The gym was quiet, the early morning light filtering through the narrow windows. Lennox strode across the carpeted floor with purpose, heading straight for the punching bag—like always. His shoulders were tense, his movements sharp with intent, and he was already raising his arm when—
"Stop," Sloane's calm but firm voice called from behind.
Lennox didn't turn immediately. A flicker of tension ran through him. Even the air felt heavier.
"What now?" he growled, not bothering to look back.
"You're not going to the bag until we've stretched. Thoroughly. Consistently. Today, tomorrow, the day after. Every session."
"I'm not part of some retirement yoga club, Quinn," he snapped, turning toward her. "And I'm not a kid who needs warm-ups before P.E. class."
"No, Lennox," she replied evenly. "You're a man whose muscles are stiffer than concrete in the morning, whose shoulder barely rotates, and whose hamstrings are practically begging for mercy. If you hit the bag now, I'll be reporting an injury to the sponsor within the hour. But if you follow my instructions, your body might actually keep up with the pace long term. It's your choice. But I'm not letting you fall apart."
He exhaled sharply, tossing his head back, then looked away with defiance.
"So what do you want? Yoga?"
"Stretching. Functional. Dynamic. Using your own bodyweight," she said, already walking to the center of the room. "The ring isn't just about punches. Every part of your body needs to be tuned. Otherwise, eventually, it won't be your opponent knocking you out—it'll be your own muscles."
Lennox didn't move.
"Come on," she called back. "Or is that 'legendary discipline' just a myth?"
He snorted and followed her.
Sloane set her tablet down on the floor and unzipped her jacket to reveal a fitted gray sports top. She began with slow, deliberate movements: hip openers, shoulder mobility, spinal rotations. Every move was precise and intentional.
"Follow what I'm doing," she said without turning. "If something doesn't work, say so. But don't improvise. You're not in charge here."
Lennox knelt beside her with a hiss, as if the whole sequence hurt his ego more than his muscles. But he did it. Every single exercise. He watched her closely—the cat stretch for the spine, the cross-arm stretch to release the shoulders, the forward fold targeting his hamstrings.
"Your body's talking, Graves," Sloane said quietly as she turned to the side. "You're just not listening."
"My body doesn't negotiate," Lennox muttered. "My body... executes."
"Then it's time you taught it the basics of negotiation," she replied dryly. "Because winning isn't about the biggest punch. It's about how long your body stays with you."
By the ring, he was already sweating—not from the movements, but from the control he was being forced to exert. Being directed didn't cause friction—it stirred something deeper, internal resistance. And yet... something shifted. When they finally stood, his muscles felt looser. Blood flowed more freely, his breathing was more even. His body wasn't protesting. In fact... it was grateful.
"We're done," Sloane said. "Now you can go to the bag. But if you feel a weak spot, report it. And don't play the hero. The goal isn't destruction. It's control."
Lennox nodded. Slowly. Barely noticeable. He didn't look at her. Didn't answer. He just walked to the bag. Something in him had changed: his muscles didn't resist—they responded. The breakfast, the stretching... both had worked, even if he hated admitting it.
He put on his gloves. Stood still for a moment. Then came the first punch—dry, precise, intentional. The bag swayed, and more followed: quick left jab, right hook, body shot, then an uppercut. His body moved like a well-oiled machine. The air shuddered with each motion, and Sloane stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, watching. Her expression showed no praise, no judgment—just focus. She tracked the angle of his knees, the movement of his hips, the mobility in his shoulders, the stability of his core. Every detail others likely missed.
The door opened. Marcus entered, notebook in hand, his stride steady but unhurried. He paused beside Sloane.
"How long's he been going?"
"Six minutes," she replied quietly, not taking her eyes off Lennox. "Full stretch beforehand, guided warm-up. I didn't let him start earlier."
Marcus nodded.
"Good. That's already progress."
They stood side by side in silence for a while, watching the storm at the edge of the ring. Marcus turned to her.
"Try to shake you off earlier?"
"Earlier? He wanted to ditch me the moment he saw my shoe color," Sloane replied with dry irony. "But we made it to breakfast without him flipping the table. His shoulder's still intact. That's more than I expected."
"And what do you sense in him?"
Sloane waited, observing another combo, then spoke quietly:
"Anger, wrapped in discipline. But somewhere deep down... he's looking for something to trust. His body already knows it needs me. The question is—when will his mind allow it?"
Marcus chuckled softly.
"His shoulder will let us know."
Sloane was about to reply when something shifted. A slight motion. A small angle caught in her peripheral vision. After a sudden left hook, Lennox lifted his shoulder—instinctively protecting it—then did a quick, tight shoulder roll. And again. Tension. Immediate compensation.
"Stop!" Her voice rang out, sharp and commanding, and she was already moving toward him. Lennox had been winding up for the next hit, but the voice halted him. His movement froze mid-air, and the air itself seemed to still with him.
Sloane was already in front of him. She didn't yell. Didn't rush. Just stepped into his space—not threateningly, but with warning.
"What did you feel?" she asked, her tone strictly professional.
Lennox didn't answer right away. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Nothing. Just... tightness."
"Where exactly?"
"Rotator. Left side. But it's nothing serious."
Sloane stood directly in front of him, her gaze cutting into his.
"It will be serious if you keep forcing it before I check it. Take off the glove."
He looked at her like he was ready to bite. But for some reason, he obeyed. Slowly, angrily, but without protest, he unstrapped the glove, and as he released his left hand, the muscle beneath his fingers trembled slightly. Sloane had already known—before he even removed it. And that was her real answer.
She stepped beside his left shoulder and raised her hand to gently touch the area.
"I'm going to lift your arm slowly to assess range and joint closure," she said calmly. "If it tightens, tell me. Don't keep it in."
But before she could make contact, Lennox flinched. Reflexively, he stepped back, pulling his shoulder behind him as if bracing for a blade.
"Don't touch me!" he snapped, voice sharp, almost violent. His eyes narrowed into icy slits, and for a second the air seemed to freeze. Sloane didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't ask questions. She just looked at him. And in the second of silence stretched between their locked eyes, she realized: this wasn't just a reflex. It wasn't about the pain. It was... deeper. A visceral, learned reaction. A defense against touch. Not the motion that hurt—but the closeness.
Sloane didn't soften. She didn't whisper. But her voice dropped—lower, not weaker. More focused.
"Lennox..." she said. "I know you can't stand being touched. I know this isn't about your shoulder—it's about something you've been carrying for years. But you're not a child anymore. This isn't harm. It's diagnosis."
He didn't respond. Just stood there, muscles buzzing with tension, shoulder still pulled away. Something dark pulsed at the edge of his eyes—like a wound that had never quite closed.
"If I don't examine your shoulder now, I can't say whether there's microtrauma or ligament strain," she continued, each word chipping away at his resistance. "If I can't assess it, I can't clear you for your next training. And then you don't get in the ring."
Her words didn't sound like a threat. More like... truth. A cold mirror Lennox hated—but couldn't deny. His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked briefly to her face—anger, defiance, suppressed fury, and a strange kind of desperate stubbornness danced in them. At last, he hissed:
"One try. That's it. But if you go too far, I swear—"
"I won't," Sloane cut in gently, but with unwavering seriousness. "This isn't about you. It's about your shoulder. Now let me help."
Lennox, every cell resisting, slowly allowed her to step closer. His left arm hung down, fingers stiff against his thigh, like he might back away any moment. But he didn't move.
Sloane reached for his shoulder with just two fingers. A careful, delicate press. His skin was warm, the muscle underneath trembling—not from pain, but from tension held in check. She glanced up at his face. His jaw trembled. His eyes were fixed ahead, like he was enduring the hardest round of his life. This was the moment. And Sloane knew: if she didn't mess this up, something tiny—but vital—would shift.
Her fingers still resting on the shoulder peak, she slid down over the deltoid and felt the deep, vibrating tension in the muscle. Lennox stood like a statue, his entire body resisting the touch—but he didn't pull away. Not yet.
"Lennox," she said softly, but directly. "We need to stretch your arm."
He flinched slightly but didn't speak.
"The rotator cuff and scapular stabilizers are locked," she continued. "If they stay that way, your whole shoulder girdle will overcompensate. Your next punch, the strain will hit your trap or your bicep. You won't be able to lift your arm—except out of anger. And anger won't get you through five hundred rounds."
Lennox slowly turned his head, his eyes narrowing like ice.
"Don't lecture me."
"I'm not lecturing," Sloane replied calmly. "I'm informing. This isn't a power struggle. It's biomechanics."
A beat of silence followed. His breathing was louder now than any sound in the room. His entire body was rigid, his arm still guarded like armor. But his eyes slowly shifted. Still wary. Still stubborn. But no longer raging. More like... calculating. Weighing.
Finally, he spoke, his voice raspy:
"And if I can't take it?"
Sloane took a small step back. Her voice didn't soften, but it wasn't cold either.
"Then you'll tell me. And I'll stop immediately. But if we don't try now, your muscles stay locked. There's no healing without stretching. No fight without mobility."
Silence.
Lennox's arms still hung motionless. Then—an almost imperceptible gesture. He let his left shoulder drop—like saying, Fine. Do it. But fast. No words. Just body language.
Sloane reached for his arm again. Her touch was firm, but not invasive. One hand supported his shoulder, the other took his forearm, and she slowly, precisely began to extend it downward, then outward. Millimeter by millimeter, watching every twitch, every microreaction, every breath.
Lennox didn't look at her. His gaze was fixed ahead, far away, like fighting an internal war not to toss her across the room. His jaw tightened, but his mouth stayed shut. Sloane whispered:
"Good. Just like that. We'll hold it for ten seconds... exhale... eight... seven..."
His fingers tensed, each second another battle between body and memory. But he didn't back away. For the first time... he didn't retreat.
When Sloane finally released his arm, Lennox moved his shoulder. It still hurt—but something in it had loosened. Like a door creaking open after years of being shut.
"Better?" Sloane asked softly.
He didn't speak. Just nodded. Once. Slowly. Reluctantly.
But it was a yes.