2
Riley
I stare at the MRI until my eyes burn, as if I glare hard enough, the truth will materialize between the gray shadows of bone and tissue. Eleven at night, and I’m still hunched over Jacob Mancini’s medical files, chasing a diagnosis that makes sense. The scans show minor inflammation. Nothing that would drop a fighter to his knees. But I watched him wince when I rotated his shoulder. I felt the resistance in his muscles, saw the flash of pain he tried to hide behind those dark eyes. The tests are lying, or Jacob is. And something tells me it’s not Jacob.
My office is tomb-quiet this late, the only sounds the hum of my laptop and the occasional distant squeak of nurses’ shoes on polished floors. The hospital wing sleeps around me while I flip back and forth between X-rays, CT scans, and the tersely worded evaluations from the three doctors who saw Jacob before me. They all reached the same underwhelming conclusion: mild inflammation, possible minor tendon strain, nothing career-ending.
But his reaction when I touched him told a different story.
I tap my pen against the desk, remembering how his massive frame tensed under my hands. Jacob filled the cramped locker room with his presence, all coiled muscle and barely restrainedpower. Even wounded, he radiated the kind of physical authority that makes people step back, give way. The nickname “Brickhouse” wasn’t just marketing. It was a warning label.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, reaching for my coffee. Cold. I drink it anyway, grimacing at the bitter sludge. Sleep is clearly not in my immediate future, not with Jacob’s medical mystery gnawing at my brain.
I pull up the video Renata sent me. Jacob’s last fight. The camera quality is shit, but his fighting isn’t. He moves with controlled violence and precision, as if gravity is optional. Until the fourth round. There it is. I pause, rewind, play it again at half speed. His right shoulder drops a fraction after landing a hook.
I flip back to the MRI. There should be a tear, a dislocation, something structural. But there’s nothing significant. Just that whisper of inflammation that doesn’t match his symptoms or his behavior.
Athletes lie about pain all the time. They minimize, they push through, they self-medicate. But Jacob’s eyes held something different when I pressed on his deltoid. Surprise. Like the pain itself was unexpected, even to him.
My phone sits next to the keyboard. I check the time: 11:17 PM. Too late to call anyone sane. Perfect time to call Renata.
I grab the phone and tap her number before I talk myself out of it. She answers on the third ring, her voice alert despite the hour.
“Doctor Shepard. Problem with the files?” No small talk, no surprise at the timing. I like that about her.
“The files are fine. It’s the diagnosis I’m questioning.” I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles. “EverythingI’m seeing indicates minor inflammation, maybe some impingement. Nothing that should sideline a fighter of Jacob’s caliber.”
“But?”
“But I saw him, Renata. There’s something wrong that isn’t showing up on these scans.”
Silence stretches between us. I can almost hear her calculating risk versus reward.
“What do you need?” she finally asks.
“I need to talk to him again and get a more complete history.”
“Okay. I can set something up for—”
“Tonight, if possible.” The words come out before I can stop them.
“Tonight?” Renata’s voice carries a note of surprise. “It’s nearly midnight.”
“I know. But this is—” I stop myself from saying ‘bothering me’ and switch to “—time-sensitive. The sooner we figure out what’s happening, the sooner we can get him back in fighting shape.”
I hear a sigh from the other end of the line. “He’s at the gym. Some nights he works out until they kick him out. Says it helps him think.”
“Text me the address.”
“I can drive you there,” she offers. “Jacob’s not in the best mood lately. I can run interference.”
“I appreciate that, but I need to speak with him alone. Doctor-patient confidentiality.”
Renata sighs. “Fine. But if he beats you to a pulp, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” There’s no humor in her voice, just resignation.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I hang up before she can respond.
My phone buzzes with a text almost immediately. An address in the industrial district, about twenty minutes from the hospital. I shut down my laptop, slide it into my bag, and gather the files. I’m moving on autopilot, driven by something more than professional curiosity, though I’m not ready to name it.