Caves End (Larry Stylinson)

A Change Of Scenery

"Well, Dave, it's been five months since Harry Styles made his shocking announcement and we still have no concrete idea of what he's planning. What path do you think he'll take?"

"Yes, Wayne, that's right. The sport has been on tenterhooks eagerly awaiting his next move but as yet, we've heard nothing from his camp. Many thought he would take up a coaching position with a premier league team or maybe snag a talent development role. He's certainly got the credentials for either. We'd been expecting some kind of indication of his intentions by now but instead, Styles has become somewhat of a recluse and hasn't been seen in public for weeks."

Harry shuts off the television having heard more than enough from the talking heads and drops the remote onto the couch beside him, sinking back into the soft leather and staring up at the double-height ceiling. His eyes focus on a string of old cobwebs, the spider who spun it long since having moved on to make their home somewhere else. Harry can't relate.

The commentators are right, of course, as annoying as it is to hear them simplify his current situation to a few soundbites. He's a bit lost, is the thing. Unsure of which direction to take. It's not how he thought his football career would go; injured and out of the game at twenty-seven. He's achieved so much, but he still feels like he was cut off in his prime. The youngest, and first openly gay, captain of the English football team, dual-Premiership winner and so many other accolades they're too numerous to mention.

The offending meniscus in his right knee twinges as if to provide a timely reminder of the reason for his early retirement from the game that had shaped his life.

Harry straightens out his leg and props it up on the coffee table. It doesn't actually hurt, not anymore; two operations and untold hours of physio have made sure of that. He has full movement and can do pretty much everything without impediment, everything except the one thing he holds dearest. Playing professional football.

He pulls his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and checks the time before setting it down beside the television remote. It's just gone four o'clock and in his old life he'd be at training; running drills on the pitch, weight training, maybe a practice game with the team. Harry sighs to himself and looks around his empty home, the sun filtering in through the large windows that frame the view of his well-kept garden. His house is devoid of life; expensive art on the walls, expensive furniture, expensive everything, the entire space interior designed to within an inch of its life. It hadn't seemed to matter before, not when his life was outside, at the stadium, at training, away games, home games, tours across the globe. But now that he's cooped up here, even if it's mostly self-imposed, he's barely existing and he can feel it dragging him down further every day.

He could coach. There have been offers, after all, both at home and abroad. Or he could move into talent development. That's more appealing in a way, something behind the scenes and out of the limelight, a chance to help shape the future of the sport. It's just that nothing feels right. He'd hoped a bit of time would help, time to assess his options, to make the right decision, but it seems to be having the opposite effect.

Niall has been so patient with him. He's been there through it all, supporting him and taking on the dual roles as his manager and best mate. He was there when he rose through the ranks and reached the pinnacle of the sport, through the first injury and operation and recovery, then through the second. They've shared the highest of highs and the lowest of lows and he's been right by his side on the entire journey. Niall keeps telling him to just take his time, not to rush into anything, that the right thing will present itself when he's ready, probably when he least expects it. But Harry can tell he's frustrated too.

He checks his phone again realising that he hasn't heard from Niall all day. He opens their chat and sees that the last message was indeed from last night. No links to silly memes or viral Youtube videos, not even a good morning. God. Maybe even Niall is tiring of Harry's wallowing and indecision.