2. Chapter

The glove thudded against the punching bag, but Lennox no longer felt the weight of the impact. His muscles moved automatically, the rhythm was perfect, but his mind was far away. A glance toward the edge of the ring revealed Marcus's figure emerging from the dim morning light, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression. After Lennox's final punch, he pulled off the glove in one swift motion, clamped the strap between his teeth, and ripped it free.

"If you came to criticize, go ahead. But if you're just here to stare silently, then get the hell out," he growled.

Marcus didn't move.

"I have news."

"Another match canceled? Or am I getting suspended because I busted Jenkins' jaw at the press conference last week?" Lennox's voice was rough, the morning tension crackling through his muscles. He was always like this after waking—on edge, volatile.

"Neither," Marcus stepped out of the shadows and stopped at the edge of the ring. "It's something that might actually help you not screw up your last chance."

Lennox let out a bitter, tired laugh.

"Don't start with your motivational crap, Flynn. You know I hate that."

"This isn't a speech. It's a fact. You're doing the tour this year. Eight countries. Four months. And according to the contract... you're getting a sports doctor assigned to you."

Silence. The word seemed to split the air.

"What?"

"You heard me," Marcus replied calmly as he set his notebook down on the bench. "Dr. Quinn. Rehabilitation specialist. She's going with you everywhere. She'll monitor your workload, revise your diet, and help maintain your mental stability. And before you ask—no, we didn't consult you. It was the sponsor's request. And you signed the contract."

Lennox's eyes sparked.

"That fucking fine print..."

"Exactly," Marcus nodded. "You either accept it, or you can go right back to the hell you barely crawled out of."

"I don't need some whining shrink or do-gooder priest following me around," Lennox spat angrily. "I don't need anyone focusing on my mind-body balance when the only thing I want is to win."

Marcus stood with arms crossed.

"Then get used to the new system. Because without her, you're not getting clearance to step into the ring. The sponsors won't take the risk. And neither will I."

Lennox clenched his fists.

"And how long do you think this 'Dr. Quinn' will last by my side? A week? Two?"

"She's smarter than you," Marcus replied calmly. "And I think she's more patient, too."

The soft creak of the front door echoed through the gym. Lennox was about to snap another insult when he froze mid-motion. Footsteps. Confident. Precise. Then a woman's voice.

"Good morning."

Both men turned. In the doorway of the gym, behind the shadow of the ring, a woman stood. Black pants, gray jacket, blonde hair pinned in a bun, eyes sharp and icy. A briefcase on one arm, phone in her hand. She looked directly at Lennox. Not with curiosity. Not with interest. But as if she already knew him. Lennox didn't speak at first. Then a muscle in his face twitched.

"Oh no. This is my new babysitter?"

"Yes," Marcus replied. "Lennox, meet Dr. Sloane Quinn."

She didn't smile. Didn't extend her hand. Just stepped further into the room and stood tall.

"You're Lennox Graves. And I'm the reason you might actually survive this season," she said quietly, clearly.

Something flickered in Lennox's eyes. A cynical grin spread across his face.

"Oh, this is going to be just fucking great."

Sloane stood in the middle of the room. She didn't flinch under Lennox's icy glare, even though it practically pierced through her. The man was drenched in sweat, his muscles still trembling from the workout's aftermath, and every inch of him screamed, "Don't come closer."

But she stayed. Calm. Straight-backed. Lennox's gaze swept over her, openly sizing her up. Not like a man assessing a new colleague. More like someone searching for a weak spot. A crack in the armor.

"Green eyes, blonde hair, military posture... I thought Marcus was sending a doctor, not a ballerina who's watched too much Grey's Anatomy," he muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.

Sloane's expression didn't waver.

"I reviewed your medical reports, Mr. Graves. Your knee is highly unstable, your left shoulder's rotator cuff is chronically inflamed, and your stress level is so high that even moderate physical shock could trigger circulatory collapse. If I were the ballerina, you'd already be on the floor," she replied, voice low but sharp as a scalpel.

Lennox blinked, clearly not expecting the retort. Then he jutted out his chin and snorted.

"Well, look at that. The doc's not just on paper. She can actually talk. Tell me, Quinn—did they teach you at med school how to handle a guy who wants nothing to do with you?"

"They taught me how to professionally deal with a self-destructive egomaniac who thinks pain is glory," she said. "Your body is falling apart, Graves. And you've been ignoring it for far too long. I'm not here to like you. I'm here to save your career. If you let me."

Marcus stood in the background, arms still crossed, watching. He didn't interfere. This was exactly what he wanted—to let the initial tension run its course, to see who could handle whom.

Lennox stepped closer. Not threateningly, but enough that the air thickened between them.

"You know what I hate more than doctors? Doctors who think they know me."

Sloane didn't back down. She looked him straight in the eye.

"I don't know you, Mr. Graves. But I know pain. And loss. You know what I hate more than illness? People who don't want to get better."

The air crackled between them. Something in Lennox's face tightened, but he didn't speak. He clenched his fist, then slowly stepped back. As if realizing he couldn't play the same old games with this woman.

"Well then," Marcus finally broke the silence, "let's get started. The first week's training schedule is set. Sloane will attend all sessions. Every morning, 6 a.m. start. And Graves—if you scream at her again before you've spent at least ten minutes breathing the same air, you'll regret it."

Lennox just snorted but didn't respond. Sloane held his gaze for a heartbeat longer, then opened her bag, pulled out her tablet, and began taking notes. Efficient, professional movements—like it was just another day on the job. But inside, she already knew: this man wasn't an ordinary case. Not just because he was physically breaking down, but because something deeper was locked inside him. And for some reason, she couldn't help but want to find the key.

And Lennox... Lennox felt like this woman was more dangerous than any opponent he'd ever faced. Because she didn't hit. She didn't defend.

She saw. And that was worse.

Marcus cleared his throat and signaled for Sloane to follow him. Lennox was already at the far end of the gym, pounding the bag again, angry and focused. With every strike, the air howled like it carried another stifled scream. Sloane glanced back one last time, then followed Marcus. The hallway was quieter, surprisingly spacious. Thick carpet on the floor, walls lined with sports memorabilia—signed gloves and photos, echoes of Lennox's former glory. But they looked dusty now, as if something long extinguished lingered within them.

"I know what you're thinking," Marcus said softly, stopping at a dark wooden door. "And you're right. Lennox is a damn tough case. But if anyone can handle him, it might be you."

"It's not my job to handle him," Sloane replied quietly. "I just need to help him handle himself."

Marcus smiled faintly.

"You think more alike than I'd hoped."

He opened the door, and Sloane stepped into a bright, elegantly furnished room. Not too big, but thoughtfully arranged: comfortable bed, desk, built-in closet, a window letting in natural light, and a small armchair in the corner. The walls were a soft gray, calming in tone, the floor dark wood. The bed was neatly made with white linen, a nightstand beside it.

"The room at the end of the hall is yours," Marcus said, then pointed left. "That's Lennox's quarters. You're next-door neighbors."

Sloane paused.

"You planned it that way?"

"His training, diet, recovery all require daily tracking now. Fast response will be essential. And..." Marcus lowered his voice, "...he doesn't let anyone in. If we want him to get used to your presence, you need to be physically close. Proximity teaches more than a pile of notes sometimes."

Sloane sighed. She didn't argue. She knew Marcus was right.

"There's a private bathroom, good water pressure, fast internet, and the kitchen is down the hall. You'll make a daily meal plan for him—I'll coordinate the schedule. And if you have questions... don't hesitate to ask. And Sloane?"

She looked at him, her hands still resting on her bag's strap.

"If it gets to be too much... just say so. No one expects you to do this alone."

Sloane gave a small nod.

"Thank you. But I don't usually run away."

Marcus's lips twitched in a faint smile before he turned and left. Sloane only exhaled once she was completely alone. She looked around the room, then walked to the door that led to Lennox's. It was closed, silence emanating from behind it—but somewhere beyond that wall, the storm that was Lennox Graves still raged. And now, she had stepped into the eye of it.

Sloane was still standing in the middle of the room when a soft sigh escaped her lips. The journey, the confrontation with Marcus, Lennox's near-animal outburst... it was all exhausting and overstimulating at once. But now, she was alone. Time to settle in—if only to keep Lennox from finding another excuse to provoke her.

Her suitcase was still in the corner, neatly zipped. She knelt beside it, opened it, and methodically began unpacking. Clothes folded with military precision lined the inside: crisp blouses, fitted pants, a few comfortable sweats, sneakers, and a more formal outfit in case she had to attend a dinner or event.

As she arranged them in the closet, her motions were automatic—yet behind every fold and zipper hummed something tightly wound. Routine brought calm. Repetition created the illusion of control. At least somewhat.

Undergarments went into a separate drawer, toiletries to the bathroom. She placed her tablet and a folder on the dresser—the latter containing Lennox Graves' full medical and performance profile, which she would read through tonight. She always started with thorough preparation. But not just yet.

She caught her reflection in the mirror as she untied her tight bun. The wavy blonde strands slipped over her shoulders. Her green eyes looked slightly tired, but the usual determination burned in them. For a moment, she just stared at her own face—the one she'd been trying to present not just to the world, but to herself. Once she finished unpacking, she pulled back the curtains and looked out the window. The city outside was still alive, pulsating with lights and sounds. But inside, there was quiet. Fatigue settled on her shoulders like lead. She collapsed onto the bed. The mattress was comfortable, the sheets smelled freshly washed. She closed her eyes for a moment, then sat up again to set the alarm for six a.m. Their first training session together. The first real test.

The clock neared eleven. She lay staring at the ceiling, her body heavy, but her mind refusing to shut down. Lennox's face lingered in her thoughts—sharp lines, icy stare, a body that spoke of rage and resistance. That man wasn't just fighting physically. Something invisible battled within him. Something deeper. Something painful.

"I have to help him. Even if he doesn't want me to."

That was her final thought before exhaustion finally took her.

And across the hall, Lennox Graves still wasn't sleeping. He was punching the bag. Punching until his hands started to bleed.

But he didn't stop.