Page 145 of The Fine Line
But the truth is, I don’t. Not today.
Maybe tomorrow.
That’s how I live now. One day at a time.
One more pill.
One more line.
One more shot.
One more meaningless night.
Some nights, I honestly wouldn’t have cared if I didn’t wake up.
I can’t think beyond the next step, the next distraction, the next numb. Because when most of your nights are spent in a haze of drugs, booze, and women, thinking becomes optional.
Somewhere along the way, my once-ever-present winning smile—the one the media used to love, the one that made endorsements roll in and parents buy their kids my jersey—has faded into a half-hearted smirk.
Or, some days, just a quiet scowl.
And just like that?—
The sun sets on the golden boy as his hot streak runs cold.
That’s the actual headline I woke up to this morning. Front page. Top of a major sports site. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hit something deep inside me. But not deep enough to spark any real change.
I watch the printer spit out the article, the words still sharp, the ink still wet. I grab it the second it’s done, smearing the print with my thumb as I slice away the excess paper with the edge of my credit card.
I walk over to the oversized bulletin board in my living room—my only form of wall art.
A corkboard of failure.
A shrine to every headline that’s called me out.
The Captain That Could Have Been.
From Top Prospect to Tabloid Fodder.
Golden Boy or Burnout?
I told myself, once upon a time, that I’d use them as motivation. That I’d look at them every morning and remember who the fuck I was.
But that’s not how this works.
That’s not how I work.
Instead, like the last three headlines, I roll this one up between my fingers, turn, and kneel to snort a line of powder off the glass coffee table. Some of it’s crushed pills. Some of it’s coke. Some of it’s whatever the hell Sid left behind last time.
Doesn’t matter.
It burns all the same.
Only then do I pin the article to the board—adding it to the pile of failed motivators.
I rub at my nose, still kneeling, still buzzing, and rock back onto my heels to examine my work. A crooked collage of everything I’ve destroyed.
I could laugh.
