Page 6 of Take Care, Taylor

Taylor

Groaning, I crumpled that letter and forced myself to write Audrey the sweetest, fakest note in history. Then I wrote out a plan to get her back.

I’ll show her arealbully…

TRACK 1. I FORGOT THAT YOU EXISTED (4:13)

TAYLOR

Present Day

“Let me get this straight.” Ryan Harrison, the head coach of the New England Bears, glared at me. “We draft you in the first round, sign you to a twenty-million-dollar-a-year contract, and... you want to spend the next few months running off to do some Shakespeare shit?”

“It’s not ‘Shakespeare shit,’” I said. “It’s the Postscript Scholars Program.”

“Is it paying you twenty million dollars a year?”

“No.”

“Then case closed.” He shrugged. “Looks like it’s not worth your time, so let’s discuss more important matters like your recovery schedule.”

“It’s the highest postgraduate honor when it comes to writing.” I glanced outside his massive window where my teammates were warming up for practice. “I’ve explained this to you several times before.”

“And it still doesn’t make any sense.” He shook his head. “Your education time is over, Mr. Wolff. It’s bad enough you didall four years in college just to finish your degree. It’s time for full-time football.”

“That’s right.” His assistant and personal parrot nodded his head in the corner. “Full-time football.”

“It’s not like I can play.” I held up my bandaged wrist. “I can’t practice either.”

“But you can write with that hand?”

“I’d be writing with my left one…”

His face reddened, and he suddenly shot out of his chair, pacing the room and talking to himself as if he were alone. I’d witnessed this exact same performance earlier this week, and it wasn’t worthy of an encore.

This was his fourth year as head coach, and I was supposed to be his ticket to a winning season—his chance at being off the “hot seat,” and his “fucking key to some goddamn success.”

I honestly couldn’t blame him for losing his shit when one of my teammates sacked me hard enough to fracture my wrist in practice last week, but deep down, I was relieved as hell.

My college years flew by in such a blur that most of my memories revolved around the field. Yet, despite leading my team to back-to-back winning records and a national championship, the last thing I wanted right now wasmorefootball.

I need a fucking break…

I wanted to breathe without someone telling me what that breath should be worth.

“Now, you listen very carefully to me, son.” Coach Harrison slammed his hands against the desk, finally breaking out of his trance. “Injured or not, you need to be on the sidelines—supporting your teammates and representing the culture. You also need to watch film with everyone else after game days.”

“Iwillbe there,” I said. “I’ve told you this before.”

“I wasn’t listening.” He scoffed. “You also need to stay here in this city for the season, Taylor—within a fifty-mile radius—regardless of where that writing stuff is.”

“The program is literally down the street on a private school’s campus,” I said. “It covers housing.”

“You didn’t buy a house here yet?”

“I haven’t had the time to look.”

“Every other first-round pick ‘house-hunted’ right after the draft.” His eyes widened. “What the hell have you been doing?”