The house was a mess — empty beer cans scattered across the coffee table, blinds drawn tight against the daylight, and the faint, stale smell of something burnt coming from the kitchen. Russ Holliday hadn’t moved from the couch in hours, half-watching a muted sports segment replay that moment on loop: the dropped ball, the fumble, the touchdown that wasn’t. His name plastered across the bottom of the screen, followed by words like “disgraced,” “self-destruction,” and “career over.” He’d stopped trying to turn it off; maybe he deserved to hear it.

When the knock came at the door, he didn’t move at first — just groaned and grabbed another can. “Go away,” he muttered, voice rough and flat. But then he heard another knock, softer this time, and a voice he hadn’t heard in years calling his name. He blinked, disoriented, sitting up. “What the hell…” His dad’s doing, obviously. Of course it was. Russ ran a hand over his face, trying to remember the last time he’d showered, then dragged himself to the door. When he opened it and saw them standing there — his childhood friend, the one person who’d known him before the fame — something twisted in his chest. He forced a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess Dad’s recruiting pity visits now, huh?” he said, trying for sarcasm, but his voice cracked halfway through.