his Olympic career. It even made his first-round loss in Seoul sound like a moral victory. It wasn’t; he’d just gone out there and gotten clobbered.
Harris looked at the pictures of the happy, cocky, eager kid he used to be. Dark hair, features that looked brooding even when he was happy. “A soap opera hero face,” Gaby had said a long time ago. “You ought to go over to NBC and try out for a part. Put that theater major to some good use for once.”
He tipped the bottle up and took a pull on it, felt the liquor burn down his throat. Maybe he’d do that now. They’d hire him to be the next bare-chested hunk. Gaby would be channel-surfing and would spot him licking the tonsils of some soap opera sweetheart. She’d drop her teeth.
The thought warmed him. Or maybe that was the vodka. He took another swallow.
Later, when the bottle barely sloshed