XXXVI

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Harry's P.O.V.

Is this real life? I think for probably the hundredth time this week as I look out the window to see about 10 paparazzi eagerly waiting for me to show up.

This is what happens when you need to write an article but have no pictures because, who'd guess, Dave Harry Williams has no existing pictures.

Big fucking shock there.

The last few days flew by in a kind of a daze; my mind and myself are not really adjusted to all of this shit yet and have a hard time figuring out that it's real.

I've been forced to train like a maniac for the upcoming season; train like a maniac translates into 9 hours or lifting weights, punching the fucking bag, working on the moves with the coach, running and whatnot.

My body's changed a bit; I think Sophie would like it.

The coach and the team have not managed to convince me about the relationship shit; it's out of question for me and I think they figured it out when I punched one of the fuckers who just didn't let it go straight in the fucking nose.

I had to run three hours for that.

Sighing, I open the fridge and cringe at the amount of yoghurts, then quickly gulp down one.

After that, I take a quick shower, gut ready, put the hoodie over my head, take three quick breaths and leave my apartment behind me, immediately getting blazed by the flash of the cameras.

Fucking hell.

I push past the fuckers toward my new Range Rover; gift from the coach for making it into the league.

It's not like he can't afford it, but it's still a nice gesture.

I curse when I see that the fuckers are outside the gym as well and quickly put the black hoodie over my head and sunglasses on, then jog to the gym.

How are you taking this sudden famousness? How are your friends and family taking it?

Do you have a girlfriend? Where is she?

How do you feel knowing that you're still extremely unprepared for the season and it begins in just less than a month?

What do you think about people saying that you only got lucky in the fight with Michael Bisping?

I grab him by the collar, my blood boiling and he just smirks at me. "I think about killing all of you motherfuckers because you're the one that shitted the fake news into their brain. Now go get a fucking life and leave me alone." I grit in his face that pales slightly.

I ignore the cameras that seem to be clicking three times more rapidly than before and push the fucker away, walking inside the gym.

Great. I'm gonna look like the most agressive person in the world now.

Sighing, I go straight for the punching bag to get rid of the stress.

Coach comes fifteen minutes later, yelling at me like crazy and I roll my eyes.

"Don't you fucking roll your fucking eyes at me, boy, do you have any idea what you just did!? You just became an unwanted and feared celebrity with anger issues! And they never do good, they get sent to psychologists and shit because of the press! When I tell you to do something, you listen to me!" he goes on and on and I just ignore him until he pulls me away from the bag, fuming.

"Go. Two hours. Now. I don't even give a shit about the season anymore. When you're done, we need to discuss something."

I glare at him and show him my middle finger when he turns around.

He can be such a fucking pain in the ass.

***

Ten hours later, I sit back down on the couch in my living room, beyond exhausted.

This new life has been nothing but boring, annoying and lonely up to now.

Turns out that the thing the coach wanted to discuss was getting my ass in a better appartment because apparently living in a shithole like this isn't suitable for a boxer or something.

I take a shower and almost miss something on the floor next to the door because of how fucking exhausted I am.

A letter; or an envelope. I can't know what's inside.

I frown and pick it up, ruffling my hair in confusion. What is this?

I have a feeling this won't be good.

I tear the paper open and my stomach falls to the ground.

I swear my heart stops beating for a few moments.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no." I whisper, feeling as if someone has just pushed a knife in my heart then started twisting it.

In my hands, there's a picture of my sunshine, the love of my life, in what seems to be a dungeon or some shit, tied down on the bed, passed out.

With no clothes on.

I fall to the ground, tears flowing, and a message falls to the ground behind the photo.

You can't escape the past just like that, Harry Styles.

In a much smaller writing, there's an adress written below it.

I look at the picture again.

Fuck, not her. Not my Sophie.

I wipe my tears forcefully and half an hour later, I'm on a plane back to USA.

***

WE'RE TRENDING GUYS!!!😃😃😃 (or at least I think so, I'm not sure)

Well, now that I created a cliffhanger, we can wait until Wednesday for an update!❤

Love, P.❤

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