"What the hell is this?" Lennox asked, brow furrowed as he scanned the chart in front of him. The breakfast table wasn't covered with food this morning—it was covered with a training plan. Broken down by day, color-coded, divided into time intervals. Beside it were small icons: cardio, stabilization, plyometrics, static stretching, recovery cycles. Sloane nodded without a flicker of emotion.
"Your new training program. Starts today."
"This isn't a program," Lennox muttered. "It's a military operation."
"Exactly," Sloane replied dryly. "Your body's not twenty anymore. Instead of fast, intense, isolated training, we're working in a cyclical, integrated system. Cardio in the morning, weights mid-day, mobility and active recovery in the evening. Variable intensity. Less destruction. More control."
"I'm not great at control," Lennox remarked cynically, but his eyes scanned the sheet again. "Running? Seriously?"
"Interval running," Sloane corrected. "We start this morning: 6 x 400 meters, alternating pace, two-minute rest in between. Your ankles and knees can handle it—if your movement's prepped. I'll monitor your rhythm and adjust as needed. After that, bodyweight training: core, pull-ups, lunges, TRX."
Lennox looked up at her. His expression wasn't angry. More... puzzled.
"And the bag?"
"This afternoon. Focused on technique. No brutal punches—angle work, form, movement efficiency. By then, your body will be warm and more responsive. You won't beat yourself to a pulp."
He exhaled sharply, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed. The fabric of his shirt stretched across his biceps. His muscles seemed to resist the new structure—but his eyes betrayed something else.
"So now you're orchestrating my whole day. I live like a fucking Olympian now."
Sloane shrugged.
"No. Like someone who wants to save his career. Olympians trust their teams. You don't. But if you won't trust people... at least trust the system."
Lennox gave a short, dry laugh. Not out of amusement—more like someone realizing they walked straight into a trap but were too tired to fight it.
"And if I say I'm not running?"
Sloane opened her tablet, pulled up a file, and answered without looking up:
"Then you're saying you don't want to win. I'll write that in the report. That'll be enough for the sponsor to pull your support. Any other questions?"
Silence. Lennox sat still for a few seconds. Something shifted in his gaze—not surrender, but acceptance. Not toward her—toward the situation.
Finally, he stood.
"Fine. But if I run six laps, I'm punching you for this breakfast."
"No chance," Sloane replied, already closing the folder. "You won't have the energy."
•••••
The early morning chill still lingered in the air, but heat already radiated from Lennox's body. The private running track behind PowerCore Gym was empty, as always. The soft, rubber-coated loop was surrounded by tall, dense hedges, as if the outside world had been shut out. It was the only open space where Lennox didn't feel watched—yet today, he felt every step shadowed by her presence behind him.
Sloane wore black compression tights and a dark gray long-sleeve top, looking more like a military instructor than a sports doctor. She'd left the tablet behind—just brought a stopwatch and a small notepad. Nothing unnecessary. Just what the job needed.
"Start with a warm-up lap," she said firmly, not waiting for a response before starting the clock.
Lennox didn't say a word. He just started running. His strides were long, powerful—like a predator stalking, not sprinting. His feet landed with soft thuds against the rubber, arms moving in rhythm, but his neck stayed stiff. Sloane noticed. His shoulders still a bit tight, his posture closed.
"Don't push the first lap," she noted. "This isn't a race. Just waking up."
Lennox didn't answer. Just kept running—as if running at the air, not the track. On the next lap, he sped up. Sloane glanced at the timer.
"First interval: 400 meters. Moderate pace. Two-minute rest after. Go."
He responded instantly. The pace changed. It wasn't a dramatic acceleration, but his movement sharpened. His legs sliced the track in tight rhythm, breathing clearly faster. Sloane stepped to the edge, following him with her eyes.
By the 150-meter mark, she saw it: Lennox didn't do moderate. He either pushed or shut down. He fought—or he didn't. There was no middle ground.
"Slow down, Graves," she called after him. "This isn't a sprint. It's endurance. Learn to manage your strength."
But Lennox didn't slow. Even his arms were tightening, adrenaline taking control of his body. At the end of the lap, he halted, hands on hips, chest heaving, sweat trailing down his temple.
"Two-minute rest," Sloane said, stepping beside him. "Your heart rate's too high. This isn't about burst power. It's about control. If every run's an attack, you'll burn out in two weeks."
Lennox looked at her.
"So that's the plan? Break me down so you can 'save' me?"
"My plan is for you to realize strength alone isn't enough," she answered calmly. "Your body isn't a warrior. It's a tool. And if you overstrain a tool, it breaks. It's that simple."
He looked back at the track, unmoving. His arms still tense, but something in his face shifted. A faint flicker of realization—one that doesn't make a man grateful, just... quieter.
The second run was different. Not perfect, but more focused, less defiant. Sloane stood at the edge with the stopwatch, noting observations. Fast quad response, but excessive heel lift near the ankles—overcompensating. Shoulders mobile, but still tight. Rhythm maintained by force, not flow.
After the fourth lap, Lennox stopped, hands on his knees. He didn't speak. Sweat dripped down his neck, his shirt soaked down the spine. Sloane didn't ask anything. Just offered him a water bottle. He took it. Drank. Didn't look at her. But didn't toss it back either. Just let it drop to his knee and stay there.
By the sixth lap, everything had changed. His legs were tired, his chest heaving, pulse high—but his movement... had shifted. It wasn't about speed anymore. It was about staying intact. Reaching the end. Not collapsing like a hero at the finish line.
When he stopped, he didn't gasp. He just walked slowly toward Sloane. His hands were shaking, but he said nothing. Just sat on the ground, legs stretched out, leaning back.
"Well?" he muttered. "Happy now?"
Sloane crouched beside him, set the notepad down.
"I asked for one thing: don't explode. And today, you didn't. That's progress."
Lennox looked up at her. His eyes weren't angry. Just... tired. Curious.
"And that's enough?"
"For today," she replied. "Ask me again tomorrow. Hopefully the answer will change."
Silence settled between them. Not awkward—rare. The kind shared only by two people who aren't trying to dominate each other. Just... existing. In the same space. The same rhythm.
The run was over. But something else had just begun.
Where it wasn't just weights being lifted—but mistrust too.
•••••
Returning from the track, Lennox entered the weight room in silence. The air was cooler, mirrors on the walls, thick rubber flooring beneath—the familiar ground. Here, he didn't have to think. Just lift, press, fight. Iron didn't ask questions. It just pushed back if you were weak.
Sloane followed wordlessly, opened her notebook, and placed it on a bench. No distractions: no music, no vision boards. Just data, measured values, and one goal—functional performance improvement.
"Start: bodyweight sets." Her voice was firm, but she no longer had to raise it over him. "TRX pull-ups, 3 x 12. Focus on the back and core. Then deep lunges, alternating legs. Then ab wheel and plank."
Lennox winced at the mention of the ab wheel.
"Trying to wreck my lower back?"
"The only thing that would wreck your back is laziness," Sloane shot back dryly. "Luckily, that's not your issue."
He sighed but already reached for the TRX. The dark straps hung from the ceiling, and as he gripped them, his arms transformed into cords of muscle. He stepped back, leaned, and started pulling. His chest lifted evenly, shoulder blades retracted tightly. The movements were mechanical—perfectly executed, yet driven by a kind of violent compulsion.
"Your back isn't a machine, Graves," Sloane noted as she watched his shoulder stability. "You're not pulling with your arms. Your core controls the motion. Relax into it. Don't fight the movement. Feel it."
"I don't like feeling," Lennox hissed through clenched teeth, starting the second set. "That's always gone badly for me."
Sloane didn't respond. Just watched. And made a note.
By the third set, his arms were trembling. His shoulders glistened with sweat. The wild power was gone. What remained was strength. Raw. Tired. Human.
"Lunges. Alternating legs. Go deep, let your knee hover above the floor. Engage your core."
Lennox sighed but got into position. The lunges followed in steady rhythm. His quads burned after the first round. His calves protested. His lower back reminded him just how long he'd neglected the posterior chain.
Sloane stepped over to a small mat and adjusted it for the plank.
"Ten-second rest," she said. "Next: one-minute plank, then two rounds of ab wheel. Focused, slow—not about speed. It's about stability."
Lennox looked up at her—not angrily, just grim.
"Do you know anything that doesn't hurt?"
Sloane smiled. Faint but genuine.
"Yes. Wasted potential. That doesn't hurt. It just dies. So get to work."
He dropped into plank position. Elbows on the mat, back straight, hips steady. His breathing was even—though faster than it should be. The first twenty seconds passed in silence. Then his core began to tremble. Subtly—but Sloane noticed.
"Don't clench. Don't lock it in. Lengthen your spine. Your body isn't a barricade to defend. It's a bridge. Feel how it holds you, don't just squeeze it."
"I'm convinced now you used to be a dance instructor," Lennox grunted from the floor. "No one else talks like that about hips."
Sloane smiled. But didn't answer.
And Lennox finished. The plank, both ab wheel rounds—and even one bonus set Sloane hadn't asked for. Just to prove he could. And he could.
When they finished, Lennox leaned against the wall, arms dangling at his sides, chest heaving.
"I'm done," he rasped.
"No," Sloane replied softly, handing him a water bottle. "You've just started learning how to work with yourself, not against it."
He didn't snap back. Didn't throw a jab. Just took the bottle, drank, and quietly added:
"There gonna be more of this tomorrow?"
Sloane nodded.
"Tomorrow will be harder."
Lennox nodded too.
And didn't argue.
•••••
After the stillness of the weight room, the boxing area felt louder. The heavy bags hung still on their hooks, sweat stains on the floor, gloves and wraps arranged in near-military order. Posters of Lennox's past fights lined the walls: blurred moments, blood and victory, a steel gaze and a falling mouthguard.
Now there was silence. Only the hum of the ventilation and the soft thud of footsteps.
Lennox walked to his favorite bag—the old-school, worn black leather one. Sturdy. Responsive. Every punch he threw into it gave something back. You couldn't just wail on this bag. It pushed back.
He looked up at it, then back at Sloane.
"So this is what you took from me this morning?"
Sloane nodded.
"Yes. But not the way you're used to."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Because you're learning now."
Lennox looked away for a moment but said nothing. He slowly strapped on his gloves. His movements were slower than usual, but more precise. No longer driven by rage. He was focused now.
Sloane stepped to the other side of the bag. Not far—just close enough to be felt, not intrusive. Her voice was calm, but commanding.
"First phase: stance. No punches. Just movement. Steps, shifts, weight transfers. The ring doesn't start from your fists—it starts from your feet."
Lennox raised a brow but stepped into stance. Weight on the balls of his feet, heels barely touching the ground. He shifted. Adjusted.
"Good. Now breathe with your internal rhythm," Sloane continued. "Not the bag's tempo. Not emotion. Your breath is the metronome. And before every punch, ask yourself one thing: Why?"
"Why I'm punching?"
"Yes."
"Because it's the only thing I do right," Lennox said quietly, not looking at her.
"No," Sloane shook her head. "It's the only thing you do. That's different."
Silence. Lennox's muscles tensed, but he didn't respond.
"Step," she said. "Right. Lower your weight. Left hand forward—one. Not full power. Just technique. One–two. Hold your form."
Lennox punched. Lighter than usual, but so precise the bag let out a deep thud.
"Hold it. Don't rush. You're not fighting rounds. Focus on your shoulder. Don't slap—guide."
"Were you always like this?" Lennox asked suddenly. His voice was tired, not sharp. Curious.
"Like what?"
"So... precise. Like you always know what someone wants before they say it."
Sloane was quiet for a moment.
"No. I just learned to listen to what people don't say."
Lennox landed another punch. This one sounded deeper. Not anger—focus.
"And do you listen to me?"
"I have to," Sloane replied plainly. "Because your body tells me far more than you're willing to say."
"Then I must be a real mess," Lennox muttered.
Sloane shook her head.
"Not a mess. Just hurting. People who never learned to trust aren't weak. They're just tired of always defending."
He stopped. His fist still pressed against the bag, breath deep and steady. He didn't speak. Just stared ahead.
Then he punched again.
But this time, it was different.
Not from anger.
Not from defiance.
But with purpose.