Chapter 25
ROMAN
T he house is quiet in a way that makes my skin crawl.
It’s not peaceful—it’s just hollow, like its soul has been scooped out and left to rot on the sidewalk.
I haven't slept in my bed in three weeks now. The living room couch has become my bed, because what point is there in going to bed if I know I won’t sleep?
I don't know what time it is, and I don't really give a shit. Morning, probably, judging by the light creeping through the windows. I haven't checked my phone because I don't need to see the same goddamn headlines that have been running on repeat for days.
Four-game suspension without pay. Every major sponsorship deal is dead and buried.
My PR team are working overtime trying to salvage what's left of a career I torched with my own two hands.
The fanbase is split right down the middle—half calling for my immediate release from the team, the other half saying I need professional help. Nobody's saying I deserve forgiveness.
And they're absolutely fucking right.
The video is still making the rounds on every social media platform, news outlet, and gossip blog that can get their hands on it.
Me, completely unhinged, fists flying like some common asshole outside a dive bar instead of a professional athlete who's supposed to know better.
Ava in the background wearing that red dress that used to drive me crazy for all the right reasons, trying desperately to pull me off Adam before I did something even dumber than I already had.
The press can't get enough of the story.
They're calling it a spectacular fall from grace, a cautionary tale about fame and infidelity and what happens when golden boys turn bad.
I don't even care what they say anymore.
Let them write their pieces and hot takes.
I've already said everything that matters to who matters the most—begged her until my voice was raw, cried until I had nothing left, bled my heart out on this very couch night after night. None of it changed a damn thing.
I'm still here, alone, drowning in the mess I made.
A shuffle breaks through the silence, and I hear the padding of tiny feet against the hardwood floor. I glance toward the hallway just in time to see Poppy making her way into the living room, her favourite stuffed rabbit dangling from one small hand, dark curls a sleepy mess around her face.
My heart fucking breaks at the sight of her. Our creation, our baby, our fucking world.
She stops when she sees me sprawled across the couch like some sort of broken toy that nobody wants to play with anymore.
"Daddy?"
My throat tightens until I can barely breathe. "Hey there, Pop."
She walks over slowly, eyes that mirror my own squinting in the morning light as she takes in my appearance. Her little hand reaches up to touch my stubbled cheek with the kind of gentle concern that makes me want to disappear into the couch cushions.
No one has touched me like that in so long. Like they care .
"You look really old," she says with the brutal honesty that only children possess.
I manage a chuckle, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Thanks a lot, kiddo."
She frowns and climbs onto the couch next to me, settling against my side like she belongs there despite everything I've done to tear this family apart. "You don't look like a prince anymore."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I freeze completely.
"What do you mean?"
Poppy shrugs like she's stating the most obvious truth in the world. "You used to look like a prince when you would pick me up from daycare. When you laughed and your eyes got all wrinkly. And you always smelled like something Mommy got you for Christmas. Now you smell sad."
Jesus fucking Christ. Straight out of the mouth of my baby.
She's not wrong though, and that makes it worse.
I haven't shaved in days. I can't remember the last time I bothered with a proper shower or worked out or did any of the things that used to be second nature.
This t-shirt is wrinkled and probably still stained from that disastrous night when I lost my mind and ruined everything good in my life.
I rub at my jaw, trying to hide the way my hands are shaking.
"I'm sorry, Pops. I'm really sorry."
She looks up at me with those big green eyes that are so much like mine it physically hurts to meet her gaze. "Did you fight a bad guy, Daddy?"
I swallow hard around the lump in my throat that feels like it's made of broken glass. "No, sweetheart. I was the bad guy."
She blinks slowly, processing this information with the kind of seriousness that no child should have to carry. "Did you say sorry to the people you hurt?"
"Yeah, baby. I did."
"Does Mommy know?"
Oh, she knows alright. She fucking hates me.
I don't answer because I can't. Instead, I press a kiss to her forehead and pull her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her small body like I can somehow hold onto this one piece of good that's left in my completely fucked-up life.
She lets me hold her, melting into my chest and humming some little song under her breath that I recognize from one of her favourite cartoons. I close my eyes and let her weight anchor me to something real, something innocent, something that reminds me that I used to be better than this.
"I miss when you and Mommy were happy," she comments so softly I almost don't hear her.
I can’t breathe. She knows, even though we have tried to maintain a semblance of normality around her; she knows . Maybe because I’m such a fucking wreck.
"Me too, Pop. Me too."
It's the kind of pain that goes deeper than anything I've ever experienced physically. I can't out-train this agony or throw a ball hard enough to make it disappear. I can't ice it or stretch it or pop painkillers until it becomes manageable. It's just there, buried deep in my bones.
She pulls back slightly and studies my face with the intensity of someone much older than her years. "You can be a prince again, Daddy. But you have to stop being so sad all the time."
I manage what I hope passes for a smile, though it feels like my face might crack from the effort. "I'll try, sweetheart. I promise I'll try."
She nods like that's good enough for now, like promises from broken men still have value in her world, and slides off my lap with the quick movements of a child who's already moved on to more important things.
"I'm hungry," she announces, as if the weight of our conversation hasn't left her feeling like she's been hit by a truck.
"I'll make you pancakes," I say, standing slowly and feeling every one of my thirty-two years in my joints as they crack and protest.
Her face lights up with the kind of pure joy I haven't seen around here in weeks. "Can they have chocolate chips?"
"Anything you want, Pop. Anything at all."
She skips off toward the kitchen like she's floating on air, and for just a moment, the atmosphere in this house feels lighter.
I follow her—not because I deserve her love, but because maybe—just maybe —if I can be the father she needs right now, I might eventually figure out how to be the man I should have been all along.
The kitchen feels different when Poppy’s in it, like her presence alone can chase away some of the darkness I'm drowning in. I pull out the pancake mix and chocolate chips, and for the first time in weeks, I have something to do that doesn't involve wallowing in my own self-pity.
Maybe being a prince isn't about having a perfect life or never making mistakes. Maybe it's about picking yourself up after you've fallen and trying like hell to do better, even when you're not sure you deserve the chance.
Poppy's words are still echoing in my skull like a broken record I can't turn off.
You don't look like a prince anymore.
Kids don't fucking lie, especially not when it comes to the things that really matter.
And I must have looked like complete shit sitting there on the couch, pretending everything was normal while my world crumbled around me.
Pretending I was still the kind of father she could look up to instead of the pathetic bastard who tore our entire family apart with his own goddamn hands.
Now I'm outside because I can't stand to be in that house with all the ghosts of what we used to be. The porch light throws eerie shadows across the yard, and there's this strange quiet that reminds me how fucking alone I am.
I used to feel like a fucking king in this house. Like I owned the world and everything good in it. Now I feel like a squatter in my own life.
Ava's bedroom light is still on upstairs, the glow of her lamp visible through the sheer curtains.
I can't tell if she's awake or if she just fell asleep reading again, but either way, she's not coming down here. She’s not checking on me like she used to when I'd sit out here after a brutal loss or a particularly shitty day at practice.
Not offering me a beer or a blanket or the forgiveness she used to give me when I was late from meetings or forgot to call when I said I would.
Ava fucking understood me, and I blew it.
I sink down onto the weathered patio lounger and rest my elbows on my knees, burying my head in my hands like I can somehow hide from the world.
Six months ago, I used to wake up every morning feeling like I had the entire world at my feet.
Now I'm afraid to check my phone because I can't handle seeing another headline about my ‘spectacular fall from grace. '
It's not even the league's response that kills me anymore, though that's been brutal enough.
The NFL's official PR statement called my behaviour "grossly inappropriate" and said I violated the organization's conduct expectations in a way that brought shame to the entire sport.
They made a fucking example of me, and rightfully so.
Four games suspended without pay, mandatory anger management classes, and a probation period that'll follow me for the rest of my career.
I'm lucky they didn't bench me for the entire season.
But it's not the punishment that guts me every single day.
It's knowing that I earned every bit of it.
The endorsement deals vanished faster than smoke in a hurricane.
Contracts I spent years building, relationships I thought were rock-solid—all gone within forty-eight hours of the video going viral.
All those carefully staged photo shoots and charity events, all those promises about being a role model and representing "character both on and off the field"—and now these companies won't even return my agent's calls.
There's a tabloid article trending on social media right now with the headline:
From MVP to Meltdown: Is Roman Muller's Career Over?
Probably. Almost definitely.
I've lost more in the past month than some men lose in an entire lifetime.
Career prospects, financial security, public respect, personal relationships—the works.
And still, none of it hurts as much as knowing that Ava's upstairs right now, peaceful in what used to be our bed, learning how to live without me.
And that she's doing it so damn well.
I caught part of that interview she gave to some women's magazine last week.
Someone on the team sent me the clip, probably thinking they were doing me a favour.
She looked incredible—calm and composed and beautiful in a way that made my soul ache.
The comments section was calling her a hero, the woman who didn't burn the house down when her world exploded, but instead quietly rebuilt herself back up from scratch.
I wanted to be her safe place, her shelter from every storm.
Instead, I became the fucking hurricane that destroyed everything she'd built.
The screen door creaks open behind me, and for a split second, I don't dare move or breathe or even think too hard. I just listen to the padding of bare feet against the wooden boards, heavier than Poppy’s.
It's her.
She doesn't say anything at first, settling on the outdoor sofa, close enough that I can smell her shampoo but far enough away that there's no chance of accidental contact. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to reach for her hand like I used to do automatically.
"You look tired," she says finally, her voice carefully neutral.
Wait, she’s speaking to me.
Breathe, Muller.
"I am." I’m so fucking tired of being hated by everyone who used to respect me.
Tired of hating myself more than I ever thought possible, of waking up every morning to remember all over again what I've lost. Tired of being without my wife.
"I lost the last major brand deal today," I tell her because she'll find out anyway.
She nods without looking at me, her gaze fixed on something in the distance. "Did you really think there wouldn't be consequences for what you did?"
I wince like she's slapped me. "I didn't think I'd lose absolutely everything, no."
"You didn't lose it, Roman." Her voice is steady, matter-of-fact. "You threw it away. There's a difference." Her words don't come with anger or bitterness or any of the emotion I probably deserve. Just a brutal truth that fucking scorches my insides.
"I didn't just lose you," I say quietly. "I lost her faith in me too. Poppy's. My own daughter thinks I'm not worth looking up to anymore."
Ava remains silent, but I can see her jaw tighten.
"She told me I don't look like a prince anymore." The admission tastes like ash in my mouth. "And she's right, isn't she?"
"Roman—"
"I wanted to be better," I whisper, cutting her off. "I still want to be. I know that doesn't mean shit now, but I need you to know that I'm trying."
"It's not about what you want anymore." She stands up slowly, smoothing down her pyjama pants with hands that aren't quite steady. "It's about what you chose to do. And what you'll choose to do next."
She heads toward the door without another word, and I should let her go. I should sit here and wallow in my guilt and shame—and let her walk away with whatever dignity she has left.
But I'm weak. I've always been weak when it comes to her.
"Ava." I turn just enough to see her silhouette framed in the doorway. "I'll never stop loving you. No matter what happens, no matter how badly I fucked this up—that'll never change."
She pauses with her hand on the door handle, and for a moment, I think she might turn around. Might give me something to hold onto.
Instead, she speaks without looking back.
"I know you love me, Roman. I've never doubted that." Her voice is soft but final. "But love without respect, without trust, without basic human decency? That's not enough."
The door closes behind her with a gentle click, ending our conversation.
And then I'm alone in the dark again, left with nothing but the weight of my choices and the knowledge that I brought every bit of this on myself.