Before I can respond, he turns and walks toward the main arena. The crowd’s roar swells as he emerges, the sound of his name chanted by hundreds of throats. The Brickhouse. The undefeated champion about to defend his title.
I push off from the wall, intending to find another exit, when voices approach from the main area. I shrink back into the alcove, hoping whoever it is will pass by without noticing me.
No such luck.
Austin Parker stands at the mouth of the corridor, eyebrows raised in surprise. Beside him is a man I don’t recognize—tall, muscular, with a fighter’s build, though he’s not dressed to compete.
“Dr. Parker,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant and probably missing by a mile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I could say the same,” Austin replies, eyeing me curiously. “Everything okay?”
I force a smile. “Fine. Just getting some air.”
Austin’s gaze flicks to the man beside him, then back to me. There’s an unspoken question in his eyes, but he doesn’t voice it. Instead, he nods, a gesture of discretion that surprises me.
“Okay,” he says finally. “See you at the hospital.”
The implication is clear: this conversation isn’t over. But at least he’s not making a scene here and now.
I nod once and slip past them, my shoulders rigid, breath shallow. Behind me, the announcer’s voice booms through the warehouse, introducing the fighters. Jacob’s name echoes off concrete walls, followed by deafening cheers.
I don’t look back. I’m no longer in the mood to see him step into that cage, to watch him risk further injury for the roar of the crowd. More than that, I can’t bear to examine why I care so much.
I navigate through back hallways until I find a service exit, pushing through into the cool night air. The door swings shut behind me, muffling the sounds of combat and chaos. I lean against the brick exterior of the warehouse, letting my head fall back as I exhale.
Jacob wants to be untouchable. He’s built his life, his reputation, his very identity around being the immovable object,the unyielding force. But I’ve already touched him, already felt him yield beneath my hands. And worse, I want to do it again.
I push off from the wall and walk toward my car, the night air clearing my head. Tomorrow, I’ll be Dr. Riley Shepard again, professional and controlled. I’ll deal with whatever fallout comes from Dr. Parker seeing me here. I’ll file this encounter with Jacob away as a momentary lapse, an aberration.
But tonight, I can admit the truth: something broke open between us last night. Something neither of us knows how to put back together. And I’m not sure I want to try.
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.