If the Price Is Pride

One Week LaterMay 8th; 2023Travis Kelce's Point of ViewJune's set up in the spare bedroom, curled beneath a weighted blanket, the glow of her laptop dim and untouched. She never started her sophomore year—never made it past August. Her immune system's too shot to handle a classroom, and between the endless doctor's appointments, hospital stays, and the sheer exhaustion that never lets up, school just... stopped being a priority.

Legally, she has to be enrolled. She's only fifteen so she's technically still in the district's online program. But the girl who used to pull straight A's doesn't show up anymore. Cancer took that version of her. Treatments, nausea, fatigue, and the kind of depression that swallows you whole have worn her down. Now, she scrapes by with D's and C's, failing geometry twice. And some days, even that feels like too much.

I'm not mad at her for it. God, how could I be? She's fifteen. She's exhausted. She's dying. As much as I like to tell her she's going to live, to keep fighting, to hold on... the truth is, I don't know. No one knows. And if she's not going to make it—if this is all the time we get—I don't want her wasting it on logging into some half-assed geometry class she's already failed twice.

Let her sleep in. Let her binge crappy TV and eat cereal for dinner. Let her vape even though I hate it. Let her live in whatever way she can.

We've already tried so much to help her. Chemo round after round, until her hair was gone and her skin turned gray. We tried the half-match stem cell transplant—mine. We were desperate. It didn't take. Her body rejected it, like it knew it wasn't enough. We sat in hospitals for weeks on end, watching numbers on charts and praying like that could make a difference.

We waited. For a donor, for a miracle, for any sign it was getting better. It didn't.

"Junebug, about ready to go?" I call from the kitchen, shoving pill bottles and paperwork into a beat-up tote bag with one hand and grabbing her insurance forms with the other. The zip on the folder snags halfway through—again.

"Do we really have to?" she calls back, her voice muffled from behind the closed bathroom door. Even her shrug sounds tired.

I exhale through my nose and try to keep the frustration out of my voice. "Come on, it's just a check-in. Maybe twenty minutes. And we'll get ice cream on the way home."

"Bribery? Really?" The door creaks open and she steps out, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, shadows under her eyes deeper than they were last week. Still, there's the faintest hint of a smirk.

I hold up the bag and nod toward the front door. "Cold bribes work best."

She rolls her eyes but slips on her shoes anyway, slow and quiet like everything takes twice the energy these days. I watch her pull her hood up and stuff her hands in her pockets, and I can't help but feel how much smaller she's gotten in the last year. Like she's disappearing one inch at a time.

"Got your mask?" I ask, patting my coat pocket for the extra just in case.

She flashes it at me before slipping it on. "Got yours, Dad?"

I smile a little. "Always."

We head out the door. The hallway smells like dust and someone's overcooked breakfast. She doesn't complain when I hover a hand behind her back as we head down the stairs. She's too tired to fight me today.

The drive is excruciating. Not because of traffic, though Philly's never kind in that department—but because of everything else. Every damn thing pressing down on me like a boulder strapped to my chest.

We live in Philadelphia. Of course she's bound to come through when she's on tour. Taylor. She'll be here in four days—Friday. And the entire city is already preparing for her arrival like she's the second coming.

Swifties have been pouring in all week, taking over coffee shops and hotel lobbies, crowding sidewalks with friendship bracelets and sequined boots. Restaurants are blasting her music on loop and naming overpriced cocktails after her lyrics. There's a mural being painted downtown. A mural. Of her face.

She'll probably get another key to the city. Maybe they'll crown her mayor for the day like every other stop. She's practically worshipped wherever she goes now. Cities falling at her feet. And I get it—she's talented, successful, rich beyond imagination. But she's also the woman who hasn't seen her daughter in fourteen years.

And I have to drive through the streets of a city that's in love with her. While my daughter's in the passenger seat, barely able to stay awake for more than an hour without needing a nap.

Every red light, every billboard, every storefront—it's like the whole city is screaming her name. Meanwhile, I'm trying to keep June alive and she doesn't even know.

June stares out the window as we crawl through Center City traffic. Her eyes follow the crowds, the banners, the signs plastered on every light post.

"Her fans sometimes call her mother," she says, voice flat. "Isn't that ironic?"

I glance at her, but she doesn't look at me. She just keeps watching the sidewalk—some girl in a sparkly jacket dancing to a Taylor song blasting from a storefront speaker.

I don't answer. What is there to say?

June's anger toward Taylor runs deep. Understandably so. She has every right to feel it. But sometimes I think it's eating her alive. Like it's got claws sunk into her ribs and won't let go. It takes up so much space in her head—more than it should. I don't blame her. It's hard not to be consumed when the woman you're trying to forget is everywhere. In every store. On every billboard. Every time she turns on the TV or opens her phone. When the whole world is obsessed with someone you're trying to pretend doesn't exist... it's impossible to escape.

"I hate her. I hate her so much," June grumbles, arms folded tight across her chest as she sinks deeper into the passenger seat.

"She's not exactly my favorite person either, Bug," I say quietly, keeping my eyes on the road. There's no use trying to steer her feelings. I've learned that by now. All I can do is sit with them.

By the time we pull into the clinic parking lot, the sun's climbing higher and the air feels thick. I help her gather her hoodie and water bottle, then grab the folder I always carry—med lists, insurance forms, test results, all of it tucked inside like some kind of holy book.

Inside, we check in at the front desk. I scribble down her information like I have a hundred times before. June slouches in the chair next to me, tapping her foot, pulling her sleeve over her hand, then peeling it back again. I know the routine. She hates these visits, even the short ones. Especially the short ones. It means there's nothing good to say.

"Today's just a check-in," I remind her gently. "Vitals, prescriptions. In and out."

"Sure," she mumbles, not looking up.

The waiting room is sterile as ever—beige walls, a half-dead plant, and some cartoon playing on low volume from the TV bolted to the ceiling. Families sit in silence. Some are here for allergies, some for broken bones. You can always tell who's here for the hard stuff. They look like we do. Quiet. Tired. Carrying too much.

After fifteen minutes, a nurse steps out from the hallway.

"June?"

I feel her shoulders stiffen beside me. I stand, offering my hand. "Come on, Bug."

She doesn't take it, but she follows.

June walks just a few steps behind me, hood up, arms crossed tight like she's trying to shrink into herself. The nurse leads us down a hallway lined with closed doors, the kind of hallway I could probably walk blindfolded by now.

Room 3. It's always Room 3.

"Go ahead and have a seat, June," the nurse says kindly, and June drops into the chair like gravity's heavier for her than anyone else.

"Any fever, chills, or new symptoms?" the nurse asks as she clips the blood pressure cuff around June's arm.

"Nope," June says flatly. She stares at the wall like she's somewhere else. The cuff inflates and beeps. The nurse notes the numbers and gets her weight. June doesn't even flinch when it's lower than last time.

"Okay, the doctor will be in soon."

When we're alone, I look over at her. "You sure you're okay?"

She doesn't answer right away. Then: "I'm tired of this."

"I know."

"No, like... all of it." She looks at me now. "Being poked. Prodded. Watching other kids just... live. Go to school. Go to prom. Travel. And I'm stuck here hoping my blood work is just bad and not worse."

"I know," I whisper again. It's all I can offer. Because I do know. And I can't fix any of it.

A soft knock. Then the door opens. It's Dr. Harris, clipboard in hand, warm eyes above his mask.

"Hey, June. Travis."

"Hey, doc," I nod.

He pulls up the stool. "I'll keep it short today. Your last labs came in this morning."

June just blinks at him.

"There's no change from last month, but there's something I do want to talk to you both about."

That gets her attention. "What?"

"There's a clinical trial. Out of CHOP," he begins carefully. "It's still early phase, but it's showing promise for patients like you—specifically those who have relapsed or didn't respond well to transplant."

June is stone-faced.

I lean forward. "What kind of trial?"

"CAR-T cell therapy," he says. "It's a type of immunotherapy. It reprograms your T-cells to attack the leukemia more effectively."

"Is it a cure?" she asks, voice small.

"It's not a guarantee," Dr. Harris says gently. "But it's hope. And right now, it's the best next step."

June stares at the floor. "I already tried hope."

I reach over and take her hand.

Dr. Harris looks between us. "I'll give you both a minute. If you're open to it, we can talk details. If not, that's okay too."

When the door shuts behind him, silence settles thick in the room.

June lets out a shaky breath. "I don't want to die, Dad."

I squeeze her hand tighter. "Then let's try it."

The next day we end up at the waiting room of Children's Hospital of Philadelphia that smells like lemon cleaner and burnt coffee. June sits curled up by the window, hoodie over her head, one earbud in. She's not actually listening to anything—just hiding. She twirls the cord with one hand, staring blankly out at the parking garage. Her legs are pulled up onto the seat. There's an IV bruise blooming under her elbow from the last round of labs.

Across from me, a social worker with soft gray hair and a cardigan that looks hand-knitted sits with her hands folded. Angela, her badge says. She has the kind eyes of someone who's been doing this too long, who's seen too many parents get bad news.

"I spoke with our financial services office," she says gently, "and unfortunately the trial June was referred for isn't covered by Medicaid."

My throat tightens. "She's already enrolled. We filled out the paperwork—she qualifies."

"She does," Angela says, nodding. "She qualifies under CHIP, which covers a wide range of care. But experimental treatments like this one since they're not FDA-approved aren't considered essential services. That makes them ineligible."

I let out a laugh, dry and tired. "So she's sick enough for chemo, for port surgeries, for hospice if it comes to that but not sick enough for the thing that might actually work."

Angela doesn't correct me. She just folds her hands a little tighter. "I know how unfair it sounds. And it is. But there are other options. Nonprofits that help with costs, pharmaceutical funding, even crowdfunding if you want to go that route. I can help connect you."

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. "How much are we talking?"

Angela hesitates, just for a moment. Then: "Out of pocket, it could run between four hundred to five hundred thousand dollars. That covers labs, the treatment itself, hospital stay, post-treatment care..."

Angela slides a paper across the desk toward me. It has a butterfly on it and the words Hope Lives Here. I hate it already.

"There's a foundation that's helped some of our families," she says. "They won't cover the whole cost, but it's something. And I'll help you with applications for others."

"We've already tried so much," I murmur. "Chemo. The half-match transplant. We waited. We prayed. We begged for one more chance. This was supposed to be it."

Angela's expression doesn't change. I know she's seen a hundred dads like me. Ones who've given everything. Ones who still lose.

"I'll walk you through the next steps," she says. "You're not alone."

But we are. We're so alone in this. Alone with a dying kid and a busted truck and three jobs that can't cover the cost of one Hail Mary chance.

~

All the girls are asleep—finally. The house is quiet, blanketed in that soft kind of silence that only settles when everyone under three feet tall has surrendered to sleep. Except Bennie. Jason sits on the couch with her cradled against his chest, her tiny fingers clutched into the fabric of his Eagles hoodie. She sucks gently on a pacifier, wide-eyed but calm, the rise and fall of his breathing lulling her into comfort. I sit across from him in one of the armchairs, shoulders heavy, elbows on my knees.

Jason glances over, voice quiet. "How'd the meeting at CHOP go?"

I don't answer right away. My gaze drifts to the baby in his arms, the perfect pink warmth of her cheeks, the way she fits against him like she was always meant to. I swallow.

"It... went."

Jason raises an eyebrow. "Is she getting the treatment?"

I run a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the knots I didn't bother to brush out this morning. "Medicaid doesn't cover it."

His expression doesn't change, but I can see it hit. That familiar flicker of older-brother frustration—the one he gets when he wants to fix something for me but knows he can't.

"Why not?"

"It's experimental. Not FDA approved. Doesn't qualify as essential care." I let out a bitter laugh. "Apparently dying of leukemia does qualify for coverage, though. So that's great."

Bennie lets out a soft coo, and Jason rocks her instinctively. "What does that mean for you two? What's next?"

"I don't know." I lean back in the chair, close my eyes for a second. "Angela—our social worker—gave me a bunch of pamphlets. Nonprofits. Grants. Crowdfunding bullshit. She said the trial'll cost somewhere between four hundred and five hundred thousand."

Jason doesn't say anything for a long moment. Just keeps holding Bennie, her tiny breath rising and falling against his chest.

"I need money." The words feel like ash in my mouth, bitter and dry. I stare down at my hands, ashamed of the way they shake slightly. "You know how much I hate asking for it. I've been doing everything I can but I just... please, Jason."

Across from me, Jason shifts Bennie in his arms. She's finally starting to nod off, her pacifier falling loose as her lashes flutter shut. He watches her for a long moment before looking back at me. His voice is quiet, but steady.

"We love June. And we love you, Trav. You know that." He pauses. "But we're not her parents."

I feel the words land like a punch to the gut. "What are you trying to say?"

"I want to help you," Jason says again, slower this time, like he's trying to soften the blow. "I do. But this... it's not fair. Not on Kylie. Not on the girls."

"I know it's not fair," I snap, the frustration cracking through before I can catch it. My voice drops. "But cancer isn't fair."

Jason exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. He adjusts Bennie gently, like the rhythm of soothing her might calm himself too. "What's not fair is Taylor walking out. What's not fair is you doing all of this alone when she—she can afford this treatment. She has the money, Trav. She always has."

I don't say anything. I just stare down at the fraying edge of the couch cushion and pick at a thread like it might give me something to hold onto.

"You're avoiding her," Jason presses. "You haven't even told her how bad it's gotten."

"Because she relinquished rights," I mutter. "She signed the papers. She walked away. She gave that up."

"Travis," Jason says, more forcefully now, the softness falling away. "Please."

The silence after is thick.

"She doesn't get to just come back in," I finally say, but even to my own ears, it sounds tired. Hollow. "She made her choice."

Jason nods once. "She did. But that doesn't mean June should have to pay for it."

That one hits hard. Because he's right. And I don't have a defense lined up for that.

"She hates her," I say quietly. "She sees her face on a billboard and wants to punch it. She never refers to Taylor as her mom. She's not ready."

Jason doesn't answer right away. He just bounces Bennie slightly, staring off like he's weighing something he doesn't want to say out loud.

"Maybe she's not ready," he says at last. "But she's also fifteen. And she's dying."

"Jason. Please—can you just give us the money?" My voice cracks as I say it. "You have it. She's your goddaughter."

Jason doesn't look at me right away. He keeps his eyes on Bennie, gently adjusting the blanket that's slipped from her shoulder. Her little hand is curled against his chest like she owns the world. Maybe she does.

"I'll tell you what," he says finally, quiet but firm. "I'll pay for the entire treatment."

Relief floods my chest for half a second—until he adds, "But you have to talk to Taylor first."

I stare at him. "What?"

"She deserves to know her daughter is sick."

"Jason..."

"No. I mean it, Trav." His tone hardens, but not out of anger—conviction. "You don't have to forgive her. You don't have to let her back in. But you do have to tell her."

I shake my head. "She gave up her rights. She walked away."

"She's still her mother."

"She didn't want to be her mother."

Jason finally looks at me, eyes tired but clear. "That may be true. But now? She might be the only one who can save her. Or at least help."

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clenched. "I can't do this."

"You can," he says, quieter now. "Because if it were Bennie, I'd want someone to tell me. Even if I didn't deserve it."

I don't say anything.

Jason rests his hand on my shoulder. "You ask her. You tell her the truth. If she refuses to help, I'll step in. I'll cover the cost. Every dollar. But she deserves the call first."

"Jason—"

He cuts me off, voice firm but low. "You've been making me carry a weight that's not mine to carry for almost two years, Travis. Two years."

I look away, jaw tightening. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. Every word lands like a punch.

"There's another person out there who can help," he says, slower now, like he's trying not to lose it. "Someone who actually is responsible. You keep shielding her, cutting her out like she's dead, but she's not. She's breathing. She's rich. And she's her mother."

I run a hand down my face, silent.

Jason leans forward, Bennie still pressed to his chest. "I love June. I love you. But this—this can't all fall on me. Not when she's still out there pretending your kid doesn't exist."

"Okay, and how am I supposed to contact her?" I snap, gesturing hopelessly. "I don't exactly have her phone number in my favorites."

Jason doesn't flinch. "She's coming to town this weekend."

I blink. "What?"

"The Eras Tour," he says. "She's here Friday. Sold-out show. You know how the city's been losing its mind over it."

"Yeah, I've noticed," I mutter.

"You'll meet with her before the concert. I'll figure it out—press contacts, someone on her team. I'll get you in the same room."

I shake my head slowly, still trying to catch up. "You want me to go backstage? After all this time?"

Jason meets my eyes. "I want you to tell the mother of your child that her daughter's dying."

I open my mouth, close it. I can't argue with that.

—————Author's Note:

We see Tay next chapter.

I'm also very sick send help