Seventy-Six Days

Jax Braddock stared at the number on his notepad with a mixture of pride and trepidation.

76.

Seventy-six days since alcohol had last passed his lips. Longer than his previous attempt. Longer than he'd managed in years. Yet the achievement felt hollow, more like a tightrope than a milestone—one misstep and he'd plummet back to zero.

The hotel room enveloped him in its generic comfort—beige walls bearing no memories, a bed barely disturbed, air conditioning humming its white noise lullaby. Another temporary space in a life built on transience.

Down the hallway, the sounds of celebration filtered through his door—laughter punctuated by clinking glasses, music providing a backdrop to camaraderie he wasn't sharing. The boys were drinking, as they always did after shows.

Not that there was much to celebrate. Most of the locker room hadn't even competed at the Contenders premiere. But in this business, reasons were optional. All you needed was an open tab and the collective agreement to forget tomorrow's consequences.

Jax exhaled slowly, massaging his temples with calloused fingertips. There was a time when he'd have been at the center of it all—first to the bar, last to leave, ordering doubles while everyone else nursed singles. He'd have belonged there, laughing too loudly, slapping backs too hard, waking up feeling like death but wearing it as a badge of honor.

Now he was being "an Elias."

The term had spread through wrestling locker rooms years ago named after Elias Rhodes, aka Titan. Not because Titan didn't drink, but because he never joined the post-show gatherings. He kept to himself completely, existed in his own universe, and made it clear he had no interest in the brotherhood of the locker room. In wrestling, if you skipped the bar after the show, you were "pulling an Elias."

Jax wasn't like that, not really. He wasn't isolating himself out of superiority or disdain. His absence wasn't a statement.

It was survival.

He glanced at his phone, the screen illuminated with a missed call notification. For a moment, Jax considered letting it sit. He already knew the message's content—another verse, another reminder of strength he sometimes doubted he possessed. The caller wasn't ordained, had no formal training, but spoke with the conviction of someone who had found absolute truth. Jax would typically roll his eyes at such certainty, but he always listened.

Because beneath his skepticism lived hope. With resignation, he tapped play.

"Proverbs 25:28 – 'Like a city whose walls are broken through is a person who lacks self-control.' The fight ain't just in the cage, brother. It's in you. Every day, every night. You're stronger than this. Hold the line."

The voicemail ended, leaving Jax in silence. He wasn't a believer in the traditional sense. He didn't pray before matches or attribute his wins to divine intervention. But these messages served as anchors when the currents of temptation grew strong, when the noise in his head threatened to drown out reason.

His devotion wasn't to any higher power. It was to the man he was fighting to become. His fingers drummed beside the notepad.

76.

One drink wasn't just one drink. One drink was erasure. One drink was starting over. The craving intensified on nights like this—when isolation pressed against his chest, when every ache from today's training whispered that relief was just one glass away.

But memory served as his most effective deterrent. One drink led to a second. A second led to oblivion. Oblivion led to waking in unfamiliar rooms, his body bearing evidence of fights he couldn't recall, his accounts drained from generosity he couldn't afford.

Oblivion led to Day Zero.

Jax inhaled deeply, straightening his spine as if physically bracing against temptation. He looked at the number once more.

76.

Not impressive in the grand scheme. Not worthy of celebration. But real. Tangible. His.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow, it would be 77. With careful movements, he rose from the bed, grabbed his duffel bag, and tucked the notepad inside. He turned his phone face-down on the nightstand, the outside world temporarily shut out. The party could continue without him. The night would pass regardless of his participation.

One day at a time. One city at a time. One decision at a time. It wasn't a perfect solution. It wasn't even a permanent one. But for tonight, it was enough.