Chapter 3
Jacob
I pound the heavy bag until my knuckles burn through the wraps, until sweat turns my shirt into a second skin, until the pain in my right shoulder screams loud enough to drown out the thoughts in my head.
The gym is empty at this hour: just me, the equipment, and the buzzing fluorescents overhead that cast everything in a sickly glow.
This is what midnight looks like at Knockout: a fighter who can’t stop fighting, even when there’s no one left to hit but himself.
Left hook. Pivot. Right cross—fuck. The twinge shoots down my arm like lightning. I drop my stance, rolling my shoulder in small circles, willing the muscle to cooperate. No one’s here to see me wince, but I clench my jaw, anyway. Force of habit.
I’ve been here three hours already, pushing through combinations, testing my limits.
Finding them. Hating them. The mirror along the far wall doesn’t lie: my form is off.
I’m telegraphing my right side, hesitating when I shouldn’t, compensating in ways only someone who’s studied fighting would notice.
Someone like that doctor.
The thought of him makes me throw another punch, harder this time. The bag swings wildly, chains rattling. I’m about to follow up with a kick when the door to the gym opens, letting in a blast of cool night air. I don’t turn around. Probably just Marco, coming to tell me it’s closing time.
“You’re dropping your right shoulder.”
The voice isn’t Marco’s. It’s calm, controlled, and belongs to the last person I want to see right now.
“Gym’s closed,” I say, still not turning around, throwing another punch like I didn’t hear him.
“Yes, I can see that.” His footsteps come closer. “And yet, here you are. And here I am.”
I spin around, ready to scare him off with my size alone. But Dr. Shepard just stands there, hands in the pockets of a charcoal overcoat, watching me with those calm green eyes.
“What part of ‘closed’ don’t you understand, doc?” I roll my shoulders back, standing at my full height.
“The part where it applies to me,” he says, shrugging out of his coat and folding it carefully over a nearby bench. “You’re compensating.”
“I’m training.”
“You’re hurting.”
I bark out a laugh. “You drove across town in the middle of the night to tell me that? Could’ve saved yourself the gas money.”
“And you’re defensive.” He steps closer, and I notice he’s wearing tailored slacks and a dark sweater instead of the button-up he had on last time. He looks less official. More like someone I might find at a bar than a doctor who could bench my career.
“I don’t need a shrink, either.” I grab my water bottle, taking a long pull, using the moment to collect myself.
Since our first meeting, Dr. Shepard’s face has been stuck in my head on a loop.
The way he’d looked at me in that locker room, eyes taking in every flinch, every micro-expression I couldn’t control.
Like he was reading something written under my skin.
“Call me Riley.” He says it easily, like we’re about to grab beers instead of having a standoff in an empty gym.
“I’ll call you whatever I want,” I mutter.
“You can,” he agrees, glancing around the gym. “But I think we’d make more progress as Riley and Jacob than as doctor and patient, don’t you?”
I toss my water bottle back into my gym bag. “We’re not anything. No progress needed.”
He walks a slow circle around me, and I hate how my body tenses under his scrutiny. He isn’t touching me, isn’t even close enough to touch me, but I feel his gaze like a physical pressure against my skin.
“How’s your shoulder feeling tonight?” he asks, stopping directly in my line of sight.
“Fine.”
“You just winced doing a right cross.”
“You spying on me now?”
“Observing. It’s my job.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Is it also your job to stalk your patients at midnight? Or is that just a personal hobby?”
“I wanted to catch you when you weren’t performing.” He says it without judgment, just a statement of fact.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means people lie in exam rooms. Especially fighters.” He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t change his tone, but something in the way he looks at me makes my skin prickle. “They lie about pain, they lie about limitations, they lie about recovery time.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“I’m calling you human.” Riley crosses his arms. “And I’m saying that I can help you. If you let me.”
The calm certainty in his voice pisses me off. Like he knows something I don’t, like I’m a puzzle he’s already halfway to solving. I step into his space, using every inch of the four or five I have on him.
“Let’s get something straight, doc—”
“Riley.”
“—I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t call you. I didn’t schedule a follow-up. So why the fuck are you here?”
He doesn’t back up, doesn’t even blink at my proximity. “Renata asked for my help.”
“Renata.” I take a step back, something cold sliding down my spine. “You two seem awfully close.”
Riley watches me, something flickering in his eyes that might be amusement. “We’ve known each other a long time.”
I grab a towel from my bag, wiping sweat from my face to hide whatever might be showing there. The thought of Riley and Renata talking about me—my injury, my career, my future—makes my stomach twist.
“So what is she to you? Old friend? Business contact?” I throw the towel down. “Girlfriend?”
“Ex,” Riley says, and the admission surprises me enough that I forget to look angry. “We dated for a while. It was a long time ago.”
“Didn’t work out, huh?”
“No.”
“Why not?” The question comes out before I can stop it, and I immediately want to take it back. It’s none of my business, and I don’t even know why I asked.
Riley studies me for a moment, like he’s weighing how much to share. “We weren’t compatible.”
“What does that mean?” I press, even though I know I should drop it.
“It means exactly what it sounds like. Now, can we talk about your shoulder, or would you rather continue this riveting discussion of my dating history?”
The deflection irritates me, but not as much as my own curiosity. I shouldn’t give a shit about this guy’s personal life, about why he and Renata didn’t work, about what “compatible” means in his world. But I do, and that’s a problem.
“She sent you my medical files?” I ask instead, changing the subject.
“Yes.”
“Then you must know there’s nothing wrong with my shoulder.”
Riley’s eyes narrow slightly. “Nothing showing up on your scans, perhaps.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I see how you’re training right now.” He gestures to the heavy bag. “Your form changes halfway through combinations when that shoulder has to take weight. There’s pain, and there’s a problem. I just don’t know what the problem is yet.”
The confidence in his voice makes something inside me twist.
“I don’t want to be your medical puzzle, Dr. House.”
A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t have a cane.”
“I can arrange one.”
A startled laugh escapes him, and it’s so unexpected that I find myself smiling against my will.
Something between us shifts. Riley takes a breath, and when he speaks again, it’s negotiation instead of confrontation. “Look, give me a chance to help you. I want to try manual therapy. It might give us answers that the imaging can’t.”
“Manual therapy? Isn’t that just a fancy term for massage?”
“You think I spent eight years in medical school to give back rubs? Manual therapy is a diagnostic and treatment approach that—”
“That’s basically a scam,” I cut in. “Cracking joints and charging hundreds.”
Riley’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture becomes more rigid.
“Not if they know what they’re doing.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a business card.
“Make an appointment with my assistant. She’ll prioritize you.
You don’t pay me anything until I figure out what’s wrong and fix it. ”
I don’t take the card. “I hate hospitals.”
Riley looks at me for a long moment, then retrieves a pen from his pocket. He flips the card over and writes something on the back. When he holds it out again, I take it automatically.
“That’s my home address,” he says. “If you change your mind, come there instead. I have what I need to work with you.”
I stare at the card, at the address written on the back. “You do this for all your patients?”
“No.” He doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he walks over to the bench, picks up his coat, and slides it on in one fluid motion. “Think about it, Jacob. This doesn’t have to end your career.”
Before I can respond, he’s walking away, his steps measured and unhurried. The door swings closed behind him, letting in another brief rush of night air before sealing me back in the hot, humid gym.
I look down at the card in my hand, turning it over to read his credentials on the front, then flipping it to see the address again.
I should throw it away. I should forget this conversation happened.
I should get back to training, push through the pain like I always do, prove to myself that I don’t need his help or his penetrating green eyes or his calm, unshakeable confidence.
Instead, I slide the card into my pocket, telling myself it’s only because I don’t see a trash can and I’m not littering. That’s all. Basic courtesy.
I’m not going to call him. I’m never going to that address. There’s no scenario where I let Riley put his hands on me again, mapping out every place that hurts, every weakness I’ve kept buried.
The card presses against my thigh as I gather my things, but I barely notice it. By tomorrow, I’ll have forgotten it’s even there.