The envelope on the counter

Tom Vass forwarded my rehab sheet to every man I used to swim beside. "Concern for a mate." That's what he wrote. Like he was the good guy in this. Like the guy who leaked medical records to Weldon's old boys network is the same guy who checks if I ate. I read that line twice and felt something move in my chest that wasn't anger, it was worse — it was that old twenty-two-year-old feeling when the world shows you who it actually is and you realise you've been wrong about everything. Lou didn't need the whole story. She just said "yeah" when I called and we sat in the quiet together. That's the whole friendship right there. No explanations.

The MRI is still sealed. That's the part I can't explain to anyone. I drove with it under the passenger seat this morning like it was just another thing. I signed the Briggs contract in blue pen and drove to the gym and hit the heavy bag and came home and put it on the counter and I've looked at it eleven times tonight and I still can't. Not yet. Not because I'm scared — well, partly because I'm scared. Mostly because once I open it the fight becomes real in a way I can't manage yet. Right now I'm a guy who signed a contract. Once I open it I'm a guy who might not make it to December.

Danny had the bag set high. Shoulder felt okay during mobility work. The envelope sat on the counter the whole time like a dare. I don't know what I'm waiting for. Maybe tomorrow.