This combines two requests.
T/w: mentions of depression, slight, non direct mentions of the events in Rio.
Being unable to be there when someone you love is hurting has to be the one of the most awful feelings he's experienced. The phone is one thing, especially when it was the best they had, but it didn't compare to getting to hold her in his arms, visibly seeing she was physically safe. It wouldn't change the devastation she felt; he was aware only time would do that.
But it would have been something.
He tries to keep himself in check. It isn't about him. If he's feeling helpless, completely powerless from thousands of miles away, he realizes it's not even a fraction of what she's going through.
Even though he tried his best not to watch videos, to talk to Taylor directly about what was going on, the minute he even glanced at his phone, he was bombarded by images. It wasn't a safe situation for anyone and naturally, seeing Taylor struggle, trying to help others, hurt his heart.
I'm okay, was the first text. She had known he'd seen the footage, couldn't escape it. Things aren't good right now, but I'm okay. We're trying to handle it.
He knew her well enough by now to recognize when she was minimizing the severity of the situation. She wasn't lying for the sake of being deceitful; she just didn't want anyone to worry. She'd become used to shouldering burdens alone, for the most part, and he got it, he did. Still broke him, though, this idea she felt she needed to be strong all the time.
That night, after practice, he thought about texting Scott, asking how she was, really, find out what exactly was happening but ultimately he decided against it. The last thing he wanted to do was have her feel like he was going behind her back. It didn't stop him from worrying, waiting for the show to finish so that he'd get to talk to her again.
It wasn't until later on that he got the call, trying to make sense of what he was hearing, but all he could piece together was Taylor's shattered heart, open and raw and the way he tried to his absolute best to comfort her, to reassure her. How she sobbed with her entire soul until she couldn't speak, absolutely beside herself.
He had stayed up with her well into the morning hours and half the night where he was, listening as she spoke, offering gentle comfort when he could, letting her cry and vent and express her anger that something like this had ever happened in the first place.
The only consolation was that her father was with her, her entire team, people who loved her and would take good care of her. It wasn't the same, though, and neither of them were able to pretend that it was.
Somewhere around 3 a.m. there, she'd finally crashed, utterly exhausted, but he hadn't hung up. Instead, he had clutched the phone to his chest, closing his eyes.
He had practice again at 7 sharp, so he'd made sure she was still resting peacefully when he left, texting her that he loved her and would call her to check in when he got a break.
The thing about football was that in any type of turmoil in his life, any upheavel, he was able to leave all of it off the field. Concentrating solely on plays and what he needed to do anchored him, brought him calm when peace was allusive. At practice, he could channel all of the anxiety and the pain, everything that swam around his head into the game.
And it works, for the time being. By the time Coach Reid calls for a break, he's much more focused, ready to approach whatever is to come with a clear head.
He opens his locker, grabbing for his phone to check for updates and sees the text immediately, his face falling.
We're trying to postpone. It's such a mess, Trav. I'm trying to do what's right and they're pushing back. It's fucking heartless.
