Page 18 of 1 Last Shot

"Nothing," I say through gritted teeth. "I'm fine. Keep going."

For the rest of the minute, I push myself through the motions. Even though my shoulder is on fire, I bite down on my mouthpiece and force myself to finish the round. Stopping any training exercise because you're in a little bit of pain is pussy shit, and I don't live by that—I work through anything that doesn't put me in the ground because that's what I have to do.

I barely make it through the round with Tristan. When the bell rings, I internally breathe a sigh of relief that the next guy is an amateur, and that he's too invested in technique to care about fights of will. I somehow overpower him even with an arm that feels like it's about to burn off my body.

"Kane, you're doing another round," Coach barks after the round ends.

I grind my jaw and nod stiffly.

Round One, I get Aiden. Easy money.

Round Two, Jax again. I barely survive his annoyance, but I make it.

Round Three, Tristan.

I don't make it out of that round.

Tristan smells my injury—as well as my refusal to acknowledge it—as soon as the bell rings. I know in the first ten seconds that I'm not going to survive the round.

"Kane, why the fuck aren't you throwing your left hook?" Coach’s voicereeksof impatience.

"I'm trying to throw more right hands," I growl.

"Bullshit," he snaps. "You're ignoring your left arm.Why?" Before I can make up a lie, he's striding into the cage and grabbing my left elbow.

I manage to keep from shouting, but I can't swallow the pain-drenched groan that the touch forces out of me.

"That's what I thought," he says. "Why wouldn't you tell me you pulled the muscle?"

"I'm fine," I bite out, trying not to black out from the fiery pain shooting into my shoulder.

Coach shakes his head, disapproval emanating from his body.

"You're done," he says as he steps out of the cage. "Take a few days off to rest the shoulder. I don't want to see you back in here until you can throw a left hook without wincing."

"A fewdays?" I parrot incredulously, my voice rising. "I can't stay away that long, I'll go crazy." Imagining the tension that always seeps into my body if I go more than two days without punching something is enough to make my stomach roil. Even staying away from sparring for a few days was torture this week.

"Just let me take tomorrow off," I rush to argue. "And then when I come back, I'll just work my southpaw stance, no left hands. I'll let the arm rest."

"No. No sparring," he says without hesitation. "I can't keep you from working out, but stay out of this gym."

"Coach," I try, desperation bleeding into my tone that I’m not used to hearing.

He opens his mouth—likely to bark anotherno, if the expression on his face is anything to go by—but something in my voice makes him pause. His gaze drops to my shoulder where I'm subconsciously rubbing the sore muscle. I drop my hand as soon as I realize what I'm doing.

"Take tomorrow off," he says after a moment, and I immediately deflate in relief.

Except, he's not done.

"If you take tomorrow off, you can come back to the gym the day after,on one condition." He gives me a hard stare to emphasize his next words. "You sign up for a yoga class."

It takes a second for his words to register. "I… what?"

"Yoga," he repeats. "I want you to sign up. One class a week. You work out too much and you never stretch, which is why you’re susceptible to these kinds of injuries. Yoga will help with that, and hopefully calm you down a bit, too. If you go for six weeks, I'll get you that matchup against Chevlin that you've been asking for."

"Wait, are you serious? You'd give me Chevlin?"

"Ifyou do this, andifit works the way I think it will. Then yes, I'll set it up."

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