Page 45 of Take Care, Taylor
Hey, um… given last night and just in case…
This is Audrey, and this is my phone number. For emergencies only.
Taylor Wolff
You lied about it being the same number… it did change.
If our place isn’t on fire or you’re not seconds away from dying, don’t text back.
Would you care if I died?
I would go through your things and hope you had some valuables I could turn in for cash…
Funny.
Stop texting me. Now.
My apologies for Stacey’s behavior last night. Won’t happen again.
Iwanted to ask himwhich part,but I held back. It was none of my business.
Never would be…
TRACK 18. IS IT OVER NOW? (4:35)
TAYLOR
“Ladies and gentlemen, Taylor Wolff!” The Bears’ general manager grinned into the microphone, waving me toward the stage on Saturday night.
I adjusted my tie and walked through a maze of white-clothed tables, nodding to sponsors, fans, and the reporters pretending they didn’t have their recorders out.
Somehow, despite spending most of my daily hours writing, football still found a way to cut into the minutes whenever I took a breath. It seemed like every time I set down my pen or removed my hands from the keyboard, the team needed me to do something.
And yet, despite having twenty million reasons to be at their beck and call, I was getting annoyed—especially when it was for something as simple as this.
Taking my place at the podium, I read a short speech about teamwork and perseverance, the same canned lines I’d said a hundred times. I smiled when the cameras flashed. I shook hands. I looked the part.
But when it ended, my phone was buzzing nonstop.
Five missed calls from Stacey.
At first, I assumed something was wrong. When she didn’t pick up on the callback, I drove straight to her place.
Her condo lights were on when I pulled into the driveway—the kind of blinding, sterile glow that made the entire house look like a showroom.
The moment I stepped inside, I realized it basically was.
Designer bags were scattered across the couch, tissue paper spilling out like confetti. A stylist’s team was unpacking racks of clothes—sequined dresses, fur jackets, shoes that looked like they cost more than my rookie contract.
“What the hell is this?” I asked.
One of the stylists froze, clutching a hanger. “Uh, we were just finishing up?—”
“Yeah, you’re finished.” I looked at Stacey. “Everyone needs to leave.”
She blinked at me like I’d lost my mind. “They’re almost done, Taylor.”
“Now.”
