Eighty-Three Days

Jax Braddock sat on the edge of his hotel bed, fingers gripping the mattress as if anchoring himself to something solid. His gaze fixed on a particular spot of the blue-gray carpet, studying its nondescript pattern with the intense focus of a man deliberately avoiding something else entirely. The digital clock on the nightstand silently ticked away another minute—marking ten full minutes of this internal war.

From down the hall, laughter erupted in a sudden burst, followed by the musical clinking of bottles against glasses. The sounds migrated through the building's infrastructure, seeping through the hallways and under his door like smoke, finding every crack in his defenses. He could almost taste it—the sharp bite of whiskey, the comfortable burn that promised temporary peace.

Eighty-three days, he reminded himself, swallowing hard enough that his throat clicked audibly in the quiet room. Eighty-three goddamn days without a drop. He shifted his weight, and the springs beneath him creaked in protest. His right leg began bouncing, a restless rhythm independent of conscious control.

Maybe just five minutes.

The thought materialized with dangerous clarity. Not even enough time to finish a drink. He wouldn't even have to grab a beer—he could just head down, say what's up to the boys, slap some backs, shoot the shit about the show, laugh about who got the worst of it last week. Then he'd turn around and come right back down the hall and into bed. Simple.

"No harm in that," he muttered aloud, testing how the justification sounded in the empty room.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? It was never just five minutes. It was never just one drink. It was never just a quick stop. That had been his pattern for fifteen years—the same pattern that had cost him his marriage, nearly ended his career, and left scars both visible and invisible across the landscape of his life.

Eighty-three days. Some days, that number felt like a medal of honor—something hard-won and worthy of pride. Other days, like tonight, it felt more like a time bomb strapped to his chest, ticking down, just waiting for the right moment to detonate.

He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly through pursed lips. The breath shuddered slightly on its way out.

"You're fine," he whispered to himself, the word’s part encouragement, part command. "Just go say hey. Let 'em know you're still one of the boys."

Before his mind could generate more counterarguments, Jax pushed himself to his feet. The movement was decisive, almost aggressive—the physical commitment forcing the mental debate into temporary silence. His hand wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob, turned it with purpose, and pulled the door open in a single fluid motion that allowed no opportunity for hesitation.

The hallway stretched before him, carpeted in the same forgettable pattern as his room, illuminated by soft recessed lighting that created pools of warmth between shadows. The lobby waited at the far end—the gateway to temptation, to connection, to potential disaster.

Four steps forward. That's as far as he got.

A door creaked open behind him, the sound slicing through his determined forward momentum like a blade. His body reacted before conscious thought could form, pivoting back toward the source with the instinctive alertness of a fighter.

Logan Drake stood framed in his doorway across the hall, his silhouette momentarily backlit by the warmer light of his room before he stepped fully into the shared space between them. Their eyes met and locked, neither man speaking.

They didn't need to.

Logan's face carried the permanent exhaustion of a man bearing responsibility for too many things beyond his control. Dark circles carved half-moons beneath bloodshot eyes, and his shoulders curved slightly inward—the physical manifestation of pressure.

Jax's chest tightened as if caught in an invisible vise. His feet, which had been carrying him toward the lobby and everything it promised, suddenly refused to advance further. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening with the strain of containment. For three heartbeats, the two men remained in silent communion, sharing something wordless yet profound in the anonymous hotel hallway.

Without breaking the silence, Jax turned. Not toward the lobby but back toward the safe haven of his room. Each step felt demanding, as if walking against a powerful current, but he maintained his course. The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow carried the weight of finality.

Inside, he leaned back against the door, eyes closed, listening. The sounds from the lobby continued uninterrupted—laughter, music, life carrying on without him. The temptation remained, muffled but present, like a persistent ache.

But for tonight? For this night at least?

Jax had won.

He pushed away from the door and moved toward the bathroom, flicking on the harsh fluorescent light. The mirror reflected a face marked by years of fighting—both in the cage and out of it. Scars latticed his eyebrows, a crooked nose spoke of multiple breaks, but his eyes held something that had been missing for years before those eighty-three days began: clarity.

"One day at a time," he reminded his reflection, the mantra simple but powerful in its truth.

Tonight was just one more victory in a war that never truly ended. Tomorrow would bring its own battle. But for now, this was enough.