Chapter 21
ROMAN
T here’s no amount of cold showers, deep breaths, or long runs that can undo what I did last night.
I wake up on the sofa with a crick in my neck, the sour taste of whiskey in my mouth, and a rage that hasn’t dulled a single fucking inch. The living room is dark, except for the glow from my phone screen. I can’t even count how many notifications there are.
Fucking hell.
There’s a video of me kicking the shit out of the man who kissed my wife.
Obviously, it’s going viral.
There’s a still from it—me, snarling like a madman, fist cocked mid-air, blood on my shirt. Adam’s face half-turned, Ava’s red dress in the background as she tries to pull me off him.
That damn dress.
My phone is a minefield. Texts from my agent, team management, PR reps, teammates.
What the hell?!
You have to apologize.
You need to disappear for a while.
There’s no way to spin this. A married NFL quarterback attacking a surgeon in the middle of the street over his wife?
It’s not just bad PR—it’s the kind of thing that sticks to your name forever.
As if it wasn’t bad enough with the cheating, although somehow, my team managed to handle that better than I expected.
But this?
I run a hand over my face. The sting in my knuckles reminds me that this isn’t just a nightmare. I really did it. I finally lost my shit.
The door to the kitchen opens. Ava walks in, hair pinned up, robe tight around her. She doesn’t even glance my way as she sets down a folder on the hall table.
I already know what it is.
The divorce papers.
My heart doesn’t just drop—it plummets. I’m rooted to the sofa, watching her pour coffee like it’s any other morning. Like our marriage isn’t lying in fucking tatters around us.
"You should check your email," she remarks without looking at me.
"Okay,” I whisper, unable to say anything more.
She nods and walks back upstairs, like she didn’t just hand me the end of us in a manila folder.
I pick it up anyway. Flip it open.
Her name, signed in that neat script with my surname that she’s trying to shake off. My name is left blank.
She’s really doing this.
I grab my phone. The first missed call is from Mitch, my agent. I call him back.
"Jesus Christ , Roman," he answers on the first ring. "You couldn't just sit on your hands? You had to throw a punch at a surgeon ? In front of a fucking restaurant with security cameras?"
"I know. What’s the damage?"
"You’re suspended. Two games. No pay. The league’s investigating, but it’s a soft call. You’re lucky the guy isn’t pressing charges. Yet."
I close my eyes. The ceiling feels like it’s pressing down on me.
"And the endorsements?"
"Gone. That Nike deal? Toast. Vitamin line? Dropped you this morning. Even the local fucking car dealership backed out."
I listen as he continues because there’s more—of course, there’s fucking more.
This is it.
My name is being dragged through the mud. My reputation is in flames. The league publicly condemned the behaviour, calling it "deeply disappointing conduct from someone expected to lead."
I’m not a leader anymore.
I’m the guy who couldn’t keep his temper in check. Who lost his wife, his family, his whole goddamn world because he didn’t know how to be grateful for what he had.
I don’t even have the energy to cry.
By mid-afternoon, every news site has the footage. Fans have turned on me—even the loyal ones.
Ava doesn’t speak to me. I hear her voice through the walls, laughing softly on a call with Amanda, her voice more alive than it’s been in weeks. Poppy’s staying another night. Ava says she wants her kept out of the media storm that surrounds us.
I want to thank her for that, but I can’t bring myself to speak.
I sit at the kitchen table and stare at the papers again.
She really signed them.
I don’t know if she still loves me, or if she’s doing this to punish me, or if she’s really done.
What I do know is that I pushed her to this point.
I did this.
That evening, my phone buzzes. A notification from a gossip blog:
"NFL's Roman Muller seen assaulting top surgeon over wife—Inside the love triangle that ruined his career."
There are pictures of me and Ava in better days—red carpet events, vacation candids, her holding Poppy on her hip as I grin beside them like I actually deserved that kind of happiness.
Then the images shift to ones of me in bed with Annie. My stomach churns—what was I fucking thinking? Then images appear of last night. Me unhinged, grabbing Adam. Me throwing punches like some fucking boxer in a ring instead of on a street beside his wife.
I close the phone and toss it across the room. It cracks against the wall.
Good.
Let it shatter.
Everything is shattered, and it's all my fault.
I shower and get dressed like some kind of a robot. I stare at the folder again. My pen hovers over the signature line.
I can’t do it.
I stride to the door of her room and knock.
No answer.
I open it slowly.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling on her phone. She looks up, sees me, and her face hardens.
"What?"
"I won’t sign them."
"Roman—"
"Not yet. Not until I do what I said I would."
She laughs, bitter and tired. "What, fight every man I look at?"
"No," I say quietly. "Prove to you that I can lose everything and still want only you."
Her eyes narrow. "You already did lose everything. What’s left?"
"My love for you."
She says nothing.
"Let me earn this. Let me fight the right way. Let me fight for us."
She shakes her head. "Roman, there isn’t an us anymore."
I can’t fucking stand it.
Tears prick my eyes as I fall to my knees in front of her, my hands clasping hers and holding so tight she can’t pull away. A sob leaves my throat as I insist, "There is. I just fucking ruined it. Now let me get us back. Please , Ava. I’m on my knees, fucking begging you."
She closes her eyes. “Just go, Roman.”
I stare at her through blurry vision, gritting my teeth as I shake my head. “No. I fucking love you, Ava Muller, and I know I fucked up. If I could take it back, I would, but I can’t, and I’m a stupid fucking prick for ever looking at anyone but you. I’m so, so, fucking sorry.”
“Roman—”
“Don’t end us. Please. I’ll do anything.”
She stares at me, her eyes still cold, but something in her expression changes.
“Did Kieron or Adam make you feel like I do?” I can’t help but ask her, and she looks away, giving me a tiny flicker of hope. “I can still make you feel like a queen, Ava. Look at me.”
She takes her time, her jaw set as she moves her head back toward me.
“I’ll do anything,” I tell her again. “Just please, no more men. I can’t…” I bow my head, tears flowing as I weep at her feet. Because this is what I deserve. “I can’t, Ava.”
She says nothing, but at least she doesn’t shove me away.
That’s got to mean something, right?