Third place and a wave-off

Jules counted nine hundred on their feet. I didn't look up until the last ten seconds because looking up meant looking at the banner and looking at the banner meant crying in front of nine hundred people, and I am not that kind of athlete.

Round four. Right shoulder slipped mid-combo and the doctor had the towel in both hands like a parent holding a tissue out to a kid who's pretending they're not crying. I waved her off. I have never waved anyone off anything in my life — in the pool I would have let them pull me, I would have let them wrap me in the curtain and tell me it was fine. But the towel was right there and I had two rounds left and Hassan Obeid was still standing so I just lifted the glove and kept going. The shoulder didn't pop all the way. Small mercy.

Briggs was in the front row in a black polo, arms crossed. Left before the result. I keep thinking about that. He watched the whole thing and then he just walked out. Third place now. One slot behind him. Should that feel like something? It feels like a number on a screen. It doesn't feel like the weight I expected.

I ate a burger at midnight with Jules talking about the next card and I nodded in the right places and then I went home and I texted Zoe something I won't repeat because she keeps it anyway. The shoulder throbbed under the ice pack and I mobilised it because that's what you do.

I am not thinking about the swimmer. I am not thinking about the footage from yesterday. I am thinking about the towel.