Manila on the counter

The word Lev used was "the swimmer." Not my name. Not Mark. The swimmer. Like I am a category he is filing me under before the first bell. Danny read the text out and I stood there with my face doing nothing because that is what I am good at — not letting the room see what just landed. Voss's camp put the shoulder history on record. Public. For the first time. That is the move — you don't beat me in the ring, you take the title off the table by turning my body into a question mark.

I told Danny to book the panel. I said I would bring the images. The Manila envelope was on the counter when I got home and I have not opened it. I cooked chicken and rice and looked at it the whole time. Six feet away. I watched Voss's last smoker on loop instead, same sequence on repeat, as if studying his jab will change what is on those films. It will not.

Yesterday I wrote the worst sentence on this page. That I want September more than I want to be honest with the shoulder. Today I chose to be honest. I also chose to fight. I do not know how a man does both at once but I am doing it. The panel will look at the MRI and either the shoulder is clean enough or it is not. I have not looked. I keep not looking. I think I am afraid of the first frame.

Carly texted back before I put the phone down. That should not have meant anything to me. It did.

Shoulder was steady in the night. I trust nothing about that.