Dying to Live
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7984
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Needed to get back into the win column there
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16996
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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djp73
- Posts: 13249
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
pretty solid season, surprised to see no awards there. we know that system is flawed though
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16996
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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djp73
- Posts: 13249
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
what formation are you usually in?
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7984
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Washed King
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16996
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
4-2-5
They hated on Jesus, too
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16996
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Something Simple
The morning sunlight slipped through the half-closed blinds, falling across Royce’s kitchen counter in long, golden stripes. The apartment was quiet except for the occasional clink of a fork against ceramic and the low hum of the TV in the living room, still tuned to a sports segment from the night before.
Royce sat at the bar counter, hunched slightly, hoodie loose around his frame, legs stretched out and bare except for socks. His plate was half-eaten—bacon cooling beside scrambled eggs and toast left untouched. A shaker bottle sat nearby, its contents long gone.
His eyes were locked on his phone.
“Way-too-early Top 50 Draft Prospects.”
“SEC’s Top Returning Defenders.”
“Royce Lafitte: Future Sunday Name?”
He scrolled. Article after article. Mentions on Twitter. Clips of his bowl game tackles getting replayed with breakdown graphics and enthusiastic commentary.
He should’ve felt good. Instead, it just felt…loud.
He set the phone face-down but didn’t move from his seat.
Then came the sound he didn’t know he’d been waiting for—the soft creak of a door opening. The gentle pad of bare feet.
Alix stepped out of the bedroom wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts—sleeves pushed up, legs bare, hair tied up in a messy bun that somehow looked deliberate. She rubbed one eye and blinked into the light, then spotted him at the counter and smiled.
“Mm,” she said, walking over and sliding between his knees, “you made bacon.”
He didn’t resist when she plucked a piece from his plate and popped it into her mouth.
“Morning,” she mumbled through a grin.
Royce’s hand instinctively went to her waist, steadying her. “Morning.”
“You left me alone in bed.”
“You were knocked out.”
“I was warm.”
“Snoring like you got fucking sleep apnea.”
Alix rolled her eyes and leaned into him, stealing another bite—this time of egg.
“You reading the gospel of Royce Lafitte again?”
He gave her a look. “Don’t start.”
She chuckled. “People are talking. Can’t ignore that.”
Royce shrugged, trying not to shift under the praise. “People just need something to talk about in January.”
Alix leaned her cheek against his, her lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “That doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”
They moved to the living room after breakfast, both in that half-awake state where nothing feels urgent. The TV played in the background, volume low. Alix curled up beside him on the couch, legs over his lap, her fingers absentmindedly tracing lines on his knee.
“You think you’re gonna go pro after this year?” she asked softly.
Royce didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head back against the couch cushion, staring up at the ceiling fan as it spun in slow, deliberate circles.
“Depends,” he said.
“On what?”
He exhaled. “How this season goes. If I stay healthy. Who else going pro. If I ain’t fucking trash.”
Alix shifted, pulling a throw blanket over both of them. “You won’t be.”
Royce didn’t argue. But he didn’t agree either.
They sat like that for a while. Quiet. Safe.
Then Alix said, “What’s spring gonna look like?”
He glanced down at her. “For me?”
“For us,” she clarified, her voice soft but steady.
He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Same as last year. Practice. Film. Lifting.”
She nodded, but he could feel her stiffen just slightly.
“I meant, like... are we gonna get more time together? You know, after last semester and all the—”
Royce cut in gently. “Same as last year. Just… without the bar shit.”
Alix gave a soft hum. Not agreement. Not protest.
Just the sound of someone logging a truth they didn’t want to admit yet.
…
Later that afternoon, Alix was in the bedroom on a Zoom call with one of her professors, and Royce was stretched across the couch, one arm draped over his forehead. The light had changed—sharper now, slicing through the blinds and casting long shadows across the floor.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Kevon – 1 missed call
Royce stared at the screen. It buzzed again.
Then: 1 new voicemail
He didn’t move.
A moment passed. Then the transcript popped up on his screen.
“I saw your name all over ESPN. Finally doing something worth a damn. Don’t start thinking that means you made it. One wrong move and it’s all gone. You hear me? Don’t make me look stupid, boy.”
Royce read it once.
Then again.
Then, slowly, he hit delete.
He didn’t listen to the audio. Didn’t save the number.
Just stared at the empty screen.
His father’s voice was still in his head, even in silence.
Always pushing. Always measuring. Always looking for the crack.
Royce leaned back, fingers pressed against his eyes, trying to keep the pressure out.
From the other room, he heard Alix laugh at something her professor said.
He let the sound settle in the apartment.
Then picked up the remote and turned the volume up just enough to drown out the echo of what he didn’t want to hear.
~~~~~~~~~~
The envelope was still on the bed. Still unopened, even though he’d already slit it open and read the words a hundred times.
Northwestern State University
Michael Williams.
It lay neatly on top of a black backpack, its zipper halfway open to show the truth: stacks of bagged weed, rubber-banded tight. Money. Product. The stuff that kept the lights on and the shoes clean.
Mike sat on the edge of the bed, staring at both like they were speaking two different languages. One promised a quiet town with red brick buildings and Spanish moss. The other had already paid three bills this month.
His hand rubbed across the back of his neck, slow and tense. The hum of the box fan filled the silence. Somewhere outside, a dog barked and the bounce of a basketball echoed off the pavement.
A knock at the door. Then:
“Yo.”
Mike didn’t answer. Just called out, “It’s open.”
Desmond stepped inside, smelling like outside air and Gatorade. He wore a tank top and mesh shorts, holding a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and a Gatorade with the cap already missing. He dropped into the creaky old chair in the corner of the room without asking.
“You good?” Desmond asked.
Mike shrugged.
Desmond followed his line of sight to the envelope. His brow lifted. “That what I think it is?”
Mike didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either.
Desmond got up, walked over, and read it.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Northwestern?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah.”
“That’s way out in Natchitoches, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s like, what, three hours?”
“Three and a half.”
Desmond turned the envelope over, then looked at the bag under it.
“You takin’ it?”
Mike shrugged again. “I don’t know.”
“Laila’s going, right?”
“No. She ain’t apply there.”
“Damn. Y’all gonna do that long distance shit?”
Mike didn’t answer right away. His voice was quiet when he finally said, “Ain’t figured that out.”
Desmond dropped into the chair again, chewing a mouthful of Cheetos. “What’s left to figure out?”
Mike looked at the bag. “That’s rent right there. Groceries. Gas.”
Desmond didn’t say anything. Just let the silence work.
Mike added, “Can’t be out there with no money. Books cost. Ain’t no jobs in Natchitoches. Just trees and church folks.”
Desmond chuckled. “You ain’t wrong. My cousin said they got one Walmart and no Uber.”
Mike cracked a half-smile, but it didn’t last.
“You goin’ or not?” Desmond asked, more serious now.
Mike leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I don’t know if I’m built for that small-town college life. I don’t know if they built for me, either.”
Desmond sat with that, nodding slow.
“But you built for this?” he asked, nudging his chin toward the backpack.
Mike didn’t look at it. Just kept his eyes on the floor.
“Shit’s always gonna be here,” Desmond said. “But that letter? That’s got an expiration date.”
Mike stayed quiet.
Desmond stood up, dusting crumbs off his shorts. “You already know the answer, bro. Just scared to say it.”
He slapped Mike on the shoulder once. “Figure it out.”
Then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Mike sat still.
The envelope didn’t move. Neither did the bag.
But the silence that followed? It said enough.
The morning sunlight slipped through the half-closed blinds, falling across Royce’s kitchen counter in long, golden stripes. The apartment was quiet except for the occasional clink of a fork against ceramic and the low hum of the TV in the living room, still tuned to a sports segment from the night before.
Royce sat at the bar counter, hunched slightly, hoodie loose around his frame, legs stretched out and bare except for socks. His plate was half-eaten—bacon cooling beside scrambled eggs and toast left untouched. A shaker bottle sat nearby, its contents long gone.
His eyes were locked on his phone.
“Way-too-early Top 50 Draft Prospects.”
“SEC’s Top Returning Defenders.”
“Royce Lafitte: Future Sunday Name?”
He scrolled. Article after article. Mentions on Twitter. Clips of his bowl game tackles getting replayed with breakdown graphics and enthusiastic commentary.
He should’ve felt good. Instead, it just felt…loud.
He set the phone face-down but didn’t move from his seat.
Then came the sound he didn’t know he’d been waiting for—the soft creak of a door opening. The gentle pad of bare feet.
Alix stepped out of the bedroom wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts—sleeves pushed up, legs bare, hair tied up in a messy bun that somehow looked deliberate. She rubbed one eye and blinked into the light, then spotted him at the counter and smiled.
“Mm,” she said, walking over and sliding between his knees, “you made bacon.”
He didn’t resist when she plucked a piece from his plate and popped it into her mouth.
“Morning,” she mumbled through a grin.
Royce’s hand instinctively went to her waist, steadying her. “Morning.”
“You left me alone in bed.”
“You were knocked out.”
“I was warm.”
“Snoring like you got fucking sleep apnea.”
Alix rolled her eyes and leaned into him, stealing another bite—this time of egg.
“You reading the gospel of Royce Lafitte again?”
He gave her a look. “Don’t start.”
She chuckled. “People are talking. Can’t ignore that.”
Royce shrugged, trying not to shift under the praise. “People just need something to talk about in January.”
Alix leaned her cheek against his, her lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “That doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”
They moved to the living room after breakfast, both in that half-awake state where nothing feels urgent. The TV played in the background, volume low. Alix curled up beside him on the couch, legs over his lap, her fingers absentmindedly tracing lines on his knee.
“You think you’re gonna go pro after this year?” she asked softly.
Royce didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head back against the couch cushion, staring up at the ceiling fan as it spun in slow, deliberate circles.
“Depends,” he said.
“On what?”
He exhaled. “How this season goes. If I stay healthy. Who else going pro. If I ain’t fucking trash.”
Alix shifted, pulling a throw blanket over both of them. “You won’t be.”
Royce didn’t argue. But he didn’t agree either.
They sat like that for a while. Quiet. Safe.
Then Alix said, “What’s spring gonna look like?”
He glanced down at her. “For me?”
“For us,” she clarified, her voice soft but steady.
He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Same as last year. Practice. Film. Lifting.”
She nodded, but he could feel her stiffen just slightly.
“I meant, like... are we gonna get more time together? You know, after last semester and all the—”
Royce cut in gently. “Same as last year. Just… without the bar shit.”
Alix gave a soft hum. Not agreement. Not protest.
Just the sound of someone logging a truth they didn’t want to admit yet.
…
Later that afternoon, Alix was in the bedroom on a Zoom call with one of her professors, and Royce was stretched across the couch, one arm draped over his forehead. The light had changed—sharper now, slicing through the blinds and casting long shadows across the floor.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Kevon – 1 missed call
Royce stared at the screen. It buzzed again.
Then: 1 new voicemail
He didn’t move.
A moment passed. Then the transcript popped up on his screen.
“I saw your name all over ESPN. Finally doing something worth a damn. Don’t start thinking that means you made it. One wrong move and it’s all gone. You hear me? Don’t make me look stupid, boy.”
Royce read it once.
Then again.
Then, slowly, he hit delete.
He didn’t listen to the audio. Didn’t save the number.
Just stared at the empty screen.
His father’s voice was still in his head, even in silence.
Always pushing. Always measuring. Always looking for the crack.
Royce leaned back, fingers pressed against his eyes, trying to keep the pressure out.
From the other room, he heard Alix laugh at something her professor said.
He let the sound settle in the apartment.
Then picked up the remote and turned the volume up just enough to drown out the echo of what he didn’t want to hear.
~~~~~~~~~~
The envelope was still on the bed. Still unopened, even though he’d already slit it open and read the words a hundred times.
Northwestern State University
Michael Williams.
It lay neatly on top of a black backpack, its zipper halfway open to show the truth: stacks of bagged weed, rubber-banded tight. Money. Product. The stuff that kept the lights on and the shoes clean.
Mike sat on the edge of the bed, staring at both like they were speaking two different languages. One promised a quiet town with red brick buildings and Spanish moss. The other had already paid three bills this month.
His hand rubbed across the back of his neck, slow and tense. The hum of the box fan filled the silence. Somewhere outside, a dog barked and the bounce of a basketball echoed off the pavement.
A knock at the door. Then:
“Yo.”
Mike didn’t answer. Just called out, “It’s open.”
Desmond stepped inside, smelling like outside air and Gatorade. He wore a tank top and mesh shorts, holding a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and a Gatorade with the cap already missing. He dropped into the creaky old chair in the corner of the room without asking.
“You good?” Desmond asked.
Mike shrugged.
Desmond followed his line of sight to the envelope. His brow lifted. “That what I think it is?”
Mike didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either.
Desmond got up, walked over, and read it.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Northwestern?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah.”
“That’s way out in Natchitoches, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s like, what, three hours?”
“Three and a half.”
Desmond turned the envelope over, then looked at the bag under it.
“You takin’ it?”
Mike shrugged again. “I don’t know.”
“Laila’s going, right?”
“No. She ain’t apply there.”
“Damn. Y’all gonna do that long distance shit?”
Mike didn’t answer right away. His voice was quiet when he finally said, “Ain’t figured that out.”
Desmond dropped into the chair again, chewing a mouthful of Cheetos. “What’s left to figure out?”
Mike looked at the bag. “That’s rent right there. Groceries. Gas.”
Desmond didn’t say anything. Just let the silence work.
Mike added, “Can’t be out there with no money. Books cost. Ain’t no jobs in Natchitoches. Just trees and church folks.”
Desmond chuckled. “You ain’t wrong. My cousin said they got one Walmart and no Uber.”
Mike cracked a half-smile, but it didn’t last.
“You goin’ or not?” Desmond asked, more serious now.
Mike leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I don’t know if I’m built for that small-town college life. I don’t know if they built for me, either.”
Desmond sat with that, nodding slow.
“But you built for this?” he asked, nudging his chin toward the backpack.
Mike didn’t look at it. Just kept his eyes on the floor.
“Shit’s always gonna be here,” Desmond said. “But that letter? That’s got an expiration date.”
Mike stayed quiet.
Desmond stood up, dusting crumbs off his shorts. “You already know the answer, bro. Just scared to say it.”
He slapped Mike on the shoulder once. “Figure it out.”
Then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Mike sat still.
The envelope didn’t move. Neither did the bag.
But the silence that followed? It said enough.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16996
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Beyond the Gridiron
Everything in Chance Delpit’s office was designed to impress without announcing itself. The wood was dark and flawless. The glass desk was spotless. The bookshelf behind him was full of books whose spines were straight, unread, but color-coordinated. In the corner, a framed photo of him with a state senator, handshakes and white teeth, next to a second photo of him at Tiger Stadium—sideline access.
Royce sat across from him, trying not to lean too far back in the leather chair. It wasn’t the kind of seat you got comfortable in. It was the kind you were measured in.
Delpit sipped water from a crystal glass with a slice of lemon floating on top. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, never really left Royce.
“You hungry?” Delpit asked.
Royce shook his head. “I’m good.”
“I got gumbo from the food truck down the road. I don’t eat everybody’s, but they know what they doing.”
Royce gave a polite smile. “Appreciate it, but I already ate.”
“You sure? You don’t strike me as the type to turn down good food.”
“I’m trying to cut weight for the spring,” Royce lied, more out of instinct than intention.
Delpit grinned like he knew it. “Cutting weight for coverage snaps or cutting weight to look good in the media day photos?”
Royce chuckled quietly but said nothing.
A moment passed. The city buzzed quietly beyond the windows behind Delpit’s desk—Baton Rouge, slow and sticky even in January. It looked peaceful from up here, like all its problems got smaller the higher you climbed.
Delpit finally set his glass down. “So,” he said. “What do you want to ask me?”
Royce folded his arms. “What is it you actually do?”
Delpit raised an eyebrow. “That’s a big question.”
“Yeah, well…” Royce shrugged. “It’s a big office.”
That got a short laugh. Delpit leaned forward, folding his hands.
“I peddle influence,” he said.
Royce frowned. “That supposed to mean something?”
“It’s supposed to mean everything.”
He said it smooth, like it was a line he’d used before—but not cheaply. Royce leaned in slightly, trying to read him.
“Anybody can make money,” Delpit continued. “You can sell sneakers, sign autographs, take photos with a politician’s kid. But influence?” He tapped the desk gently. “Influence gets people to call you before they vote. Before they fire somebody. Before they write a law that might mess up the life you’re trying to build.”
Royce nodded slowly, processing. “So you… lobby?”
Delpit smiled. “That’s a word white people made to make what I do sound manageable.”
Royce blinked. He wasn’t sure if it was a joke.
“I don’t move bills,” Delpit said. “I move rooms. I connect people. I protect people. And if I believe in somebody—I help them take up space.”
Royce rubbed the back of his neck. “Sounds clean. Still feels vague.”
Delpit laughed again, then stood and walked toward the window. His reflection looked tall and neat against the glass.
“You know the Chicken Shack?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m a distant cousin of the man who opened it.”
Royce looked up.
Delpit nodded. “Should’ve been legacy, right? Black ownership. Community pride. I should be at the family table every holiday.”
“You not?”
“They don’t claim us.”
Royce’s brow furrowed.
Delpit turned, face unreadable. “Too many degrees. Too many rooms they didn’t get invited into. They think I forgot where I come from.”
Royce said nothing.
Delpit crossed back to his desk, sat down, and locked eyes with him again.
“You think football is your answer, Royce?”
“It’s a start.”
“It’s a spotlight,” Delpit corrected. “But it fades. You don’t have ‘fuck you’ money yet.”
Royce smirked. “Working on it.”
Delpit shook his head. “And even if you had it, you won’t have ‘fuck you’ power.”
Royce leaned back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means your name only matters if people decide it does. You still need people to vouch for you. Your coaches. Your teammates. The press. Compliance. Scouts. Boosters. One bad move and you’re the headline they feed to somebody else.”
Royce’s jaw tightened.
“LeBron,” Delpit said. “He doesn’t ask for permission. He built a table. Staffed it with people who look like him. Trained them. Now when he speaks, things shift.”
“And I’m supposed to be LeBron?”
“No. But you’re supposed to stop thinking like Derrius Guice.”
Royce paused. The name lingered in the air like a warning.
Delpit leaned in. “You want to be remembered? Build something bigger than the game.”
He slid a cream-colored card across the desk. Royce picked it up. Heavy stock. Initials stamped in gold. No address. Just a date. Next Thursday. 7 p.m.
“Closed-door dinner,” Delpit said. “People you need to know. People who need to see you before ESPN puts your name in lights.”
Royce stared at the card.
“You coming?”
Royce nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
Delpit stood again, walking him to the door. He opened it, then paused.
“One more thing,” he said, his tone casual but final.
Royce turned.
“Leave the jewelry behind.”
Royce blinked. “Why?”
“Because the people in that room don’t care what shines. They care what stays. And how you move when no one’s watching.”
Royce nodded, pocketed the card, and walked out into the hallway.
He didn’t speak until the elevator doors slid shut behind him.
And even then, all he said was:
“Damn.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The front door opened before Royce could knock.
“’Bout time,” Tyrell said, stepping aside to let him in.
The smell of baked chicken and fresh cornbread hit Royce as soon as he walked through the doorway. The house was warm, lived-in, with a baby gate halfway into the hallway and a folded stroller propped in the corner. He toed off his sneakers, setting them neatly beside Roni’s Crocs.
“Where she at?” Royce asked.
“Kitchen,” Tyrell said. “Feeding the boss.”
Royce followed the low hum of music into the kitchen, where Rana stood with baby Julian in one arm and a spoon in the other, trying to keep mashed sweet potatoes off his chin.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” she said without looking up.
Royce grinned. “Traffic.”
“Uh-huh.”
He kissed her cheek, then glanced down at Julian, who squealed and reached for him with chubby fingers covered in orange mush.
“He yours,” Rana said, handing him over.
Royce took the baby with ease, holding him up on his arm as Julian grabbed at his hoodie strings and tried to stick one in his mouth.
“Chill out, little man,” Royce said, laughing. “This Moncler, my guy. Can’t have your slob all on it.”
Tyrell leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them with a small smile.
From the other room, a voice called out.
“ROYCE!”
He turned just in time to see Roni barreling down the hallway, socks sliding on the hardwood.
“There she go,” he said, bracing himself.
She launched at him like a linebacker, careful not to knock Julian too hard but wrapping her arms tight around Royce’s waist.
“You act like I haven’t been texting you,” she said, muffled into his sweatshirt.
“You know I be busy.”
“You be ignoring me.”
Royce grinned and kissed the top of her head. “What’s good, lil’ sis?”
Roni pulled back, beaming. “I start high school this fall.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is! I’m gonna join choir and maybe track, and something for science.”
Royce made a face. “You excited about wearing plaid skirts and learning geometry from a bunch of white ladies named Mrs. Becky?”
Tyrell snorted.
Roni rolled her eyes. “Rana said it’s a good school, Royce. I got in on scholarship. Don’t act like that’s not a flex.”
“It’s a flex,” Royce admitted. “But you not getting that real hood learning like we did back in Houma.”
She smirked. “I don’t want to dodge fights in the halls. I heard you couldn’t fight anyway.”
“Oh, say less,” Royce laughed. “Okay, so we taking shots today.”
Roni pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and plopped into one of the chairs. Julian babbled in Royce’s arms, waving one tiny hand like he was adding his own two cents.
“You gonna make me another nephew when you get to the league?” Roni asked casually.
Royce choked on a laugh. “Excuse me?”
Rana, still by the sink, shook her head and muttered, “Lord.”
“I’m just saying,” Roni said with a shrug. “You’re like famous now. Feels like the baby mamas gotta be around the corner.”
Royce gave her a long look. “First of all, disrespectful. Second of all, absolutely not. Not if I’m lucky.”
Tyrell chimed in, grinning. “That’s what we all said.”
Royce leaned against the counter, adjusting Julian on his shoulder.
“You been watching the games?” he asked.
Roni nodded. “Every one. I be yelling at the TV like I’m in Tiger Stadium.”
“You better be,” Royce said, voice quieter now.
There was something in the way she looked at him—pride, but also something more. Something like I see you, even when you don’t come around much.
“I’m proud of you,” Roni said, like it wasn’t the first time, but maybe the first time it really landed.
Royce looked away. Not because he didn’t want to hear it, but because sometimes it was easier to look at the baby.
Julian yawned in his arms, head settling on Royce’s chest.
The music in the background shifted to something slow. Old-school R&B. The kind that always played in houses like this when things were still, when love didn’t need to be said out loud every second to be understood.
Royce stood there, surrounded by the only people who knew him before everything. Before ESPN, before that white jersey, before the weight.
He didn’t say much after that.
But he stayed until dinner. And longer.
Because sometimes peace looked like mashed potatoes on your hoodie and a baby breathing slow against your chest.
Everything in Chance Delpit’s office was designed to impress without announcing itself. The wood was dark and flawless. The glass desk was spotless. The bookshelf behind him was full of books whose spines were straight, unread, but color-coordinated. In the corner, a framed photo of him with a state senator, handshakes and white teeth, next to a second photo of him at Tiger Stadium—sideline access.
Royce sat across from him, trying not to lean too far back in the leather chair. It wasn’t the kind of seat you got comfortable in. It was the kind you were measured in.
Delpit sipped water from a crystal glass with a slice of lemon floating on top. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, never really left Royce.
“You hungry?” Delpit asked.
Royce shook his head. “I’m good.”
“I got gumbo from the food truck down the road. I don’t eat everybody’s, but they know what they doing.”
Royce gave a polite smile. “Appreciate it, but I already ate.”
“You sure? You don’t strike me as the type to turn down good food.”
“I’m trying to cut weight for the spring,” Royce lied, more out of instinct than intention.
Delpit grinned like he knew it. “Cutting weight for coverage snaps or cutting weight to look good in the media day photos?”
Royce chuckled quietly but said nothing.
A moment passed. The city buzzed quietly beyond the windows behind Delpit’s desk—Baton Rouge, slow and sticky even in January. It looked peaceful from up here, like all its problems got smaller the higher you climbed.
Delpit finally set his glass down. “So,” he said. “What do you want to ask me?”
Royce folded his arms. “What is it you actually do?”
Delpit raised an eyebrow. “That’s a big question.”
“Yeah, well…” Royce shrugged. “It’s a big office.”
That got a short laugh. Delpit leaned forward, folding his hands.
“I peddle influence,” he said.
Royce frowned. “That supposed to mean something?”
“It’s supposed to mean everything.”
He said it smooth, like it was a line he’d used before—but not cheaply. Royce leaned in slightly, trying to read him.
“Anybody can make money,” Delpit continued. “You can sell sneakers, sign autographs, take photos with a politician’s kid. But influence?” He tapped the desk gently. “Influence gets people to call you before they vote. Before they fire somebody. Before they write a law that might mess up the life you’re trying to build.”
Royce nodded slowly, processing. “So you… lobby?”
Delpit smiled. “That’s a word white people made to make what I do sound manageable.”
Royce blinked. He wasn’t sure if it was a joke.
“I don’t move bills,” Delpit said. “I move rooms. I connect people. I protect people. And if I believe in somebody—I help them take up space.”
Royce rubbed the back of his neck. “Sounds clean. Still feels vague.”
Delpit laughed again, then stood and walked toward the window. His reflection looked tall and neat against the glass.
“You know the Chicken Shack?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m a distant cousin of the man who opened it.”
Royce looked up.
Delpit nodded. “Should’ve been legacy, right? Black ownership. Community pride. I should be at the family table every holiday.”
“You not?”
“They don’t claim us.”
Royce’s brow furrowed.
Delpit turned, face unreadable. “Too many degrees. Too many rooms they didn’t get invited into. They think I forgot where I come from.”
Royce said nothing.
Delpit crossed back to his desk, sat down, and locked eyes with him again.
“You think football is your answer, Royce?”
“It’s a start.”
“It’s a spotlight,” Delpit corrected. “But it fades. You don’t have ‘fuck you’ money yet.”
Royce smirked. “Working on it.”
Delpit shook his head. “And even if you had it, you won’t have ‘fuck you’ power.”
Royce leaned back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means your name only matters if people decide it does. You still need people to vouch for you. Your coaches. Your teammates. The press. Compliance. Scouts. Boosters. One bad move and you’re the headline they feed to somebody else.”
Royce’s jaw tightened.
“LeBron,” Delpit said. “He doesn’t ask for permission. He built a table. Staffed it with people who look like him. Trained them. Now when he speaks, things shift.”
“And I’m supposed to be LeBron?”
“No. But you’re supposed to stop thinking like Derrius Guice.”
Royce paused. The name lingered in the air like a warning.
Delpit leaned in. “You want to be remembered? Build something bigger than the game.”
He slid a cream-colored card across the desk. Royce picked it up. Heavy stock. Initials stamped in gold. No address. Just a date. Next Thursday. 7 p.m.
“Closed-door dinner,” Delpit said. “People you need to know. People who need to see you before ESPN puts your name in lights.”
Royce stared at the card.
“You coming?”
Royce nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
Delpit stood again, walking him to the door. He opened it, then paused.
“One more thing,” he said, his tone casual but final.
Royce turned.
“Leave the jewelry behind.”
Royce blinked. “Why?”
“Because the people in that room don’t care what shines. They care what stays. And how you move when no one’s watching.”
Royce nodded, pocketed the card, and walked out into the hallway.
He didn’t speak until the elevator doors slid shut behind him.
And even then, all he said was:
“Damn.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The front door opened before Royce could knock.
“’Bout time,” Tyrell said, stepping aside to let him in.
The smell of baked chicken and fresh cornbread hit Royce as soon as he walked through the doorway. The house was warm, lived-in, with a baby gate halfway into the hallway and a folded stroller propped in the corner. He toed off his sneakers, setting them neatly beside Roni’s Crocs.
“Where she at?” Royce asked.
“Kitchen,” Tyrell said. “Feeding the boss.”
Royce followed the low hum of music into the kitchen, where Rana stood with baby Julian in one arm and a spoon in the other, trying to keep mashed sweet potatoes off his chin.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” she said without looking up.
Royce grinned. “Traffic.”
“Uh-huh.”
He kissed her cheek, then glanced down at Julian, who squealed and reached for him with chubby fingers covered in orange mush.
“He yours,” Rana said, handing him over.
Royce took the baby with ease, holding him up on his arm as Julian grabbed at his hoodie strings and tried to stick one in his mouth.
“Chill out, little man,” Royce said, laughing. “This Moncler, my guy. Can’t have your slob all on it.”
Tyrell leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them with a small smile.
From the other room, a voice called out.
“ROYCE!”
He turned just in time to see Roni barreling down the hallway, socks sliding on the hardwood.
“There she go,” he said, bracing himself.
She launched at him like a linebacker, careful not to knock Julian too hard but wrapping her arms tight around Royce’s waist.
“You act like I haven’t been texting you,” she said, muffled into his sweatshirt.
“You know I be busy.”
“You be ignoring me.”
Royce grinned and kissed the top of her head. “What’s good, lil’ sis?”
Roni pulled back, beaming. “I start high school this fall.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is! I’m gonna join choir and maybe track, and something for science.”
Royce made a face. “You excited about wearing plaid skirts and learning geometry from a bunch of white ladies named Mrs. Becky?”
Tyrell snorted.
Roni rolled her eyes. “Rana said it’s a good school, Royce. I got in on scholarship. Don’t act like that’s not a flex.”
“It’s a flex,” Royce admitted. “But you not getting that real hood learning like we did back in Houma.”
She smirked. “I don’t want to dodge fights in the halls. I heard you couldn’t fight anyway.”
“Oh, say less,” Royce laughed. “Okay, so we taking shots today.”
Roni pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and plopped into one of the chairs. Julian babbled in Royce’s arms, waving one tiny hand like he was adding his own two cents.
“You gonna make me another nephew when you get to the league?” Roni asked casually.
Royce choked on a laugh. “Excuse me?”
Rana, still by the sink, shook her head and muttered, “Lord.”
“I’m just saying,” Roni said with a shrug. “You’re like famous now. Feels like the baby mamas gotta be around the corner.”
Royce gave her a long look. “First of all, disrespectful. Second of all, absolutely not. Not if I’m lucky.”
Tyrell chimed in, grinning. “That’s what we all said.”
Royce leaned against the counter, adjusting Julian on his shoulder.
“You been watching the games?” he asked.
Roni nodded. “Every one. I be yelling at the TV like I’m in Tiger Stadium.”
“You better be,” Royce said, voice quieter now.
There was something in the way she looked at him—pride, but also something more. Something like I see you, even when you don’t come around much.
“I’m proud of you,” Roni said, like it wasn’t the first time, but maybe the first time it really landed.
Royce looked away. Not because he didn’t want to hear it, but because sometimes it was easier to look at the baby.
Julian yawned in his arms, head settling on Royce’s chest.
The music in the background shifted to something slow. Old-school R&B. The kind that always played in houses like this when things were still, when love didn’t need to be said out loud every second to be understood.
Royce stood there, surrounded by the only people who knew him before everything. Before ESPN, before that white jersey, before the weight.
He didn’t say much after that.
But he stayed until dinner. And longer.
Because sometimes peace looked like mashed potatoes on your hoodie and a baby breathing slow against your chest.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16856
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
son told that fuck nigga to leave his moissanite diamonds at home lmfaooo