PROMPT 001: An athlete celebrates their team's championship while knowing the next day they will be exposed as a cheat

The sweet-sticky spray of champagne slashed across his forehead and dribbled in foamy trickles to the corners of his mouth. Eduardo Avila licked it away and felt the bile rise in his throat, the champagne acidic on his tongue. He forced a smile anyway, aware of the shoulder-mounted video cameras pointed in his direction, their expensive electronic components covered in thick plastic.

Just then Avila's teammate, Devon Shields, walked up and wrapped him in a huge embrace. "You earned this, baby," Shields yelled into his ear. Avila could hear the tears in his friend's voice. "You earned this for all of us." Shields broke the hug, then reached down and hoisted Avila's arm into the air. He yawped, drawing the attention of everyone in the clubhouse, and started a chant that rattled the rafters: "MVP! MVP! MVP!"

Avila looked up at his hand. He was grasping a heavy silver trophy, awarded minutes ago in an on-field ceremony. He forgot he was carrying it. Avila quickly lowered the Championship MVP trophy and shuffled to his locker. He stashed it behind his street clothes and sucked in a deep breath of air before turning back toward his rowdy teammates.

He should be thinking about the glass shelf on the wall of his Man Cave back home in Santo Domingo. Avila would never admit this, but he knew exactly where the award would go: dead-center, right between the two regular-season MVP trophies he owned. One of them from his third year in the league, and the second just last season - a surprise to the haters who said he was past his prime. Now, a championship to his name - and he was the star of the series! This should have been enough to cement his legacy.

But now? The trophy made Avila feel ill. Would they even let him keep it? No matter - he would never display it anyway.

That morning, as he lounged in front of his locker, eyes closed and music pumping through noise-canceling headphones, the clubhouse attendant tapped him on his shoulder and handed him a thick stack of mail. Avila tilted his chin up to say thanks as he flipped through the letters: autograph requests from fans mostly, a tax document that should be routed to his financial manager, requests from charities and foundations he supported.

And a letter from the league office.

He tore it open first and felt the ice grow in his chest as the words, in English, floated past: "results of a random test," "violation," "performance-enhancing drugs," "suspension," "further disciplinary measures."

Yes. He took the drugs. Starting three years ago, to help him recover from an injury that should have ended his career. (God, he wished it had.) Then, he just... kept taking them. They made him feel young. Strong. Invincible. The doctor - was she even really a doctor? - assured him his urine tests would come back clean. For three years, they did.

As his teammates celebrated around him, Eduardo Avila felt a tug on his booze-soaked jersey. A lady from the press office to take him to the media room. She told him to bring the trophy.

Avila grabbed it from his locker, the metallic surface cold against his hand. Before he stepped away, he picked up the letter too. Might as well get this over with, he thought.

He unbuttoned his jersey and peeled it away from his undershirt. The press agent urged him to keep it on, but Aviles shook his head. He wadded it up and tossed it into the locker. Then he turned and walked toward the media room, livestock headed for slaughter.

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