Page 71 of Shattered Dreams
She pulls back slightly and studies my face with the intensity of someone much older than her years. "You can be a prince again, Daddy. But you have to stop being so sad all the time."
I manage what I hope passes for a smile, though it feels like my face might crack from the effort. "I'll try, sweetheart. I promise I'll try."
She nods like that's good enough for now, like promises from broken men still have value in her world, and slides off my lap with the quick movements of a child who's already moved on to more important things.
"I'm hungry," she announces, as if the weight of our conversation hasn't left her feeling like she's been hit by a truck.
"I'll make you pancakes," I say, standing slowly and feeling every one of my thirty-two years in my joints as they crack and protest.
Her face lights up with the kind of pure joy I haven't seen around here in weeks. "Can they have chocolate chips?"
"Anything you want, Pop. Anything at all."
She skips off toward the kitchen like she's floating on air, and for just a moment, the atmosphere in this house feels lighter. I follow her—not because I deserve her love, but because maybe—justmaybe—if I can be the father she needs right now, I might eventually figure out how to be the man I should have been all along.
The kitchen feels different when Poppy’s in it, like her presence alone can chase away some of the darkness I'm drowning in. I pull out the pancake mix and chocolate chips, and for the first time in weeks, I have something to do that doesn't involve wallowing in my own self-pity.
Maybe being a prince isn't about having a perfect life or never making mistakes. Maybe it's about picking yourself up after you've fallen and trying like hell to do better, even when you're not sure you deserve the chance.
Poppy's wordsare still echoing in my skull like a broken record I can't turn off.
You don't look like a prince anymore.
Kids don't fucking lie, especially not when it comes to the things that really matter. And I must have looked like complete shit sitting there on the couch, pretending everything was normal while my world crumbled around me. Pretending I was still the kind of father she could look up to instead of the pathetic bastard who tore our entire family apart with his own goddamn hands.
Now I'm outside because I can't stand to be in that house with all the ghosts of what we used to be. The porch light throws eerie shadows across the yard, and there's this strange quiet that reminds me how fucking alone I am.
I used to feel like a fuckingkingin this house. Like I owned the world and everything good in it. Now I feel like a squatter in my own life.
Ava's bedroom light is still on upstairs, the glow of her lamp visible through the sheer curtains. I can't tell if she's awake or if she just fell asleep reading again, but either way, she's not coming down here. She’s not checking on me like she used to when I'd sit out here after a brutal loss or a particularly shitty day at practice. Not offering me a beer or a blanket or the forgiveness she used to give me when I was late from meetings or forgot to call when I said I would. Ava fucking understood me, and I blew it.
I sink down onto the weathered patio lounger and rest my elbows on my knees, burying my head in my hands like I can somehow hide from the world. Six months ago, I used to wake up every morning feeling like I had the entire world at my feet. Now I'm afraid to check my phone because I can't handle seeing another headline about my ‘spectacular fall from grace.'
It's not even the league's response that kills me anymore, though that's been brutal enough. The NFL's official PR statement called my behaviour "grossly inappropriate" and saidI violated the organization's conduct expectations in a way that brought shame to the entire sport. They made a fucking example of me, and rightfully so. Four games suspended without pay, mandatory anger management classes, and a probation period that'll follow me for the rest of my career. I'm lucky they didn't bench me for the entire season.
But it's not the punishment that guts me every single day.
It's knowing that I earned every bit of it.
The endorsement deals vanished faster than smoke in a hurricane. Contracts I spent years building, relationships I thought were rock-solid—all gone within forty-eight hours of the video going viral. All those carefully staged photo shoots and charity events, all those promises about being a role model and representing "character both on and off the field"—and now these companies won't even return my agent's calls.
There's a tabloid article trending on social media right now with the headline:
From MVP to Meltdown: Is Roman Muller's Career Over?
Probably. Almost definitely.
I've lost more in the past month than some men lose in an entire lifetime. Career prospects, financial security, public respect, personal relationships—the works. And still, none of it hurts as much as knowing that Ava's upstairs right now, peaceful in what used to be our bed, learning how to live without me.
And that she's doing it so damn well.
I caught part of that interview she gave to some women's magazine last week. Someone on the team sent me the clip, probably thinking they were doing me a favour. She looked incredible—calm and composed and beautiful in a way that made my soul ache. The comments section was calling her ahero, the woman who didn't burn the house down when her world exploded, but instead quietly rebuilt herself back up from scratch.
I wanted to be her safe place, her shelter from every storm.
Instead, I became the fucking hurricane that destroyed everything she'd built.
The screen door creaks open behind me, and for a split second, I don't dare move or breathe or even think too hard. I just listen to the padding of bare feet against the wooden boards, heavier than Poppy’s.
