Chapter 7
Jacob
I hate hospitals. The antiseptic smell crawls into my nose and stays there, reminding me of the time I got my nose broken in three places and spent six hours waiting for a doctor who couldn’t do shit anyway.
But here I am, trailing behind Renata as she clicks down the polished corridor in her heels, heading toward Dr. Riley Shepard’s office.
My fist clenches at the memory of his hands on my body, how they found every weakness I’ve tried to hide.
I’m only here because I won against Reyes with a shoulder that actually worked, for once.
Nothing else. Definitely not because I can’t stop thinking about what happened on his massage table.
“Stop dragging your feet,” Renata says without turning around. “You look like I’m taking you to get a tooth pulled.”
“Maybe I’d prefer that.” I lengthen my stride to catch up. “Just don’t see why we need to be here in person. Could’ve called.”
Renata stops so abruptly I almost crash into her back. She turns, eyebrows raised. “You want to discuss your medical treatment over the phone? The same treatment Riley told me you ran away from last time?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I didn’t run.”
“Right. You just suddenly remembered an urgent appointment at midnight.” She gives me a look that says she’s not buying my bullshit. “Jacob, you won against Reyes. Your shoulder held. Whatever Dr. Shepard did worked.”
I roll my shoulder unconsciously, feeling the improved range of motion.
She’s right, and we both know it. The night of the fight, I stepped into the cage, waiting for the pain to take me down, waiting for my body to betray me.
But it didn’t. I felt stronger, more fluid.
The way Reyes went down in the third round wasn’t luck. That was me at almost full power.
“Fine. It worked. That doesn’t mean—”
“That you need more treatment?” Renata challenges. “That your shoulder’s still at risk? That Dr. Shepard is the best shot you have at a full recovery?”
I clench my jaw but say nothing.
“That’s what I thought.” She turns and continues down the hall, and I follow, scowling at her back.
We reach an office with “Riley Shepard, MD—Sports Medicine & Injury Rehabilitation” etched on a nameplate. Renata raps her knuckles against the wood and pushes the door open without waiting for a response.
Inside, a woman sits behind a sleek desk. She looks up, and my eyes widen. She’s stunning: high cheekbones, warm brown skin, hair styled in neat twists that frame her face. Her badge says “Elise Johnson, Medical Assistant.” Her smile is professional but warm as she greets Renata by name.
“Is he expecting you?” Elise asks, and for some reason, I hate the familiar way she says “he.” Like she knows Riley. Like they’re close.
“He should be. I called yesterday. Jacob has a two o’clock.”
Elise glances at me, her expression flickering before she smooths it away. I’m used to that reaction when people see me for the first time. Taking in my size, my muscles, the intimidation factor I’ve spent years cultivating.
“Let me check if he’s ready.” She stands, revealing a pencil skirt and blouse that fit her perfectly. I watch her walk to Riley’s inner office door, my stomach clenching uncomfortably.
Is Riley fucking his assistant? The thought hits me out of nowhere, sharp and unwelcome.
Not that it matters. Not that I care. I’ve just never seen a doctor’s assistant look like she stepped off a runway.
My primary care physician’s receptionist dresses like my grandmother and keeps hard candies in a jar on her desk.
“Your two o’clock is here, Dr. Shepard,” Elise says, poking her head through the door.
I hear Riley’s voice, muffled. “Let them in, please.”
Elise steps back, gesturing for us to enter. Her expression gives nothing away about her relationship with her boss. I follow Renata into Riley’s office, trying to ignore the weird knot in my stomach. Must be something I ate this morning.
The first thing I notice is that Riley isn’t alone.
A guy sits perched on the edge of his desk, one leg swinging lazily as he talks.
He’s younger than Riley, mid-twenties maybe, with tousled dirty-blond hair and a face that probably gets him free drinks at bars.
He’s dressed like he just came from a photo shoot: ripped designer jeans, a pleather jacket covered in zippers, chunky silver rings on several fingers.
A bright pink Stanley cup rests in his hand, and as we enter, he’s in the middle of some story that has Riley laughing.
Actually laughing. Head tilted back, eyes crinkled at the corners, shoulders relaxed.
I’ve never seen him like this. In our previous encounters, Riley has been composed, controlled, professional to the point of seeming cold.
This version—relaxed, openly amused—feels like I’ve walked in on something private.
The knot in my stomach tightens. I clear my throat loudly.
Riley looks up, smile fading as he registers our presence. He straightens in his chair, the professional mask sliding back into place. “Renata. Jacob. Come in.”
“Hope we’re not interrupting,” Renata says, but her tone suggests she doesn’t really care if we are.
“Not at all.” Riley stands, smoothing his already immaculate shirt. “Bobby was just about to leave.”
Bobby. The name rattles around in my head. Who the fuck is Bobby? And why is he sitting on Riley’s desk like he owns it?
The guy swivels to face us fully, and I notice his huge, whiskey-colored eyes. He breaks into a grin when he sees Renata.
“Well, if it isn’t Renata Cruz,” he says, jumping off the desk with the grace of a cat. “Come to win my brother back at last?”
Brother. The word registers, and I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Relief floods through me, followed by confusion. Why should I care if this guy is Riley’s brother instead of… something else?
Renata laughs, reaching out to squeeze Bobby’s arm. “In your dreams, Shepard junior. I’m strictly here on business.”
I watch them, feeling oddly out of place. For some reason it bothers me that there’s history here I’m not privy to.
Bobby turns his attention to me, eyes widening appreciatively as he takes in my size. “And who’s this mountain of a man?”
“My fighter,” Renata says, a note of pride in her voice. “Jacob Mancini.”
“The Brickhouse,” Bobby says, recognition dawning. “Oh my god, I’ve seen your fights online! You’re incredible. Not that I condone underground fighting or violence in general, but if I did, I’d totally be a fan.”
I grunt in acknowledgment, unsure how to respond to his enthusiasm. Most people are intimidated when they learn who I am. Bobby looks like he wants my autograph.
“Bobby,” Riley says, a warning note in his voice. “Jacob is a patient.”
“Patient, fighter, walking advertisement for protein powder,” Bobby says, stepping closer to me. He smells like expensive cologne. “Not mutually exclusive.” He holds out a hand, and I take it automatically. His grip is surprisingly firm. “Bobby Shepard. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I mutter.
Bobby releases my hand but doesn’t step back. Instead, he looks me up and down one more time, then turns to Riley with a shit-eating grin. “Well, well, well. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Riley’s ears turn pink, a flush creeping up from his collar. “Bobby—”
“My big brother, finally trying it with a man.” Bobby’s eyes dance with mischief. “Though I gotta say, I’m a little jealous. You really went for the top shelf, didn’t you?”
The room temperature spikes. Riley looks like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him. Renata coughs, clearly trying not to laugh. And I stand there, frozen, as Bobby’s implication hangs in the air between us.
Riley recovers first. “That’s enough. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Just teasing, big bro.” Bobby winks at me, then turns back to Riley. “Don’t forget about Friday. I found this cool bar called the Rusty Anchor. You’re going to love it.”
“Just text me the address,” Riley says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Will do.” Bobby grabs his Stanley cup and saunters toward the door. He air-kisses Renata’s cheek, gives me another appreciative once-over, and pauses at the threshold. “Don’t work too hard, Riley. You know what they say about all work and no play.”
The door closes behind him, leaving the room feeling strangely empty despite three people still being in it.
Riley clears his throat. “I apologize for my brother. He thinks he’s funny.”
“He is funny,” Renata says, settling into one of the chairs in front of Riley’s desk. “And he’s right—you do work too hard.”
I remain standing, unsure where to put myself in this office with its framed medical degrees and carefully organized bookshelves. Riley gestures to the other chair, but I ignore it. I need the height advantage.
“So,” Riley says, all business now. “What can I do for you two?”
Renata leans forward. “Jacob won his fight against Reyes.”
“I heard. Congratulations.” Riley’s eyes meet mine briefly, then slide away.
“He won because of whatever you did to his shoulder,” Renata continues. “It was like a miracle. One day he could barely lift his arm, the next he’s knocking out The Butcher in three rounds.”
I shift uncomfortably. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”
“It was,” Renata insists. “I don’t know what you did, but we need more of it.”
Riley leans back in his chair, studying me. “I’m glad I was able to help, and I wish you continued success with your recovery.”
“What?” Renata’s voice sharpens. “No, you don’t understand. We need you to keep treating him.”
Riley’s eyes never leave mine. “I don’t think Jacob wants that.”
The silence stretches thin between us. I know what he’s really saying. After I bolted from his apartment like my ass was on fire, he thinks I’d rather suffer than let him touch me again.
Maybe I would. But there’s a fight in three weeks against Cassius “The Crusher” Lewis. The biggest fight of my career. And my shoulder, improved as it is, still isn’t right. I need to be at one hundred percent.
“I do,” I say, the words feeling like gravel in my mouth. “I want you to continue treatment.”
Riley’s eyebrows lift, the only sign of his surprise. “Are you sure? Last time—”
I’m not sure what he was going to say in front of Renata, but I cut him off before he can. “Last time is irrelevant. This is about my health. My career.” The unspoken hangs between us: not about whatever happened on his table, not about the way my body responded to his touch.
“I see.” Riley crosses his arms, studying me for dishonesty. “And you’d be comfortable coming to my office for treatment?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not your office. Not your home.” I plant my feet wider, drawing myself up to full height. “My place.”
Riley frowns. “That’s highly irregular. I have all my equipment here, and at home I have a proper therapy room set up—”
“My apartment is closer to the gym. It would be more convenient for my training schedule.”
It’s bullshit, and we all know it. This isn’t about convenience. It’s about control. On my turf, I set the rules. I decide when things start and end. If things get uncomfortable again, I can kick him out.
“I’ll pay double your usual rate,” Renata interjects when Riley hesitates. “Please, Riley, we need you.”
“It’s not about money.” Riley’s gaze is piercing. “I haven’t even figured out exactly what’s wrong with your shoulder. The imaging doesn’t match your symptoms. Without my equipment—”
“You have your hands,” I say, then immediately regret the way it sounds.
Riley’s face remains impassive, but something flickers in his eyes. “I’ll need to bring some supplies.”
“Fine.”
“And if I determine you need more advanced diagnostics, you’ll need to come to the hospital.”
“Fine.”
Riley sighs, uncrossing his arms. “I’m curious about your case,” he admits. “Professionally speaking. And I do want to help.” He pauses, then adds, “But only if you’re sure.”
Am I sure? No. The thought of Riley’s hands on me again makes me panic. But I need my shoulder fixed more than I need comfort.
“I’m sure,” I lie, meeting his gaze.
“All right, then.” Riley opens his calendar on his laptop. “Does Thursday work? I just had a cancellation in the afternoon.”
I feel like I’ve just stepped into the cage with a new opponent, one I don’t know how to fight. But it’s too late to back out now, so I nod. “Fine.”