The living room looks like the remnants of a battlefield from the night before—solo cups standing at attention on every surface, pizza boxes flung open and scattered around. My phone is facedown on the coffee table. So, I snatch it up, thumbing the screen alive to check for any signs of life beyond this hangover.
I stand, but my limbs are heavy and uncooperative as I survey the scene. There's something about the stale air laced with the ghost of cheap beer and sweat that makes me feel hollow. Is this really it? Is this what life after football looks like? This endless cycle of trying to fill the void where the roar of the stadium used to live?
Dragging a hand down my face, I wince at the thought, and a pang of regret stabs at my chest.
I’m disgusted with myself and just need to get out of here. My clothes are a wrinkled mess, sticking to my skin in places I'd rather not think about. It's a far cry from the crisp uniforms and adrenaline-fueled glory days on the field. Those days are numbered; I can feel it in my bones as clearly as the headache behind my eyes.
I need something more. I need purpose. Maybe I need... her. Harper. With that thought, I realize that if there's any part of my old life worth salvaging, it's the love that I've been too blind to see was right in front of me all along.
It’s time to clean up this mess, but it's not just the living room that needs tidying—it's my whole damn life.
I shove my phone in my pocket. Fragmented memories from last night start to piece together, jagged edges and all. The game that we lost badly, where I played like shit, the clinking of shots atMickey's, the roar of a crowd that used to chant my name, the buzz of my phone as I fired off that text to Harper.
God, what did I do?
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes as if I could physically block out the recollection. The screen's glow in the dark, my thumbs stumbling over a breakup text that had no business being sent. The words "It's over" flash in my mind, making me feel sick to my stomach.
Guilt is a bitter pill, lodging itself in my throat. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. Not with her. She deserved face-to-face honesty, not some cowardly message sent from the shadows of a pub.
My mind races, tripping over itself. She’s proven that she’d stand by me when any sane person would've walked away? I know that she’d be the one to always pull me back from the edge with nothing but a look or a gentle word. How could I just disregard a sweet soul like that? By taking for granted the one person who saw Taylor Wright, the man, and not Taylor Wright, the fading football star.
Damn it!
I need to make this right. It's not just about wanting her back; it's about respecting her enough to fix what I broke. No grand gestures or empty promises—just the raw, unvarnished truth.
It’s time to own up. There's a long road ahead, paved with tough conversations and even tougher realizations.
My face contorts. I need a plan. It needs to be solid, something that shows Harper I'm done being the guy who takes her for granted. Flowers? No, too cliché. A serenade under her window? I scoff at the thought; this isn't an eighties rom-com.
I rake my hands through my hair. She deserves sincerity, not some grandiose display meant more for onlookers than for her. Maybe it's the simple things—acknowledging her dreams, supporting her desires, listening. Really listening.
I pat down my pockets, checking for my wallet and keys. They're there, thank God. The last thing I need is another hurdle. I make my way to the door, each step heavy but deliberate.
As I reach for the knob, I pause, taking a deep breath. My heart hammers against my ribs, fueled by a mixture of dread and urgency because, without Harper, what's the point?
Chapter 20
Harper
An obtrusive light shines through a window, waking me. A little disoriented, I look around and realize that I am in the same place I have been for the last two days. At Jordan’s on “THE COUCH”. Who am I that I didn’t even want to go home? Empty. That’s who I am, just an empty shell of the Harper that once was.
I sit up and put my feet on the floor, but I don’t move. I can’t. I have no motivation, no will to do anything. As I’m sitting there, slumped over contemplating whether or not I want to even go get a glass of water, a large projectile flies at my head and slams into the side of my face. It’s a pillow so it didn’t hurt, but seriously?
“Get your ass up now, Harper. It’s been two days of you laying there, barely moving. You stink so bad, at one point I thought you were dead. Now it’s time to get your ass in gear andgo shower. You’re making the whole place reek!” Jordan says, standing in the kitchen with her arms folded over her chest.That smell is coming from me? Holy hell.What are best friends for, though, right?
“Okay, fine, I’m going. You didn’t have to try to take my head off though. You could have just asked.” I give her my best side-eye, which I’m pretty sure isn’t that great right now either.
“I did ask. Yesterday. Go take a shower."
"I know, I know," I mumble, rubbing my face with my hands, feeling the grit of a 48-hour emotional shutdown etched into my pores.
"Harper Phillips," Jordan chides, but her tone is softened by concern. "Personal hygiene isn't optional. You'll feel better. Trust me." She tosses a fluffy towel my way, its clean scent a silent rebuke to my current state.
I catch the towel, and a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. Leave it to Jordan to be blunt enough to tell me I stink, yet caring enough to provide fresh linens. I push myself off the counter that’s propping me up.
I shuffle across the carpet, every step a silent argument with my own reluctance. Jordan has never been one to sugarcoat things, and while it might sting sometimes, it's also what makes our friendship work. We've always been able to rely on each other for the truth, even when it hurts.
God, I really have turned into a slob, I think to myselfas I catch a glimpse of my disheveled appearance in the bathroom mirror.
