Chapter 18
TAYLOR
“Ladies and gentlemen, Taylor Wolff!” The Bears’ general manager grinned into the microphone, waving me toward the stage on Saturday night.
I adjusted my tie and walked through a maze of white-clothed tables, nodding to sponsors, fans, and the reporters pretending they didn’t have their recorders out.
Somehow, despite spending most of my daily hours writing, football still found a way to cut into the minutes whenever I took a breath. It seemed like every time I set down my pen or removed my hands from the keyboard, the team needed me to do something.
And yet, despite having twenty million reasons to be at their beck and call, I was getting annoyed—especially when it was for something as simple as this.
Taking my place at the podium, I read a short speech about teamwork and perseverance, the same canned lines I’d said a hundred times. I smiled when the cameras flashed. I shook hands. I looked the part.
But when it ended, my phone was buzzing nonstop.
Five missed calls from Stacey.
At first, I assumed something was wrong. When she didn’t pick up on the callback, I drove straight to her place.
Her condo lights were on when I pulled into the driveway—the kind of blinding, sterile glow that made the entire house look like a showroom.
The moment I stepped inside, I realized it basically was.
Designer bags were scattered across the couch, tissue paper spilling out like confetti. A stylist’s team was unpacking racks of clothes—sequined dresses, fur jackets, shoes that looked like they cost more than my rookie contract.
“What the hell is this?” I asked.
One of the stylists froze, clutching a hanger. “Uh, we were just finishing up—”
“Yeah, you’re finished.” I looked at Stacey. “Everyone needs to leave.”
She blinked at me like I’d lost my mind. “They’re almost done, Taylor.”
“Now.”
The stylists exchanged glances, then started packing up in silence. Stacey waited until the door shut before crossing her arms.
“What is your problem?” she asked.
“My problem?” I looked around the mess. “You said you were sick. I thought something happened. Instead, I find a photo shoot in progress?”
“It’s not a photo shoot.” She waved toward the garment racks. “It’s preparation. You should be thanking me. I have to fit in with the other WAGs. You don’t want me to embarrass you, do you?”
I laughed once, humorless. “We need to talk.”
“Can it wait until I figure out what I’m wearing for the next event?”
“No,” I said. “Now.”
Her expression faltered when she saw I wasn’t bluffing. “You’re seriously doing this right now?”
“Yeah.” I looked her straight in the eye. “I can’t do this anymore, Stacey.”
Her jaw tightened. “You’re breaking up with me because I’m trying to look good for you?”
“I’m breaking up with you because you’ve turned this into a brand deal.”
“Unbelievable.” She grabbed her phone. “You should be ashamed. I’ve been doing all this work for you.”
“I didn’t ask for any of it.”
“And while we’re on the subject,” I said quietly, “have you been using again?”
Her eyes snapped up. “What?”
“Cocaine,” I said. “I saw it in your purse the other night when you were sick. Don’t lie to me.”
“You’re unbelievable.” She turned away, shoving a pile of dresses aside. “That’s not what you think it was.”
“Then what was it?”
“None of your business.”
I let out a slow breath. “That’s exactly the problem, Stacey. Nothing’s anyone’s business until it blows up.”
She stared at me for a long moment before her eyes narrowed. “This is about her, isn’t it?”
“Don’t start.”
“It’s crazy how I don’t even have to mention her name.” She scowled. “You didn’t even deny it.”
“It’s complicated.”
“That means yes.”
“No.” I exhaled. “I’ve never slept with her.”
Her mouth twisted. “Ever kissed her?”
“Not by choice.”
Her voice rose. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“It means it was a long time ago. It has nothing to do with you, and she has nothing to do with whatever’s left of us.”
“Whatever’s left?” She laughed bitterly. “I’m keeping all these clothes and the car.”
“That’s fine.”
“I hope you’re happy with her.”
“We’re not together.”
“Sure.” She crossed her arms, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “How many other girlfriends has she ruined for you?”
I didn’t answer.
There was nothing left to say anyway.
I walked out without another word, the echo of my footsteps following me down the hall and out into the cold air.
The night air hit harder than I expected—sharp, sobering, and colder than it should’ve been.