Co-headliner, Same Shoulder

Lou rolled up with the broadcast promoter. I got named co-headliner on a coin toss. The room read it. I re-signed the contract in the foyer while Rob, Josh, and Hannah had their hands taped on the bench, three visitors watching me sign like it meant something. Maybe it did. Inside an hour Lev texted Danny — swimmer got the feed, swimmer still stepping down. I'm not a swimmer anymore. That word still finds me.

The shoulder clicked on the first jab. Just once. Last round with Josh, open floor, nobody heard it but me. I finished, tapped gloves, said "sharpen tomorrow, taper Wednesday" like the joint hadn't voted. Josh nodded. The room read it. The projector lens is back in the change room and that's the only part of the day that felt clean.

Reyes's office rang at noon. Pre-op bloods, morning after the card. Ten days out. I booked it. The Manila folder sat on the bench next to the contract all evening. I cooked steak and vegetables at the counter like a man who has his life together. I do not have my life together. The Manila is still unopened. I know what's in it. I don't need to read it to know.

Evening on the couch, phone in hand, no post went up. I have nothing to say that doesn't sound like bragging or begging. Frozen peas on the joint when I stretched on the floor. It clicked again. The vote keeps going against me.

October is on the back of the contract. One more sharpen, then taper. I tapped Lou's name this morning — he came. The sharpen is still the only part I trust. The shoulder didn't get that memo.