Broken, almost.
Not at all like the Harley I know.
My heart squeezes when I look at the young man on the laptop screen, who knows his lifelong dream has been cut short way too early at the hands of another person.
His right arm is wrapped in a sling, while his left wrist is bandaged up. There’s evidence of a black eye, clearly covered up with makeup, crutches resting on the side of the table next to him.
"I just want to thank everyone for your support and love over the last few days. The next few weeks are crucial for my recovery, so please respect my privacy at this time." His smile is weak as he stands to limp out of the room, his crutches placed firmly under his left arm.
"The Eagles have no further comment." The familiar words ring out, buzzing in my head as it spins while I try to steady myself.
While they never confirmed the cause of his injury, they didn’t need to.
It’s obvious.
Just by looking at him, his injuries are the result of a fight. If Austin is responsible, he can’t have done it alone. Harley is much bigger, much stronger than Austin. By himself, Austin wouldn’t stand a chance, so it’s hard for me to imagine Austin being capable of doing irreparable damage. But knowing Monty was there, too, it’s written in black and white for me to see.
This was swept almost completely under the rug with next to no publicity on the fight itself. Only talk of Harley retiring, butnot really thewhy. That alone tells me that the perpetrator had friends in high places and a lot of money. Or, in Austin’s case, a rich, famous daddy.
Royalty in the NFL.
"I feel sick,” I say, rushing to the toilet where all of today’s alcohol makes its way back up.
Austin tookeverythingfrom him.
All because of something he couldn’t control. Something he still, to this day, has no idea about.
But if Austin is responsible for ruining Harley’s career, why hasn’t he told me?
Does he even know?
thirty-eight
Harley Age 23
"My right hand feelsso heavy right now," Robbie jokes, flashing his championship ring toward a group of hot girls that pass us by. "We’re the fucking champs, baby!" he screams as loud as he can, the word 'baby'sung out, cars honking their horns with Eagles flags flapping around in the wind.The feeling is indescribable.
The entire team is still on a fucking high. It’s been nearly a week since we were crowned the champions of the NFL, and the celebrations are nowhere near stopping.
I wouldn’t usually allow myself to let go and just enjoy the feeling, but I think I have every right to celebrate.
Especially considering I'm the youngest player to ever win the Max Anderson award, akaMost Valuable Player,thank you very much. No rookie had ever won the award, but I did what the Eagles wanted me to do. What they signed me for.
Take them to the end and win the whole damn thing.
Every weekend, I was underestimated by the other team, and every weekend I showed them who was boss, ensuring the team went the entire season undefeated.
I deserved every bit of this.
Robbie and I decided to start the celebrations early tonight, with some of our teammates meeting up with us later. Even though we agreed we’d start low-key, he’s not exactly hiding the fact that the ‘champs are in town’.
His words, not mine.
The Globe is the first stop on our bar crawl tonight, and it’s surprisingly busy for a Thursday, with a line almost halfway out the door. We bypass security with ease and, to my surprise, we’re yet to be bombarded with excited fans wanting pictures, or chicks throwing their half-naked bodies at us, desperate for our attention. Desperate to screw a professional athlete.
I give it thirty seconds before we’re noticed, tops.
Not that Robbie would mind, though. Hell, I’ve been single and celibate for so long, I don’t think I would mind, either.
