Chapter 4: No consent given

John’s clap cracked through the gym like a starting gun.

Sharp.

Final.

Unquestionable.

“Back to training,” he said.

“Give her space.”

It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.

The room adjusted immediately.

Gloves lifted.

Ropes tightened.

Footwork resumed.

The gym obeyed.

A few of the boxers drifted toward Layla first.

Not formally.

Not like a line-up.

More like curiosity pulling them in.

“Hey,” one of them said with an easy grin.

“I’m Marcus.”

He wiped sweat from his forehead with his wrist wrap.

“Don’t worry,” he added, nodding toward the rest of the gym, “we’re not always this intense. Just… most of the time.”

Another stepped in beside him.

“Eli,” he said.

“If Roy scares you, just don’t tell him that.”

A couple of the others laughed.

Not mean.

Familiar.

Layla smiled politely.

“I’ll try to remember that.”

Another fighter leaned slightly forward.

“I’m Jay,” he said.

“You’re the new physio, right?”

“Yes.”

He whistled softly.

“You’ve got guts.”

Layla tilted her head.

“I’ve been told I’m persistent.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, half-smiling.

But he didn’t explain.

One of them glanced toward Roy’s side of the gym.

The sound of heavy bag strikes echoed like a heartbeat.

“He doesn’t usually let new people near him,” Marcus added more quietly.

Layla followed their gaze.

“I noticed.”

Eli shrugged.

“Just… don’t take it personally when he ignores you.”

Marcus nodded.

“He ignores everyone.”

A pause.

Then Jay added:

“Except John. Sometimes.”

That got a short laugh from the group.

Layla chuckled softly.

“They’re friendlier than I expected.”

John, standing slightly behind her, replied without humour.

“That’s because you haven’t met the problem yet.”

The laughter faded a little after that.

Not awkward.

Just aware.

John checked his watch.

Once.

Then again.

His expression changed slightly.

Focus narrowing.

“You’ll meet them properly later,” he said to the group.

“Back to work.”

The boxers dispersed reluctantly.

Still curious.

Still watching Layla as they returned to training.

As the space cleared, Layla turned slightly toward John.

“Is he always like this?” she asked quietly.

John didn’t answer immediately.

Then—

“Worse after fights.”

A pause.

“Sometimes better. Sometimes not.”

“That’s helpful,” Layla said lightly.

John glanced at her.

“I’m not trying to be helpful.”

He gestured toward the far end of the gym.

Roy.

“Come on.”

They walked.

The atmosphere changed the closer they got.

Not visibly.

But subtly.

Like pressure in the air shifted.

Layla noticed it first.

The way conversations lowered when they passed.

The way boxers adjusted their stance.

The way nobody crossed an invisible line near Roy.

“He’s the centre of everything here, isn’t he?” she asked.

John didn’t deny it.

“That’s not a good thing.”

Roy was still training.

Headphones on.

Completely sealed off.

Heavy bag swinging in controlled rhythm.

Precision without distraction.

Violence with structure.

“He doesn’t take those off much,” John said.

Layla studied them.

“They look… military grade.”

“They might as well be.”

John stepped closer.

Careful now.

Measured.

Roy didn’t notice them yet.

Not fully.

His focus was elsewhere.

Inside.

Not here.

John reached forward.

And pulled the headphones down.

The effect was immediate.

Roy stopped mid-motion.

Like a system shutting down.

Then restarting in danger mode.

His head snapped toward John.

Green eyes sharp.

Instantly alert.

“What are you doing?” Roy snapped.

His voice cut through the space.

Not loud.

Controlled.

Dangerous.

John didn’t move back.

“We have a guest.”

Roy’s stare didn’t shift.

“That’s not my problem.”

“Behave yourself,” John said firmly.

“She’s here for you.”

Roy exhaled through his nose.

Slow.

Unimpressed.

Then turned.

He saw Layla.

It wasn’t dramatic.

No shock.

No recognition.

Just assessment.

Immediate.

Cold.

Blonde hair.

Brown eyes.

Calm posture.

Not afraid.

Not impressed.

Just there.

Roy’s gaze stayed on her longer than expected.

Then—

“Who are you?” he asked.

Flat.

Direct.

No greeting.

No politeness.

Just demand.

John sighed.

“Roy.”

Warning in a single name.

Layla stepped forward slightly.

“I’m Layla Vesta,” she said calmly.

“I’m your new physical therapist.”

Silence followed.

Not long.

But heavy enough to feel it settle.

Roy didn’t respond immediately.

His eyes flicked briefly to John.

Not Layla.

John.

“You didn’t ask me,” Roy said finally.

John exhaled.

“We’ve done this before. It’s not optional.”

Roy’s jaw tightened.

“I decide what happens to my body.”

A few boxers slowed in the background.

Watching now.

Fully.

Layla didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t step back either.

Just observed him.

Carefully.

Not intimidated.

But attentive.

John stepped in slightly.

“It’s medical. Not negotiable.”

Roy scoffed.

“Then you don’t understand what you’re dealing with.”

Layla extended her hand.

Still calm.

Still steady.

“I’m here to help your shoulder recover,” she said evenly.

“That’s all.”

Roy looked at her hand.

Didn’t take it.

Didn’t acknowledge it.

Then looked at John again.

“You replaced me without asking.”

John shook his head.

“No one replaced you.”

Roy gave a short laugh.

No humour in it.

“Right.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

Roy spoke again.

And this time, it slipped.

Afrikaans.

Sharp.

Low.

Frustration breaking through control.

“Dis nie hoe dit werk nie.”

(It doesn’t work like this.)

He froze.

Just slightly.

Realisation hitting after the words left.

His expression tightened.

Not at Layla.

At himself.

A flicker of anger crossed his face.

Self-directed.

Immediate.

Then redirected outward before it could settle.

“You don’t get to decide things about me,” Roy said sharply.

“Especially not my body.”

His voice rose slightly now.

Controlled anger.

Not chaos.

But close.

Layla lowered her hand slowly.

Still composed.

“I’m not here to control you,” she said.

“I’m here to assess your injury.”

Roy stepped closer.

Not aggressively.

But enough to shift pressure.

“You won’t touch it.”

Simple.

Final.

Layla didn’t move back.

“I won’t force anything,” she said.

“But if you keep fighting on it like this, it will get worse.”

That landed differently.

Not emotional.

Practical.

Roy stared at her.

For a moment, something flickered.

Then hardened again.

He exhaled sharply.

Turned away.

Done.

No resolution.

No closure.

Just exit.

“Roy—” John started.

But Roy was already walking.

He pulled the headphones back up halfway as he moved.

Not fully on.

Not fully off.

Just enough to shut the world out again.

He disappeared into the changing room.

Door closing behind him.

Hard.

Final.

Silence remained where he had been.

Heavier now.

Not empty.

Just unresolved.

John rubbed his forehead.

Then turned to Layla.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Layla shook her head.

“It’s fine.”

No hesitation.

No resentment.

Just acceptance.

John studied her.

“You sure?”

Layla nodded.

“Yes.”

Then, quieter:

“He doesn’t trust easily.”

John gave a short, tired exhale.

“That’s an understatement.”

Layla glanced toward the changing room door.

Still closed.

Still heavy.

“Is he always like that?” she asked.

John hesitated.

Then answered carefully.

“He’s not originally from here.”

Layla frowned slightly.

“That doesn’t explain the language.”

John paused.

“I don’t know what he said.”

Another pause.

“I don’t think he wants me to.”

Layla looked down briefly.

Thinking.

Processing.

Then nodded once.

“Alright.”

She looked back toward the door.

“This is going to take longer than I expected.”

Behind that door, Roy stood still.

Headphones on.

Breathing controlled.

Shoulder aching.

Anger settling into silence again.

Not gone.

Just waiting.

And for the first time since Layla entered the gym—

he wasn’t the only one in the room who didn’t understand what was coming next.

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