The neon from the bar’s flickering sign bled through the rain-streaked window, painting Russ Holliday’s reflection in a sickly red hue. He barely recognized the man staring back. Once, that face had been on every sports magazine cover from L.A. to New York — the golden boy, the quarterback who was supposed to make history. Now, he was just another drunk nursing a glass of whiskey he couldn’t afford and memories he couldn’t escape.
The Rose Bowl.
That last play.
The roar of the crowd turning to silence.
He still heard it every time he closed his eyes.
People used to cheer his name. Now they said it like a cautionary tale.
Coaches whispered it to their rookies — Don’t be a Russ Holliday.
He took another drink, hoping the burn might drown the shame that had taken up residence in his chest. It didn’t. It never did. The guilt had become a living thing inside him, whispering in his ear that he’d already peaked, that he’d never crawl out of the hole he’d dug.
The door opened, letting in a rush of cold air — and her.
(Y/N).
She didn’t belong in a place like this — soft eyes, rain on her coat, hands trembling just slightly as if she wasn’t used to being around this kind of ruin. She asked the bartender for coffee, not liquor, and when she glanced his way, Russ almost looked away out of habit — shame had made him invisible by choice.
But she looked at him. Really looked.
Not with pity, not with the judgment he’d grown used to, but with something far more dangerous — kindness.
And for the first time in years, Russ Holliday didn’t feel like he was drowning.
—
The phone rang at 2:17 a.m.
(Y/N) woke to the sound of it, disoriented and half afraid. Only one person ever called at that hour anymore.
She didn’t need to check the name.
She already knew.
“Russ?”
There was a pause — the kind of silence that carries more weight than words. Then came the sound of his breath, uneven, ragged.
Somewhere in the background she could hear muffled music, laughter, the clink of bottles.
“Hey,” he slurred, voice cracked and heavy. “I… I didn’t know who else to call.”
Her chest tightened. “Russ, where are you?” He laughed — a hollow, broken sound.
“Does it matter? I’m fine. Just thought… maybe you’d wanna hear from your favorite failure.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? Everyone else does.” His words stumbled over themselves, soaked in whiskey and regret.
“You should’ve left me alone when you had the chance, (Y/N). You tried to fix something that’s already—” His voice broke.
“Already gone.”
She pressed the phone tighter to her ear, eyes stinging. “You’re not gone. You’re lost. That’s not the same thing.”
On the other end, she heard him inhale — a sharp, shaky breath. “I keep seeing it,” he whispered. “The play. The ball slipping through my hands. The silence. God, it never stops.”
“Russ…”
“I just wanted to win. I just wanted to make them proud. But I ruined everything. And now I can’t even look at myself.”
The sound of him crying — quietly, ashamed — made her heart ache. There was no arrogance left in him, no trace of the man who once owned the field. Just a boy who’d never stopped falling from that one terrible night.
“Listen to me,” she said softly, steadying her voice even as tears slid down her cheeks.
“You’re not alone, okay? You called me — that means you still want to be found.”
He was silent again. For a long time. Then, barely above a whisper, he said,
“I’m tired, (Y/N). I’m so damn tired.”
Her hand shook as she held the phone. “Then let me come get you.”
“…Would you really?”
“Always.”
The line went quiet except for his uneven breathing. And though she didn’t know where he was yet, she was already grabbing her keys, pulling on her jacket — ready to find him, again.