Chapter 26
ROMAN
I drive for fucking hours because I can't stand being in that house anymore or watching Ava walk around like she's already done with me. Even the way Poppy looks at me like I'm some stranger in her life.
I don't even know where the hell I'm going until I see the exit sign and my hands turn the wheel.
It must be muscle memory or some shit. Next thing I know, I'm driving down the street where I grew up, and fuck me, nothing's changed.
Same houses and mailboxes. Same boring neighbourhood where nothing bad was supposed to happen.
I park in front of my old house and just sit there like a pussy, gripping the steering wheel too hard.
The porch light is on, even though it's not even dark yet, because Mom's always been weird about keeping lights on.
Something about making people feel welcome.
Right now, I feel about as welcome as a disease.
Jesus Christ, what am I even doing here?
I haven't called in months. I didn’t even reply to my mom’s text. I haven't visited since Christmas two years ago. All I did was send money and figured that was enough.
What a jerk.
The front door opens before I get my shit together enough to get out of the car.
"Well, shit," Jake says, standing there looking older than he should. "Look what the cat dragged in."
My brother's got that same look he's always had—like he can see right through your bullshit. It makes me want to get back in the car and drive away, but my legs are already moving toward the porch.
"Hey," I call out because I'm real fucking articulate apparently.
He doesn't say anything else, just steps back and lets me in.
The house smells like home. The strong scent of garlic from whatever Mom's cooking. That fabric softener she's been using since we were kids.
Fuck nostalgia.
Memories are my ruin right now.
There are pictures everywhere on the walls. Me in my college uniform. Jake when he graduated. Us as kids looking happy, covered in dirt from playing outside all day. Seeing them makes me feel like shit.
"Come on," Jake says, heading to the living room. "You look like shit."
He hands me a soda. Not beer, which is probably smart since I've been drinking too much lately. We sit down, and it's quiet, but not the bad kind of quiet.
"How bad is it?" he asks.
I let out this laugh that sounds more like a grunt and say, "Fucked. Completely fucked."
"Yeah, I saw the news. Mom about had a heart attack seeing you like that on TV. She's used to watching you play football, not...whatever the hell that was."
"She doesn't hate me?"
"Nah. She's worried about your dumb ass."
I put my head in my hands. "I screwed it all up, man. Everything. The team, my marriage, everything."
Jake looks at me for a long time. "You always did this. Even when we were kids. As soon as something good happened, you'd find a way to mess it up. Like you didn't think you deserved it or something." That hits way too close to home.
"Where's Mom?"
"Kitchen. Giving us space to talk." Of course, she is. She’s still trying to take care of me even when I don't deserve it.
"I didn't cheat because I wanted to hurt Ava," I explain, and fuck, why am I telling him this? "I did it because...I don't know. Because everything was going too perfect, and I was waiting for it all to fall apart anyway."
"So you made sure it did."
"Yeah."
We don't talk much after that. The words are hanging there between us— So you made sure it did. Yeah, I did. I made sure my perfect life exploded before it could disappoint me first.
Jake gets up and starts clearing away the empty takeout containers from dinner. Chinese food by the look of it. I follow him to the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands, but he stops in the hallway, turning to me.
"You know what I don't get?" Jake begins. "Ava's a fucking unicorn, man. Smart, beautiful, loyal as hell. Put up with your shit for years. And you threw it all away for what? Some Instagram chick with fake tits?"
I wince. "It wasn't about her."
"Bullshit. You had everything . A woman who actually loved you, not your bank account or your fame. And you pissed it away for some wannabe influencer who probably can't even spell loyalty."
"Jake—"
"No, seriously. What the fuck were you thinking?
Ava stood by you through injuries, through the media bullshit, through all your moods and drama.
She gave you a daughter who worships the ground you walk on.
And you traded that for what? A quick fuck with some girl who's probably already moved on to the next athlete? "
Each word hits hard. Because he's right. He's absolutely fucking right.
"I wasn't thinking," I respond quietly. "That's the problem."
"Damn right you weren't thinking. You were thinking with your dick instead of your brain. And now look where you are."
He shows me to the guest room, and I’m grateful. There are clean sheets and a picture of all of us from some barbecue years ago when everything was good. We're all smiling. I can't remember the last time I felt like that.
The door opens, and my mom appears, her arms outstretched.
“Come here, baby.”
I try to force a smile, but I can’t. I fall into my mom’s arms and tell her I’m okay, even though we both know I’m not.
Look at me. Thirty-two years old and I destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me because I'm a fucking idiot.
"You look tired, baby," she comments.
"I am."
"Are you gonna try to fix it?"
I nod because I can't talk around the tightness in my throat. How do I explain that Ava doesn’t want me?
"Good," she replies and pats my hand like I'm still ten years old. “Because Ava is the best thing to ever happen to you, you foolish idiot.”
Gee, thanks. But she’s right.
“Get some sleep, you hear? Everything is better after a good night's sleep.”
Surprisingly, I sleep like a log, and as always, my mom is right. I feel a hundred times better.
I stay for breakfast, but I can't eat much. Food just sits in my stomach like a rock.
When I leave, I drive straight to the city and book a therapy appointment. I purposefully pick some doctor who doesn't look like she'll put up with my bullshit. I need someone who'll call me on my shit and maybe help me figure out how to not be such a mess.
Back at the hotel, I pull out my phone and stare at it for a long time before I hit record.
Day One.
"I'm Roman Muller," I say to the camera. "I used to have everything. Now I'm sitting in a shitty hotel room trying to figure out how not to be a complete fuck-up anymore."
I pause, looking at my busted hands.
"I don't know what I'm doing. But I'm here. I fucked up by cheating on my beautiful, wonderful wife who I never deserved in the first place."
Click.
That night, I record another video on my phone.
Day Two.
"Still here. Still fucked up. But I'm not running away anymore. I want my wife back, and I’m willing to do anything to get her. So I’m sorry, baby.
I’ve said it a thousand times, but it will never be enough.
I don’t deserve you, but I’m a selfish fucker who won’t let you go.
I want you, fuck—I need you. Please don’t leave me. "
I stare at the camera for a second, thinking about how messed up it is that I had to lose everything to come back here. To remember what it feels like when people love you without expecting you to be perfect.
"I don't know what happens next," I say to the phone. "But I'm done letting her walk away. I fucked this up, so I’m going to work to save it."
Click.
I always thought love was something you had to earn. Like touchdowns or endorsements or getting people to cheer your name. Work your ass off, do the right shit, and you get rewarded. A loyal woman. A warm bed. Someone who looks at you like you're worth something.
But that's not love. That's just performing.
And the second you stop being perfect—when you fuck up or bleed or act like a regular person instead of some superhero—it all goes away. At least, that's what I thought. That's what I learned growing up.
My dad was gone before I knew what love wasn't supposed to be. Not dead—just gone. He walked out on a Thursday morning when I was five, left a note on the counter next to his coffee mug. Jake was eight. Mom cried for three days straight and then just stopped. We never talked about it after that.
I figured out real quick that feelings were a pain in the ass. Something you shoved down deep where nobody could see them. So I did. Anger, sadness, even the good stuff. All of it got turned into one thing—drive.
I was going to be the best. Get out of this place. Be a star. Make so much money that nobody could leave me.
And I did all that shit.
But nobody teaches you how to stick around when things get hard. How to love someone when it's boring or difficult.
I didn't know how to stay. I didn't know how to choose her when I was drowning in attention and my own ego.
Now I'm sitting in this tiny room with some therapist scribbling notes while I try not to lose my shit. Not because she's pissing me off—but because every time I talk, it feels like someone's ripping my skin off.
It's been two weeks since I went home to Mom's. Two weeks of therapy.
"I didn't have any example of how to do this," I say, staring at the ugly carpet. "Love. Marriage. Family shit. My old man bailed, and I thought if I built something perfect enough, I'd never end up like him."
She doesn't say anything; she just lets me keep talking.
"I didn't cheat because I wanted someone else. I cheated because I was bored. So I fucked it up. Like an idiot."
"Why were you bored?"
Shame makes my cheeks flame. This is fucking hard, man. “I don't know,” I answer honestly, feeling like a dickhead.
"And now? Are you entertained?"
I knew this doctor wouldn’t hold back.
I raise an eyebrow at her, and she continues to gaze at me coolly. I bet she’s listened to Ava on that podcast.
“I hate my life; does that answer your question?”
“So what are you doing about it?”
"I don't know if I can fix any of this shit."
She leans forward. "That's not the same as saying you don't want to try."
I laugh, but it sounds like broken glass. "I lost everything. My career's probably over. My reputation's trashed. My daughter can’t even look at me, and Ava won't be in the same room as me."
"So what's left?"
I shift uncomfortably. Then I look at her. "Me, I guess."
It's the first time I've said that and actually meant it.
When I leave, I sit in my truck with the engine off, staring at nothing. The therapy building behind me feels like my old life. But ahead? I don't know what's ahead.
I just know I can't go back to being that guy. The one who thinks his fists solve problems and his dick makes him important. The guy who needs everyone to worship him to feel worth a damn. The guy who destroys everything good in his life.
I drive back to the hotel room I've been staying in since I left the house. It's a shithole, but it's mine. I can’t be at home and not be with Ava anymore. Plus, I want Poppy to see me looking and doing better. So this therapy shit isn’t just for me; it's for her too.
I open the Notes app on my phone and make a new folder.
Getting My Shit Together
I type the first thing:
Week 3. No football. No Ava. No clue who I am without all that. But I'm going to figure it out. I'm going to do the work. And if she never takes me back, at least I'll know I became the man she deserved. Even if it's too late.
Then I hit record on another video.
Week Three.
"I don't know who the hell I am without football. Without her. But I'm done pretending I have my shit together. I'm a mess. But I'm going to stop being one. Starting right fucking now. For myself, and for my daughter."
I stare at the camera for a second, thinking about what the therapist said.
"I can't change what I did. But maybe I can change who I am. For me. Not for anyone else."
I hit save. For once, I don't give a shit who might see it.
This one's just for me.