ain’t playing now,” Kenny pointed out. “What they gonna do? Bench you harder?”

Malik snorted, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, they could have my ass transferring to Colorado School for the Mines or some shit because they’re saying I’m a problem.”

Kenny nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the muted TV. The highlight reel continued, showcasing big plays and bigger names. Malik stared at the screen, his thoughts racing.

“What if it’s because I ain’t good enough?” Malik asked suddenly.

Kenny frowned. “What you mean?”

“Like I might just be trash,” Malik’s jaw tightened as he spoke. “Like maybe they’re seeing some shit, I ain’t. Maybe ain’t it.”

“Man, cut that shit out,” Kenny said, waving his hand at the comments. “You wouldn’t be here if they didn’t think you could contribute at all. A few too many dudes get hurt and now they gotta put you out there. You think they want to put a bum ass motherfucker in like that?”

Malik didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway, his eyes drifting back to the screen. His phone buzzed again, and he glanced down, his frustration mounting as emails about past due class assignments popped up. He swiped them away without reading them.

~~~~~~~~~~

Poochie sat in a dark corner of his dorm room, the only light coming from the glow of his phone screen. The muffled bass of a party thumped somewhere down the hall. But Poochie never went to parties. Why would he? He had nothing to celebrate. Team meetings, position meetings, practice, class. That was his schedule. Nothing in between.

Alabama’s receiver room was stacked—future first-rounders, All-Americans, freak athletes who made ESPN’s Top 10 look routine. Poochie, for all his talent, couldn’t crack the rotation. Every day felt like a cruel joke: the same grind, the same promise of just keep working, your time will come, and the realization that his time might never come. Not at Alabama.

He stared at the incoming call notification that showed up on his phone, Natalie’s name glowing softly.

He knew she’d call eventually, just like she always did, every day, at the same time, but the thought filled him with dread. Natalie was the one person who still reached out. He was always surprised that she hadn’t found her way to someone else by now. Lately, even her concern felt like pressure he couldn’t handle.

Poochie hesitated, staring at the screen as if willing it to stop. When it didn’t, he sighed and swiped to answer. “Hey,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of any energy.

“Hey, babe,” Natalie’s voice soft, almost hesitant. “You sound sad. Are you doing alright?”

“I’m fine,” Poochie said quickly, sharper than he meant to. The words were a reflex, a wall he put up before she could dig too deep.

“Babe, you don’t sound fine,” she said gently. “Talk to me.”

“What’s there to talk about?” he snapped, sitting up straighter and running a hand over his hair. “It’s the same shit every fucking time you call. I’m sitting in my room wondering if I’m going to play. That’s it.”

There was a pause on the line, and Poochie could almost hear her debating what to say next. Her silence only made his frustration grow.

“You have to stop letting it get to you,” she said finally, her tone cautious. “You knew you were going to have put in work to get on the field. It’s not like you’re at—”

“At what? Southern or some shit?” Poochie interrupted, his voice rising. “Either way I’d be a fucking nobody whether I was here or anywhere else. I’m getting tired of pretending that this shit is worth it.”

“Of course it’s worth it, babe,” Natalie said, her voice firm but still kind. “You’ve worked so hard to get to where you are.”

“To do what, Nat? To watch other niggas live out my dream? Fuck, I don’t even watch them because I only go to fucking home games.” He let out a bitter laugh, leaning forward and burying his face in his free hand. “You just don’t get it.”

“Maybe I don’t,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “But I’m trying. I really am.”

“Trying?” Poochie’s head snapped up and his tone turned cutting. “What the fuck you know about trying? Life’s good at LSU ain’t it? Same shit, different place, same city? You don’t know what it’s like to be here, surrounded by all these motherfuckers who are better than you, who get everything handed to them while you bust your ass and still come up short. I can’t even claim it’s because of age because of that young nigga, Ryan.”

“Babe, that’s not fair,” Natalie said sharply, her voice breaking through the tension. “I’ve been here for you through all of this. Don’t act like I don’t care.”

Poochie laughter bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Yeah? Then why the fuck does it feel like I’m going through this alone.”

Another pause, this one longer. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. When Natalie spoke again, her voice was quiet, almost breaking. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Don’t say shit,” Poochie muttered, his voice hard. “I gotta go.”

“Babe—”

He ended the call, the abrupt click of the phone locking filling the void. Tossing the phone onto his bed, he buried his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. His shoulder shook slightly, not with sobs but with the weight of everything he couldn’t put into words.

The room was silent again, save for the faint party noises drifting in from down the hall. The weight in his chest didn’t budge. If anything, it felt heavier.

Poochie lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling as his phone buzzed again with another notification. He didn’t look. The glow of the screen lit up the dark room, but it seemed like the only light was outside, somewhere far from him.

[Caesar]

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