Chapter 19
Taylor
My eyes struggle open, making my head pound in response to the light creeping through the cracks in the curtains.
Groaning, I shift on Mike's couch, which feels about as soft as concrete for my oversized frame.
The fabric of my clothes clings to my skin from the unknown number of hours spent marinating in a drunken stupor.
"Ugh," escapes my lips, half-groan, half-sigh. My hand presses against my forehead while my legs dangle over the edge of the couch like an overgrown plant. I sit up with effort as the room tilts dangerously. Taking a steadying breath, I will my stomach to keep its contents to itself.
The living room looks like the remnants of a battlefield from the night before—solo cups standing at attention on every surface, pizza boxes flung open and scattered around.
My phone is face down on the coffee table.
So, I snatch it up, thumbing the screen alive to check for any signs of life beyond this hangover.
I stand, but my limbs are heavy and uncooperative as I survey the scene.
There's something about the stale air laced with the ghost of cheap beer and sweat that makes me feel hollow.
Is this really it? Is this what life after football looks like?
This endless cycle of trying to fill the void where the roar of the stadium used to live?
Dragging a hand down my face, I wince at the thought, and a pang of regret stabs at my chest.
I’m disgusted with myself and just need to get out of here.
My clothes are a wrinkled mess, sticking to my skin in places I'd rather not think about.
It's a far cry from the crisp uniforms and adrenaline-fueled glory days on the field.
Those days are numbered; I can feel it in my bones as clearly as the headache behind my eyes.
I need something more. I need purpose. Maybe I need... her. Harper. With that thought, I realize that if there's any part of my old life worth salvaging, it's the love that I've been too blind to see was right in front of me all along.
It’s time to clean up this mess, but it's not just the living room that needs tidying—it's my whole damn life.
I shove my phone in my pocket. Fragmented memories from last night start to piece together, jagged edges and all.
The game that we lost badly, where I played like shit, the clinking of shots at Mickey's, the roar of a crowd that used to chant my name, the buzz of my phone as I fired off that text to Harper.
God, what did I do?
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes as if I could physically block out the recollection. The screen's glow in the dark, my thumbs stumbling over a breakup text that had no business being sent. The words "It's over" flash in my mind, making me feel sick to my stomach.
Guilt is a bitter pill, lodging itself in my throat. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. Not with her. She deserved face-to-face honesty, not some cowardly message sent from the shadows of a pub.
My mind races, tripping over itself. She’s proven that she’d stand by me when any sane person would've walked away? I know that she’d be the one to always pull me back from the edge with nothing but a look or a gentle word.
How could I just disregard a sweet soul like that?
By taking for granted the one person who saw Taylor Wright, the man, and not Taylor Wright, the fading football star.
Damn it!
I need to make this right. It's not just about wanting her back; it's about respecting her enough to fix what I broke. No grand gestures or empty promises—just the raw, unvarnished truth.
It’s time to own up. There's a long road ahead, paved with tough conversations and even tougher realizations.
My face contorts. I need a plan. It needs to be solid, something that shows Harper I'm done being the guy who takes her for granted. Flowers? No, too cliché. A serenade under her window? I scoff at the thought; this isn't an eighties rom-com.
I rake my hands through my hair. She deserves sincerity, not some grandiose display meant more for onlookers than for her. Maybe it's the simple things—acknowledging her dreams, supporting her desires, listening. Really listening.
I pat down my pockets, checking for my wallet and keys. They're there, thank God. The last thing I need is another hurdle. I make my way to the door, each step heavy but deliberate.
As I reach for the knob, I pause, taking a deep breath. My heart hammers against my ribs, fueled by a mixture of dread and urgency because, without Harper, what's the point?