“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—”