Signed it anyway

I signed it. O'Brien — never met him, he read my MRI for eleven minutes and said it like the weather. Torn front, frayed back. You can fight on it, you shouldn't, and if it goes the recovery is twelve months. I signed while Danny watched. I am not going to pretend I had a noble reason. I blew up one career already. My shoulder ended swimming before I did, and I was twenty-two with nothing in my hands and I am not built to go back to that man. So. Twelve months on a couch is a long time to remember who you were.

The broadcast pulled the live feed. Bout integrity, they said. Lev tweeted the panel result before I was back at the car. I read it at the crossing on Dandenong Road — swimmer steps aside or fights broken. I bought a water at the next servo and sat in the car for ten minutes and then I texted Lou: we still on. I didn't add anything else. There is nothing to add to a sentence like that.

I trained tonight with the clearance folded into my gym bag. The shoulder was there for every shot, the way a torn thing is always there. I iced it in the change room and ate dinner standing up because sitting made it ache. The clearance is on the lounge now. I keep looking at it like it might say something different in the morning. It won't.