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“Good,” Nadia replied, squeezing his knee before unlocking the door and pushing inside. “I’m proud of you, Ty. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. And I don’t mean your biceps or your butt.”

“Thanks, sis,” he murmured, a small smile playing on his lips. Deep down, he knew she was right—he could face all this crap and come out stronger on the other side.

He left her checking the mail.

Tyler pushed open the door to his childhood bedroom, the creaking hinge a familiar sound that turned him thirteen again. The walls needed repainting, still hidden under faded posters of his favorite football players and bands, smothering him in memories of his early gridiron glory. Big fish, small pond. Old banners from childhood championships and postcards from people he didn’t remember. He ran his fingers along the dusty trophies lining the shelves, reminders of a time when he was unstoppable on the field, when football was the only way he could save his life and his family.

Nadia wouldn’t take his money, but at least he’d paid off the mortgage on this house. The rest of his savings was more than enough to tide him over if they killed his contract.

“Wow,” Nadia said, leaning against the doorframe, cradling the cat again. “Hello, time capsule. Now I know why you’ve been keeping me out.”

“Yeah,” Tyler murmured, his hazel eyes lingering on a photo of their mother. “Feels like a lifetime ago. I’ve been tossing stuff, but then I lost interest.” Tyler had been about twelve when their dad had finally pissed off. From that moment, his poor mom had put everything into keeping the house note paid and keeping them safe.

“Get some rest,” Nadia advised softly. “We can talk more tomorrow.” She left, closing the door behind her.

Alone with his thoughts, Tyler sat down on the edge of his twin bed, the springs groaning beneath his beefy frame. His glamorous NFL career now felt like a mirage.

Guilt gnawed at him as he remembered every well-wisher, every teammate, every fan he’d let down. He clenched his fists as he laid back, the frustration building inside him like a bonfire. But beneath it all, he still felt that dim glimmer of hope—the chance to rebuild himself, maybe even find happiness again.

“Mom only wanted us to care about stuff,” he whispered to himself. “I’ve got to try, for her sake.”

But sleep eluded him as he lay in the dark, his mind racing with thoughts of his past and the uncertain future that awaited him. Restless and agitated, he finally threw off the covers and padded to the window. The night sky beckoned, stars sparkling like distant promises.

“Maybe some fresh air,” he muttered. He slipped quietly out the back door and into the cool night. He knew staying with Nadia was only enabling his inertia.

Baby steps for the biggest baby.

The soft grass whispered beneath his feet as he walked, the familiar scents of the small backyard calming him: mowed grass, his mom’s beloved gardenias, the tangled passionflowers covering the back fence. He gazed up at the stars, feeling small but maybe connected to something bigger than himself.

“All right, universe,” Tyler whispered, his breath visible in the chilly air. “I’m going to take control of this healing crap. I’ll work out, I’ll eat organic broccoli, I’ll even get counseling—whatever it takes to get back to the stuff I know how to do better than anyone.”

His decision made, determination surged through him like an electric current. He knew the road ahead would suck, but with Nadia’s support and their mother’s memory just out of sight, he was ready to get in the game.

“Here’s to getting better,” Tyler murmured, raising his gaze to the heavens once more before turning back toward the house, a newfound sense of purpose propelling him forward.

A couple minutes later, the dim glow of Tyler’s laptop lit his rough knuckles as he sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by the quiet darkness of the house. He could hear the faint ticking of an old clock on the wall, a gentle reminder that time was still moving forward, even when he felt stuck in place.

Even without having a panic attack, he used Dr. Reynolds’s three-three-three trick to anchor himself where he was. Raising his eyes, he saw three things: juice, flowers, cat. He heard three things: the hum of the fridge, the hall clock, Poops purring on the sill. He moved three things: opened the laptop, patted his chest, sat down.

“All right,” he whispered to himself, inhaling deeply. “Let’s do this.”

His oversized fingers skittered across the keyboard as he tapped out an email to a local therapist he’d found through a quick search. His hands always seemed clumsy using any kind of technology. The weight of admitting he needed help was heavy, but with each word he typed, he felt a little bit lighter.

Hi, Dr. Bailey, Tyler wrote, swallowing his pride. My name is Tyler Fantana, and I’m interested in scheduling an appointment to discuss my current issues. I don’t know if you follow football, but I’ve experienced a major health setback at the start of the season, and I’m not coping so great with the necessary adjustments.

He hesitated for a moment before adding, I want to get better, but to be honest, I don’t know how to do that without some professional help.

Before he could start messing or second-guessing, he clicked to send the email on its way. First step toward regaining some balance. His stupid heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of anxiety and hope swirling within him. He allowed himself a slight smile, proud of taking the initiative to confront his depression head-on.

Next, Tyler turned his attention to finding a place where he could begin his physical rehabilitation. He browsed through various gym websites, but he quickly realized that he couldn’t just walk into any random workout studio without drawing all the wrong kinds of attention. The locals would get weird, and once the word got loose, the paparazzi would be relentless.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “Going out in public will just make things worse.”

A small head butted his leg. Mr. Poops obviously thought a human in the kitchen meant mealtime and mandatory massage.

Tyler bent to scritch the purring cat’s ears and give him one long stroke to smooth his back and up his extravagant tail. “No way, Poops. I feed you now, I’m toast come morning.” Mr. Poops had been a feisty stray that just kept being cute until Nadia gave up and offered him room and board in exchange for being loud and adorable.

Though skeptical at first, Tyler had become a big fan. Poops spent a lot of nights curled up on the foot of his bed, for which he was deeply grateful. Some nights, just having another heartbeat close made all the difference.