Page 76 of Shattered Dreams
I drive back to the hotel room I've been staying in since I left the house. It's a shithole, but it's mine. I can’t be at home and not bewithAva anymore. Plus, I want Poppy to see me looking and doing better. So this therapy shit isn’t just for me; it's for her too.
I open the Notes app on my phone and make a new folder.
Getting My Shit Together
I type the first thing:
Week 3. No football. No Ava. No clue who I am without all that. But I'm going to figure it out. I'm going to do the work. And if she never takes me back, at least I'll know I became the man she deserved. Even if it's too late.
Then I hit record on another video.
Week Three.
"I don't know who the hell I am without football. Without her. But I'm done pretending I have my shit together. I'm a mess. But I'm going to stop being one. Starting right fucking now. For myself, and for my daughter."
I stare at the camera for a second, thinking about what the therapist said.
"I can't change what I did. But maybe I can change who I am. For me. Not for anyone else."
I hit save. For once, I don't give a shit who might see it.
This one's just for me.
27
ROMAN
Idon't know what makes me do it.
Maybe it's the silence in this shitty hotel room that gets under my skin and makes me want to crawl out of it. Maybe it's the fact that I haven't seen Ava in two days, and I keep checking my phone like some desperate asshole, hoping for something—anything—that'll let me believe I haven't lost her for good.
Or maybe I'm just tired of hiding like a coward.
My Instagram account is still public. The trolls had a field day when the video of me decking that surgeon went viral. Millions of views of me losing my shit in a parking lot like some kind of animal. I stopped checking the comments when they started tagging every brand that dropped me, making sure the whole world knew what a piece of shit I'd become.
Roman Muller: NFL's golden boy turned psychotic ex-husband.
The headlines write themselves, don't they?
I've been staring at my phone for an hour, thumb hovering over the camera app. My reflection in the black screen lookslike hell. Unshaved, hair a mess, wearing the same hoodie I've had on for two days straight. I look exactly like what I am—a man who lost everything and doesn't know how to put it back together.
But maybe that's the point. Maybe I'm done pretending I have my shit together.
So I prop my phone up on the windowsill, angle it so the camera catches the mess I've become, and hit record.
"Me again," I say, my voice coming out rough and low. Not the polished media voice I used to use for interviews. Just me. Raw and fucked up and real.
"I fucked up my whole life. My wife. My family. My career. I threw it all away like it meant nothing." I pause, swallow hard. "For what? A few months of attention from someone who didn't give a fuck if she wrecked a home? Someone who probably forgot my name the second the cameras stopped rolling? I didn’t love her. I only love my wife.”
My throat feels tight, but not with tears. Just shame. Pure, burning shame that sits in my chest like a deadweight.
"I've been in therapy for a while now. I'm learning things about myself that I should've figured out years ago. Like how I never knew how to be loved. Not really."
I drag a hand through my hair, feeling the grease under my fingers.When's the last time I showered? Yesterday? The day before?
"My old man left before I even knew what being a man was supposed to look like. Walked out when I was five and never looked back. I guess I thought love was something you earned by being useful. Strong. Perfect. Unbreakable."
I let out this bitter laugh that sounds more like a grunt.
