If I Had Another Choice

Four Days LaterMay 12th; 2023Travis Kelce's Point of ViewI've been standing outside Taylor's dressing room for twenty minutes. My palms are sweating. My foot won't stop tapping. I keep glancing down the hallway like I'm hoping someone will come pull me away from this—fire drill, bomb threat, divine intervention, I don't know.

What the hell am I even supposed to say?

Do I just walk in there with a smile on my face and casually drop it? Hey, remember me? The guy you handed full custody to and never looked back on? Yeah, your daughter's dying. And oh—by the way I need half a million from you.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to keep it together. The muffled sound of her soundcheck bleeds through the door. Laughter. Movement. Her team, her people, her life. I'm about to walk into a world that hasn't included me or June in over a decade.

And I have to ask her to help save a life she walked away from. Jesus Christ.

A couple of girls step out of Taylor's dressing room, laughing as they go, dressed head to toe in glitter and sequins, clearly ready to hit the stage. One of them holds the door for the other, and I catch it just before it closes. My hand grips the handle like it might burn me. Deep breath. No turning back now.

I step inside.

The room is warm, filled with soft lighting and the low hum of pre-show energy. She's on the couch with a couple of friends—faces I don't recognize—laughing at something on someone's phone. And in her lap, one of her cats is curled up, purring like it owns the place. Typical.

She doesn't see me right away.

And I... I just stare.

She's different. So different.

Not just the hair, the clothes, the way she holds herself like she belongs here. Of course she looks different from fourteen years ago—anyone would. But it hits me like a punch to the chest: she's not the girl I remember.

She's a woman now. Polished. Composed. Confident in a way that makes me feel like the kid in the room. I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I was still expecting to see that scared, stubborn teenager who cried through childbirth and signed the custody papers with a shaking hand. But that version of her is gone and I don't know who this one is. Not yet.

"Uh, Taylor?" I manage, my voice uneven, like it barely survived the trip up my throat.

Her head turns. And the moment her eyes meet mine, something in her freezes. It's like the blood drains from her face all at once. The color fades. Her back straightens, shoulders stiffen, and for a second, she just stares—like maybe I'm a ghost.

"Travis?" she breathes, barely louder than a whisper.

The conversation in the room halts. One of her friends, still lounging beside her, looks between us with raised brows. "Taylor, who's the mystery man?" she giggles, nudging her playfully.

"I need you guys to get out," Taylor says, sharp and sudden. "Please."

There's no argument. Something in her tone cuts clean through the room. The girls exchange confused glances but gather their things quickly. The cat in her lap jumps off with a grunt of protest as Taylor stands.

And just like that, we're alone. Fourteen years of silence pressing down on the air between us like a collapsing ceiling.

"I had Jason help me set up the meeting." I rub the back of my neck. "You seem surprised to see me."

Taylor lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief. "Surprised?" she echoes. "I thought Tree was fucking joking. I actually laughed when she told me."

She shakes her head like she's still trying to catch up to reality. Her arms fold across her chest, but it's not defensive—it's grounding. Like she's bracing herself for whatever storm I brought with me.

"Never in a million years did I think you'd walk through that door," she adds, quieter now.

"I need your help." The words come out low, almost swallowed. I don't look at her when I say it.

Taylor blinks, slowly, her arms still crossed as she leans back slightly. "Why aren't you asking Jason?"

"I did ask Jason." My voice cracks just enough for her to notice. "You think I'd be here if I had another option? If I wasn't already out of money and out of plans and out of people to ask?"

I finally meet her eyes. "You're a last resort. You're the only person left who can actually do something."

Something shifts in her face—shock giving way to something else. Something heavier.

"Jason's loaned me money so many times," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "I hate asking for it. I hate putting that on him."

Taylor tilts her head, her voice sharper now. "But you don't mind asking me?"

"No," I say flatly. "I don't."

Her mouth opens like she's going to snap back, but the words never come. Her expression is tight, confused—wounded, maybe. "What happened?" she asks finally, quieter. "What did you mess up so badly?"

I pause. Swallow. Then I say it.

"Junie," I whisper. "She has cancer."

The silence after is deafening. Taylor's face doesn't move, but everything in her eyes does—shock, pain, disbelief, like someone just knocked the wind out of her.

"Is it breast?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "Like my mom?"

I shake my head slowly. "No. Leukemia."

Her lips part, but no sound comes out. I can see her swallow, like the word alone is a mouthful of grief.

"It's really aggressive," I continue, my voice cracking. "Nothing's working. Chemo didn't do enough. The transplant—she rejected it. We're out of time and out of options. There's an experimental trial, but we can't afford it without help."

Taylor blinks hard, like she's trying to push the tears back inside. I can tell she's already doing the math in her head. Calculating years lost. Regret she can't admit out loud.

"She's fifteen, Tay. And she's scared. I'm scared." I finally sit down across from her. "And she doesn't even know I'm here."

A girl with a headset peeks her head through the door, clipboard in hand and urgency in her tone. "You're on in twenty minutes."

Taylor doesn't even blink. "Push it back."

The girl blinks, confused. "Push it back?"

"Thirty minutes. Maybe an hour." Taylor stands up, rubbing her palms on her bodysuit like her nerves are catching up. "An hour. Yeah. Delay an hour."

"Uh..." The girl steps in fully now, eyes wide. "What do you mean just delay? Like—it's a sold-out stadium."

"I know." Taylor runs a hand through her hair. "It's a personal emergency, okay? Just—please. I need you to delay the concert."

The girl hesitates, glancing between Taylor and me. I can tell she doesn't want to push back too hard, not when Taylor looks like she's just been told the sky is falling.

"...Okay. I'll talk to the team," she says finally, then ducks back out, shutting the door behind her.

"How serious is it?" she asks. Her voice is quieter now, like something in her already knows the answer.

I run a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. "She's out of options. Her last shot is a clinical trial. Children's Hospital of Philadelphia."

Taylor doesn't say anything at first. Just sits there, still as stone, her fingers curling tighter around the edge of the couch.

Taylor stares at me like she didn't hear it right. Like if she just blinks enough times, the words will shift into something softer. Something manageable. But they don't. I see it hit her in waves — confusion first, then guilt, then something deeper. Fear, maybe.

Her voice barely makes it out. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Because you left," I say. It comes out sharper than I mean, but I don't take it back. "You signed the papers. You didn't want to be her mother, remember?"

She flinches. Looks down at her lap where one of her cats has curled into a ball. She doesn't pet it. Doesn't move.

"I didn't think—I didn't know she'd ever get sick."

"No one thinks their kid's gonna get cancer, Taylor."

Her hand covers her mouth like she's trying to hold in whatever reaction's trying to force its way out. Tears, a sob, maybe even a scream. But nothing comes. Just silence. Heavy, awful silence.

Then: "What kind of trial?"

"A CAR T-Cell therapy. It's not covered by Medicaid. They'll take her own cells and genetically modify them to attack the cancer ones."

Taylor finally looks at me again, eyes red but not crying yet. "How much?"

I hesitate. Then I tell her. "500k." She doesn't even blink.

She stands abruptly and crosses the room, grabbing her purse off the table with urgency. Taylor pulls out a leather checkbook and flicks it open, scribbling something down fast and sharp. She tears the check off with a clean rip and turns toward me.

"Seven hundred and fifty grand," she says, holding it up between two fingers like it's nothing. "Should be more than enough?"

I blink. My hand moves before I can stop it, reaching toward her. But just as my fingertips brush the paper, she pulls it back.

Her eyes find mine, steel cutting through the distance. "Fourteen years ago, I signed my rights away. That was with the understanding that you wouldn't contact me. That I wouldn't be asked for help. That I would never have any financial obligations."

My throat tightens. "What do you want?"

She exhales, almost like it's been sitting in her chest for years. "I want to see her."

"Taylor, no."

She doesn't flinch. "Then no check."

"You don't get to walk in after fourteen years and—what, play mom because it makes you feel better?"

Her lips press into a thin line. "This isn't about me playing anything."

"Bullshit," I snap. "You disappeared. You had every chance—every chance—to come back, and you didn't. You left me to explain everything. The birthdays, the holidays, the questions she asked me when she was six and couldn't understand why all the other kids had moms."

Taylor swallows hard but doesn't look away. "Because I couldn't. Because I knew I'd mess her up worse if I did. I knew I didn't have it in me to be what she needed. I was a teenager and barely surviving myself."

"So you ran," I say. "And now you want to walk back in because she's dying?"

"No," she says firmly. "I want to walk back in because she might live. And because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't at least try."

The words land between us like a weight.

She takes a step closer, holding the check at her side now, not waving it like leverage. "This isn't about absolving myself. This isn't about being the hero. I don't expect her to call me mom. I just... want to see her. Once. To know her. To explain what I never got the chance to."

I shake my head slowly. "She's not some loose end to tie up, Taylor."

"I know," she says. "She's a person. My person. And I gave her up because I loved her, not because I didn't. You can hate me for that if you need to. I probably deserve it. But you don't get to tell me I can't try to be there now—especially not when you're asking me to pay to keep her alive."

I don't have a comeback. I just stand there, hating how true her words feel.

Then she gently holds out the check again, gaze unwavering. "Let me see her, Travis."

"She won't want to," I say flatly. "She hates you."

Taylor's brows draw together like the words sting more than she expected. "She's a kid," she says, voice tight. "All kids hate their parents."

I shake my head, crossing my arms. "Most kids hate their parents for making them do chores or taking their phones away. Most parents don't abandon their children."

Taylor flinches. Not dramatically, just the subtle kind where she blinks a little too long and exhales like her ribs are sore.

"Fair enough," she murmurs, the fight draining out of her shoulders.

But I don't stop. I can't. She needs to understand what she's walking into.

"Look... she seriously hates you. Like really fucking hates you. Like I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to punch you in the face the second she saw you."

Taylor lets out a dry laugh, but there's no humor in it—just guilt trying to armor itself as indifference.

"She hates your cats. Your music. Your fans. When people on the street wear your merch, she crosses to the other sidewalk. She changes the station when your songs come on. It's not some passive thing. It's active. It's lived-in."

I hesitate, then add, "She calls you 'Taylor' when she talks about you. Not Mom. You're just... 'the woman who left.'"

Taylor looks down at the check still in her hands, like it's the only thing anchoring her in the room. "She's allowed to hate me," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "I earned that."

I shrug. "Yeah. You did."

Her eyes flicker up, damp but steady. "But I still want to see her."

I don't say anything right away. What the hell do you say to that?

She straightens, almost defiantly. "Even if she screams. Even if she tells me she wishes I'd died instead. I'll take it. I deserve it. But I still want to try."

I look at her and realize she's not here to be forgiven. She's here because she knows she never will be.

"Fine," I say, letting the word hang in the air like it costs me something. "But I'm not doing it for you."

I cross my arms, trying not to look at the check in her hands. Trying not to look at her face either—because if I do, I might remember who she used to be. Who we were. And that's not the point. The point is June.

Taylor nods slowly. "I know."

She doesn't say thank you. Doesn't try to explain herself again or beg. Just stands there, quiet. Like she understands this is the price, and she's willing to pay it—no matter how steep it gets.

I rub a hand over my jaw and mutter, "You've got thirty seconds to put that check in my hand before I change my mind."

She doesn't hesitate this time. She presses the check into my palm. I stare down at it, the ink still fresh, the paper heavier than it should be.

"It won't fix anything," I say without looking up.

"I know," she whispers.

I tuck the check into my back pocket, already dreading what comes next. Because now I have to go home and tell June the one person she never wanted to see again... is coming back.

"Why don't you ask for money more often? Why don't you let Jason help you?" she says, exasperated. "He's literally a millionaire, and you're out here looking like you might be homeless."

I shift uncomfortably, running a hand through my hair. "I mean... we were doing fine. Until the cancer."

She opens her mouth to respond, but I cut her off, trying to explain it the best I can, even though it never really sounds good out loud. "I don't like taking money from people. I never have. It's not how I was raised. My dad used to say if you didn't earn it, it wasn't yours. So I've always worked. Always tried to figure it out on my own."

She doesn't say anything, but I can feel her looking at me. Judging maybe. Or maybe just trying to understand.

"That's how June and I have gotten by for the last fifteen years," I go on. "Just figuring it out. Scraping by when we had to. But we made it. We always made it."

"So this is pride?" she says, quieter now.

"Maybe," I admit. "Or maybe I just don't know how to be the guy who sits back and lets other people carry the weight. Even when I'm drowning."

There's a pause. Then I sigh and meet her eyes.

"But I'm doing it now. I'm here. Asking. So believe me when I say it's not easy. I thought you'd—" I start, then stop myself. My voice cracks a little. "I knew being a single dad would be a struggle but—"

Taylor doesn't say anything, just looks at me like she wants to help but doesn't know how. Her hands are clenched in her lap.

"You can't predict cancer," I say finally. "Taylor, if she never got sick, I wouldn't be here. We had a stable life. A two-bedroom apartment with a leaky sink and thin walls, yeah, but it was ours. Pizza nights every couple of weeks, a little savings account we were building up slowly. Nothing extravagant, but it was enough."

I glance down, jaw tight. "We got evicted last week. I sleep on a pull-out couch at Jason's. June's in his spare room. She barely leaves bed."

Taylor opens her mouth, but I cut her off, voice low.

"We don't qualify for SNAPs. I make too much to qualify, but too little to actually take care of her. Every cent goes to co-pays, prescriptions, parking garages, bus fare, gauze, Ensure—whatever she can keep down. It's like I'm punished for working."

"So you need me now?" Taylor's voice is sharp, but her eyes betray her—glassy and wounded. "Now June needs her mother?"

I look at her, jaw tight. I don't flinch. "She doesn't need you," I say quietly, but firmly. "She doesn't need her mother. She needs money for her treatment."

Taylor recoils slightly, like I slapped her. I can see the sting in her expression—the way her mouth presses into a thin line, her arms folding tight against her chest. She looks down at the check still clutched in her hand. I watch her fingers curl tighter around it.

"This isn't about you," I add, softer now. "This is about keeping June alive."

A low hum cuts through the stadium air, followed by a crackle over the loudspeakers.

"Due to technical difficulties, the performance will be delayed for approximately one hour. We apologize for the inconvenience." The message echoes across the packed stadium, triggering a ripple of confusion and frustration. A few scattered groans rise from the stands.

I glance at Taylor. Her jaw is clenched, fingers still trembling from what I just told her. Neither of us speaks, but the weight of the moment buzzes louder than the crowd.

She looks at the time on her phone, still a little shaken, but already trying to pull herself together. "I'm performing for the next couple of days," she says, voice low but steady. "Monday. We'll meet on Monday?"

I nod, relieved but exhausted. "Perfect."

There's a pause between us, long enough to hold everything unsaid. She presses her lips together, her eyes flickering like she wants to say more but doesn't. She just gives a single nod before turning away, already shifting back into the role the world expects her to play.

I let myself exhale slowly. One hurdle down.

—————Author's Note:

Next chapter is a Taylor pov!