"Trav?"
He turns, just a tilt of his head. "I'm sorry, baby. Can't sleep."
The lights of the city stream through the blinds, strips of illumination against gleaming hardwoods, and gently, she places a hand on his upper back.
"You don't need to apologize. I just woke up and you weren't there."
She's usually the one who battles with insomnia. It's not uncommon for her to carefully slide out of Travis's embrace, taking extra precautions to leave without disturbing him, even though she's fairly certain he could sleep through an earthquake. Then she'd slink down to the music room of whatever house they were in, unable to rest until the melody was out of her brain and poured into the strings of a guitar or the smooth ivory keys of the piano. It's become less of an issue of being haunted by past mistakes or indiscretions and more due to being so inspired by life and love that it's bursting out of her, unable to be contained. Trav will come downstairs to find a fresh pot of coffee and one look at her will tell him everything he suspected.
Now, she understands why he's up and standing at the window, staring blankly out into the distance. From her vantage point, Taylor can see his expression and how his mouth has slid into a narrow line. It's not so far removed from the one he wore as he watched the game and realized as the minutes raced by, they were fighting an uphill battle, one that they were not going to win.
But it's void of sadness, of the sick helplessness and disappointment and that is a relief. He'd looked so defeated when he'd come to meet her afterward, as much as he had tried to smile, as grateful as he was for all the support, she could see that he was hurt. The wind knocked out of him and he'd numbed the pain with a few drinks, some weed. Nothing to the point where it alarmed her, nothing to cause him to behave out of character. She knew once the initial sting had faded, bruises less fresh he would come back into himself. That was something she never had to worry about.
They'd both been quiet the day after. No talk about the game or what he had to do that week. He'd held her close by that whole morning, eating breakfast with her perched on his lap, uneager to head back to the hotel and get on a plane to finish up the particulars. He had been in better spirits on Tuesday night. A bit of the ache had settled and they would see each other soon. The thought had cheered her up, too.
The loss itself isn't the hardest part for him. Taylor's fully aware that she's the only one who understands as much because she's the only one he's explained it to. He had been wrestling with a decision for months now, wanting to make the correct one, pushing back against it, and then leaning in, a dance he figured he would be doing for a while longer.
Now, all he's left to grapple with is the most comparable outcome for everyone involved. What's best for him, for the team, for them?
The difference is, he doesn't have to do it alone.
He grabs her hand, playing with her fingers. The bruise on his nail hasn't quite faded and she can see more scratches on his wrists where he was pulled. She picks it up, and lays a kiss along the bone.
"Do you know all I ever wanted to do was win? Thought that was the most important thing. Breaking records and winning games."
His voice is softer than normal, contemplative and she nods, letting go of his hands to wrap her arms around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder.
In his embrace, she relaxes against his warmth. The reverb from his words pouring from his chest tickles her ear and she's instantly comforted by it.
"I was a cocky bastard. I can see that now. So fucking grateful we met later in life." Ruefully, he shakes his head, "You would've hated me."
