Track 1. I Forgot That You Existed （413） – Taylor
TAYLOR
Present Day
“Let me get this straight.” Ryan Harrison, the head coach of the New England Bears, glared at me. “We draft you in the first round, sign you to a twenty-million-dollar-a-year contract, and... you want to spend the next few months running off to do some Shakespeare shit?”
“It’s not ‘Shakespeare shit,’” I said. “It’s the Postscript Scholars Program.”
“Is it paying you twenty million dollars a year?”
“No.”
“Then case closed.” He shrugged. “Looks like it’s not worth your time, so let’s discuss more important matters like your recovery schedule.”
“It’s the highest postgraduate honor when it comes to writing.” I glanced outside his massive window where my teammates were warming up for practice. “I’ve explained this to you several times before.”
“And it still doesn’t make any sense.” He shook his head. “Your education time is over, Mr. Wolff. It’s bad enough you did all four years in college just to finish your degree. It’s time for full-time football.”
“That’s right.” His assistant and personal parrot nodded his head in the corner. “Full-time football.”
“It’s not like I can play.” I held up my bandaged wrist. “I can’t practice either.”
“But you can write with that hand?”
“I’d be writing with my left one…”
His face reddened, and he suddenly shot out of his chair, pacing the room and talking to himself as if he were alone. I’d witnessed this exact same performance earlier this week, and it wasn’t worthy of an encore.
This was his fourth year as head coach, and I was supposed to be his ticket to a winning season—his chance at being off the “hot seat,” and his “fucking key to some goddamn success.”
I honestly couldn’t blame him for losing his shit when one of my teammates sacked me hard enough to fracture my wrist in practice last week, but deep down, I was relieved as hell.
My college years flew by in such a blur that most of my memories revolved around the field. Yet, despite leading my team to back-to-back winning records and a national championship, the last thing I wanted right now was more football.
I need a fucking break…
I wanted to breathe without someone telling me what that breath should be worth.
“Now, you listen very carefully to me, son.” Coach Harrison slammed his hands against the desk, finally breaking out of his trance.
“Injured or not, you need to be on the sidelines—supporting your teammates and representing the culture. You also need to watch film with everyone else after game days.”
“I will be there,” I said. “I’ve told you this before.”
“I wasn’t listening.” He scoffed. “You also need to stay here in this city for the season, Taylor—within a fifty-mile radius—regardless of where that writing stuff is.”
“The program is literally down the street on a private school’s campus,” I said. “It covers housing.”
“You didn’t buy a house here yet?”
“I haven’t had the time to look.”
“Every other first-round pick ‘house-hunted’ right after the draft.” His eyes widened. “What the hell have you been doing?”
I didn’t answer.
“How do you think it’ll look to all the young boys who look up to you if they find out you’re using your hand to write instead of throwing a football?” he barked. “Choosing some pussy-ass poetry over sports?”
I blinked, convinced he wasn’t really hearing the words as they fell from his mouth.
“Plenty of other players are enrolled in college on the side,” I offered. “Especially when they’re injured…”
“Get out. We’ll finish this conversation later.”
“Thank you, Coach.”
He grunted as I shut the door behind me, and I stopped at the sight of the new team mural on the wall.
My face and likeness were painted on a bright field with my teammates, under the words New Season, New Hope.
I turned away and headed for the exit.
Outside the facility, dozens of fans pressed their bodies against the barricades, waving jerseys and phones.
“We love you, Taylor!”
“Hurry up and get better so we can see you play!”
“Fuck yeahhhh!”
I gave them a quick smile before turning away, ignoring the guilt crawling up my chest.
My older brother and father were the ones who lived for football; I’d just followed in their footsteps and somehow gone further than they ever had.
This was their dream, not mine.
For me, this sport was always just an escape. Writing was my forever refuge.
And I’d long stopped trying to explain that to everyone.
There was only one person who ever understood it, but I hated her down to her fucking marrow, so it’s not like I could ever talk to her about it.
“Feel like going shopping, babe?” My girlfriend, Stacey, wrapped her arms around me from behind.
“You can help yourself.” I pulled out my wallet and handed her my credit card. “I’m going to check out Exeter’s campus.”
“Why?”
“Because move-in day is in a week and a half, and they’re letting us take tours.” I shrugged. “I want to see if the luxury suites are as nice as they claim.”
“Oh...” Her smile faltered. “I thought we agreed that program was a waste of your time.”
“We didn’t.”
“I just started renting a condo here, Taylor.”
With your parents. “I’m aware.”
“So live with me. Focus on getting better so you can get back on the field and chase your dreams.”
“Postscript Scholars are required to stay on campus,” I said. “That’s literally the first rule.”
“Then hurry up and withdraw so some other nerd can take your spot.” She kissed my cheek. “Isn’t being free to do whatever you want the whole point of being a pro athlete?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“Because it’s true!” She smiled again, pressing her lips to mine. “Hopefully the physical therapy will heal your brain, too.”
I laughed and walked her to the white BMW I’d bought her for her birthday. After watching her buckle up, I kissed her once more and waved her off.
The moment she disappeared, I slid behind the wheel of my car and sped toward Exeter’s campus.
The farther I drove from the stadium, the quieter it got—no roaring fans, no sports radio, just the hum of tires and the sound of my own breathing.
Thankfully, it was a private school that was gated twenty acres all around, which meant no fans, no reporters lurking for photos.
I highly doubted any of my fellow scholars gave a damn about football.
At least, I hoped not.
After grabbing my check-in packet from the office, I followed the map to Luxury Graduate Plaza, searching for suite 7B.
Every door along the hall featured a large wreath made of pens, each labeled with two names on a carved Post-it note.
I have to share a damn room?
When I made it to 7B, I stopped dead in my tracks.
Welcome Residents!
Taylor Wolff
Audrey Parker
My pulse slammed against my wrist brace.
The sight of that second name shouldn’t have had any effect on me, and I refused to believe it was the same Audrey Parker I knew, but my blood was running cold.
It can’t be…
It’d been years since I saw her, years since I received one of her ridiculous emails or letters, and I refused to believe that she still existed in a world that would ever collide with mine.
I blinked several times, certain this had to be a mistake, but all twelve letters in her name remained.
Refusing to accept it, I stepped inside the suite and walked around.
The brochure hadn’t exaggerated at all; the open living room offered a full view of the beach, and the all-white kitchen and dining room looked like they’d been plucked from an oceanfront condo in Miami.
I walked down the hall to the master bathroom and then peered into both of the fully furnished bedrooms. One was decked out in light gray, while the other was covered in Audrey’s favorite color: mint green.
Why the fuck do I even remember that?
I left the suite and decided to come back in the morning after getting my head checked.
This better be a different fucking Audrey Parker...