Chapter 10
Jacob
I throw another jab at Vance’s face, feeling the satisfying impact against his guard.
He’s good, better than most guys at the gym, but I’m better.
His eyes widen when I feint left, then I slip past his defense with a right hook that stops just short of his jaw.
I could’ve ended it there, but this is practice, not a real fight.
Though with the way my blood’s pumping, sometimes the line blurs.
Vance grins beneath his mouthguard, backing up to reset. He knows I’m holding back.
“Come on, Brickhouse,” Vance taunts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “My grandmother hits harder than that.”
I smirk. “Your grandmother must be fucking terrifying.”
He laughs and lunges forward with a combination that’s quick but sloppy. I block, sidestep, and counter with a body shot that makes him grunt. The familiar rhythm of sparring settles into my bones. The give and take, the dance of violence that makes more sense to me than anything else in life.
The gym buzzes around us. Knockout at midday is alive with slaps of gloves on bags, grunts of exertion, and squeaks of shoes on mats.
Kairo leans against the wall, watching us, his expression unreadable as always.
A few other guys from the Red Corner mill around, waiting for their turn to practice, to test themselves against me.
Being undefeated means everyone wants a piece of you, even in practice.
The door to the gym swings open, and I catch movement in my peripheral vision. I don’t need to look to know it’s Renata. I recognize the click of her heels against the concrete floor. But someone’s with her, and that’s when I make my first mistake. I glance over.
Riley.
The moment of distraction costs me. Vance’s fist glances off my cheekbone, not hard, but enough to remind me where I am. I snap my focus back to Vance, but it’s too late. The damage is done. Riley is here, and now I can’t unfeel his presence.
“Eyes on me, champ,” Vance says, circling.
I grunt in response, resetting my stance.
But part of my awareness stays locked on Riley as he follows Renata toward the side of the training area.
It’s been a week since that night in my apartment.
A week of trying not to think about his hands on me, the way my body responded like it never had before.
A week of telling myself it was just physical release, nothing more.
Bullshit, all of it.
I launch a combination at Vance that’s more aggressive than necessary. He blocks most of it but takes a hit to the ribs that makes him wheeze. I back off immediately, giving him space.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Save something for the real fights.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, glancing again at where Riley stands with Renata.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a navy sweater that hugs his shoulders.
His eyes are hard to see from here, but I know what they look like up close.
That intense green that seems to see right through my bullshit.
The memory of those eyes watching me come undone flashes through my mind, and heat rises to my face that has nothing to do with exertion.
Vance follows my gaze. “Who’s the hot nerd with Renata?”
“My doctor,” I say, and immediately regret the possessive pronoun. “I mean, a doctor. For my shoulder.”
Vance nods, uninterested in the details. “Ready to go again?”
I refocus, forcing Riley out of my immediate thoughts.
We circle each other, trading blows that gradually increase in intensity.
I keep my right shoulder controlled, still conscious of it despite the improvement after Riley’s treatment.
With each movement, I feel Riley’s clinical and observant gaze on me.
The round timer buzzes, saving me from my spiraling thoughts. Vance and I touch gloves, and he steps out of the training area, grabbing his water bottle.
“Good round,” he says, gulping water. “Your shoulder looks better.”
I roll it experimentally. “It’s getting there.”
Kairo pushes off from the wall and walks toward me, already unwrapping his hands. “My turn,” he says, his voice low and quiet.
Unlike Vance, Kairo isn’t one for small talk. He’s built like a predator—lean, fast, with a stillness that unnerves people. We’ve trained together for years, and I still don’t know much about him beyond his fighting style, which is brutal and efficient.
I grab my water bottle and take a long swallow, then wipe my face with a towel. Sweat stings my eyes, and my muscles have that pleasant burn of exertion. I should probably take a break, but I don’t. One more round won’t kill me.
“Let’s go,” I tell Kairo, tossing the towel aside.
As Kairo steps into the training area, I feel the energy shift. With Vance, it was practice. With Kairo, it’s always something more. He nods once, and we begin circling.
His first strike comes without warning. A jab that’s faster than it has any right to be. I block it, but barely. The next punch slips past my guard and catches me in the ribs, harder than sparring protocol would dictate.
“Easy,” I mutter. “We’ve got an audience.”
Kairo’s eyes flick to where Riley stands, then back to me. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his stance shifts. He’s picked up on something. The tension between Riley and me, maybe. Or just my distraction. Either way, he’s going to exploit it.
He comes at me with a combination that has real power behind it. I match him, escalating in turn. This isn’t sparring anymore; it’s becoming a fight. Somewhere in my mind, I know we should dial it back, but my body moves on instinct, responding to the threat.
We trade blows that echo in the suddenly quiet gym. People stop what they’re doing to watch us. I catch glimpses of their faces, some excited, others concerned.
Kairo catches me with an uppercut that snaps my head back. I taste copper in my mouth. The thin line between practice and combat dissolves completely. I counter with a cross-hook combination that lands solidly. Kairo stumbles back, then grins with bloody teeth.
“There he is,” he says. “The undefeated champion.”
Something dark and hungry wakes up inside me.
The part that loves the fight, that feeds on the violence.
I launch forward with a flurry of strikes, backing Kairo toward the edge of the mat.
He defends, counters, but I’m relentless.
We’re moving faster now, hitting harder.
The crowd around us grows, drawn by the spectacle.
Kairo feints, then shoots for my legs. I sprawl to defend, but he’s committed.
We grapple, muscles straining against each other, until I execute a sweep that puts him on his back.
I follow him down, securing position, pinning his arm.
He struggles beneath me, and I rear back, fist cocked for a strike that will end this.
“ENOUGH!”
The voice cuts through the red haze in my mind. It’s not loud, but it’s commanding, absolute in its authority. I freeze mid-motion, fist still raised, breathing hard.
Riley stands at the edge of the mat, arms crossed. His expression is calm but unyielding. “That’s enough,” he repeats, quieter this time.
The gym falls silent. Every eye swivels between Riley and me, waiting. Nobody tells me to stop fighting. Nobody. The last guy who tried ended up needing stitches.
Someone behind me mutters, “Oh, shit.”
But I don’t move. I stare at Riley, at his steady gaze, at the absolute certainty in his posture. Something deep in my gut responds to his command, the same part of me that yielded to his touch that night on the bench. The part I’ve never shown anyone else.
I lower my fist slowly. Beneath me, Kairo’s eyes narrow in surprise.
Without a word, I stand, offering Kairo my hand. He takes it, letting me pull him to his feet. The crowd stays silent, watching this unprecedented moment—me, backing down.
I grab my towel again, wiping sweat from my face, then from my hands. The adrenaline is still pumping, but it’s redirected now, focused on Riley.
I turn to him, meeting his gaze directly. “A word, doc?”
Without waiting for an answer, I head toward the locker room. I don’t look back to see if he follows. I know he will. The heavy door swings shut behind me, and a moment later, it opens again as Riley steps inside.
The room is empty. Just rows of metal lockers, wooden benches, and the distant sound of water dripping somewhere. I turn to face him, arms crossed over my chest.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demand. “Barging in on my training session like that?”
Riley doesn’t flinch at my tone. He stands just inside the door, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but straight. “I’m your doctor,” he says simply. “I have every right to stop a sparring session if I believe it will damage your health.”
“My health is none of your business.”
“Actually, it is. That’s literally why I’m here.” His voice remains even. “You hired me to fix your shoulder. I can’t do that if you’re aggravating the injury with unnecessarily brutal sparring.”
“That wasn’t sparring,” I mutter. “That was just—”
“Fighting,” Riley finishes for me. “I know. That’s the problem.”
I shake my head, pacing a few steps before turning back to him. “You made me look weak in front of everyone. You don’t do that.”
“I made you look like someone who listens to medical advice,” Riley counters. “Besides, you didn’t have to stop. You chose to.” His eyes hold mine.
I’m not willing to question why I did that, so I change the subject.
“Why are you here, anyway? Renata could’ve sent you a recording of my sparring. Save you the gas money.”
“I wanted to speak to you in person.”
“About?”
“I have a theory about your shoulder.” He moves further into the locker room, leaning against the wall. When I don’t acknowledge him, he continues. “I think your pain is psychosomatic.”
Anger flares in my chest, hot and defensive. “You’re saying it’s not real? I’m making it up?”
“No, the pain is real,” Riley says firmly. “Psychosomatic doesn’t mean imaginary,” he clarifies. “It means your nervous system is involved. It’s a connection between your body’s physical response and your mental state.”
I scoff. “Sounds like bullshit.”
“Does it?” He pushes off from the wall, stepping closer.
“Look at the evidence. Your MRI is clean. No structural damage that would explain the level of pain you’re experiencing.
Your strength comes and goes depending on context.
The pain spikes under pressure, not load.
And your body braces before you even move, anticipating pain that hasn’t happened yet. ”
I want to argue, but what he’s saying resonates with what I’ve felt. The way my shoulder seizes up before fights, how the pain disappears in the heat of combat only to return afterward, worse than before.
“Your body is guarding,” Riley continues. “It’s staying locked, like it’s constantly preparing for impact.”
“I’m a fighter,” I retort. “That’s what I do.”
“That’s the problem. Your body doesn’t know how to stop. Even when the fight is over, you’re still bracing for the next hit.”
I sink onto a bench, suddenly exhausted. “So what does that mean? What’s causing it?”
“Could be chronic stress, unresolved fear, a need for control.” Riley sits beside me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. “Sometimes pain is the only way the body forces you to listen.”
I stare at the floor, at the scuffed tiles beneath my feet. “Listen to what?”
“To yourself,” Riley says quietly. “To what you keep pushing down.”
Something cracks open inside me. “So my shoulder is just… weak?”
“No.” Riley’s denial is immediate and firm. “It’s tired. It’s doing its job. It’s trying to protect you.” He pauses, choosing his words. “You take hits for a living. But you resist anything that touches you when it’s not a fight.”
My breath catches in my throat as the subtext lands. I don’t argue because it’s true. The only touch I allow is violent. Anything else, anything gentle or intimate, I flinch away from. Except with Riley. His touch broke through somehow, and we both know it.
“We can treat the muscle,” Riley offers. “But if you want this to stop coming back, you have to stop bracing against your own body.”
I look at him, feeling oddly threatened by his insight. “And what if I don’t know how?”
“Then I’ll teach you,” Riley says, the simple statement hanging between us.
The locker room suddenly feels smaller. The distant drip of water marks seconds of silence.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” I finally ask.
“Different kinds of relaxation techniques.” Riley straightens slightly, back in doctor mode. “Deep tissue work, guided breathing, salt baths, sauna sessions, meditation, and…” He hesitates.
“And?” I prompt, something in his hesitation making my pulse quicken.
Riley licks his lips, the first sign of nervousness I’ve seen from him today. “Have you ever tried prostate massage?”
“What?” The word explodes out of me. “No!”
“It’s a legitimate therapeutic technique. It can release deep tension in the pelvic floor that’s connected to the lower back and shoulders. The entire body is interconnected.”
I stand abruptly, putting distance between us. “No way I’m letting you do that.”
Riley remains seated, watching me pace. “It was just a suggestion. There are other approaches we can try.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Let’s try those first.”
“Think about it,” Riley says, standing. “Not just the prostate massage, but all of it. Learning to relax, to let go of the guard. I think it could make a significant difference.”
He’s right, and I hate it. The idea of letting my guard down terrifies me more than any opponent I’ve ever faced. But the alternative is continuing to fight my own body—a battle I’m starting to lose.
“Fine,” I say, not looking at him. “I’ll think about it.”
Riley nods, accepting this small victory. “That’s all I ask.”
We exit the locker room together, my face burning from our conversation, Riley following a step behind with his usual composure. The gym is back to normal activity, though I notice several curious glances our way.
Renata hurries over, her eyes scanning Riley for damage. “Are you okay? I was afraid he strangled you in there.”
I snort, heading back toward the training area without waiting for his response. But I hear it anyway, his calm voice carrying across the gym:
“As you can see, he hasn’t.” A pause. “Not yet, anyway.”
Something about the way he says it makes me want to turn around. Instead, I keep walking, trying to ignore the growing certainty that Riley Shepard is about to unravel everything I’ve built my life around.