The knockout rule, p.2
The Knockout Rule, page 2
The time he’d told her Mr. Zucchini, her beloved turtle, had been crushed by his truck.
The time he’d told her, after promising he’d retire and give his battered body the rest it deserved, he was returning to the boxing ring.
The time he’d explained her mother had left them for another man.
Isla lifted her hand to tug on a lock of her long hair, only to remember she’d chopped it last month. A bold gesture. A new look for her new life.
“we are everything
and nothing
and nothing
we have
is ours”
The amazing poet, Ramona Estle, hadn’t been discussing hair, per se, but the sentiment of not clinging to possessions had struck a chord. At least, that was Isla’s interpretation. The writer’s passages in general spoke to Isla, with their pared-down formatting, lack of punctuation, and insightful messages. She’d stumbled upon the woman’s work a couple years ago on social media, quickly becoming addicted to her soulful wisdom.
Now Isla had killer shoulder-length hair. Thank you, Ms. Estle.
Her waves were still deep chestnut, but with that funky balayage treatment—caramel streaks that screamed I’m-effortless-and-cool-and-spend-my-free-time-sunning-in-the-sand. Isla spent her free time reading anatomy books, absorbing Ramona Estle’s words, and staring at spreadsheets for her fledgling business, but no one needed to know the banality of her existence. What Isla needed to know was why her non-twitchy father was acting twitchy.
Unwilling to twist her fresh-start hair, she fisted her hands. When that didn’t calm her, she crossed her arms. “What kind of favor do you need?”
“An important one.” More jaw bunching. Brown eyes skittering.
He could ask anything, really, and she’d say yes. This was the man who’d been her emotional support when her mother had left them. He’d picked her up when past boyfriends had let her fall. He’d called in a favor to his old sports agent and had sent Álvaro her way. He’d even given Isla start-up money, when he was struggling to run his own boxing gym.
“Name it and it’s done,” she said.
He met her eyes. “The contender for the heavyweight belt broke his wrist and they’ve asked my guy, Brick Kramarov, to step in. They’ve spent too much on advertising to change the event date, so I’m going to Vegas with him. They also want a longer lead-up than usual—bigger media circus to make up for the last-minute fight change. I’ll be there for six weeks.”
As long as he wasn’t the one in the ring, she didn’t care who he trained or where he lived temporarily. “So, you need what? Me to polish the Ferrari you refuse to sell? Housesit the mansion you also refuse to sell?”
“I earned that stuff. Blood, sweat, and—”
“Punches. Yeah, I know. But you wouldn’t struggle with the gym if you sold some of your stuff.”
“I actually did sell the Ferrari,” he mumbled.
She tugged on her ear. “I’m sorry. It sounded like you said you sold the Ferrari you bought with your first winnings, the car you told me you’d rather be buried in than give up.”
Graham Slade’s dark eyes shifted to her exercise area, over the fancy equipment he’d helped her buy, refusing the repayment plan she’d offered.
Awareness dawning, she sucked in a breath. “You sold the Ferrari to help pay for my business.”
It wasn’t a question. The shocking fact was written all over his nonplussed shrug, and she couldn’t wrap her brain around it. A sale that large would’ve funded his parched bank account, but he wouldn’t have done it for himself. He’d been faced with bankruptcy in the past. She’d urged him repeatedly to liquidate his assets, sell one of his five luxury cars, his mansion, his excessive collection of sports memorabilia—Swinging Graham Slade could also be called Spendthrift Slade.
His infuriating replies had always been the same: “None of my stuff gets sold. I’ll figure something out.”
His money-scraping efforts had always been successful—a TV appearance, that horrid toilet plunger infomercial, exhibition fights with B-list celebrities—but she’d never understood the why of it. Why that stuff had meant so much to him. Proof of what he’d accomplished? Evidence that, although it had cost him his wife, boxing hadn’t left him empty-handed?
There was no knowing with Graham Slade. His emotions were as toughened as his fists. But this? Selling his favorite luxury car for her?
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Tell me about that favor.”
She hoped it was a big one, something huge she could use to show him how appreciative she was. How much she loved him.
He passed his hand over his mouth. “I need you to come to Vegas with me and work with Brick Kramarov leading up to his fight.”
She laughed. “No, really. What do you need?”
Through the years, their fights over boxing had been epic. She’d never told him how deeply boxing had scarred her, but she’d ranted plenty about men and women ruining their bodies, while their loved ones watched in resigned acceptance. Tears had been shed on the topic. Silent treatments earned. The man must have developed a sense of humor.
He didn’t crack a smile, though. “I need you to come to Vegas with me,” he said again, “and work with Brick Kramarov leading up to his fight.”
She didn’t laugh this time. “You can’t be serious.”
“Since when do I joke about boxing?”
Joking in general wasn’t his forte. Neither was asking for favors, but this was too much. “My business opens in seven weeks. Renovations aren’t finished. I need to be here.”
“I have a guy who can oversee the renovation work, and you’ve told me how on top of the other business stuff you are. That you mainly have online things to organize. You’ll be back for the opening.”
“I need to oversee the work, and I actually have a life that can’t be upended.” Sort of. Not really. Definitely not the point. Her mental health was the point. “I can’t,” she said again, a cold sweat slicking the back of her neck.
“I need you, Isla. It’s only six weeks. And Brick is a good guy.”
Brick could be a saint for all she cared. Although she’d never visited her father at his training gym, she’d glimpsed a few interviews of his fighter while watching sports networks. Brick was a hulking boxer. Russian-American with buzzed hair, insane bone structure, and piercing gray eyes—hotter than any man had a right to be—with a vocabulary limited to bust ‘em up, gonna beat his head in, and Brick Smash. Not that his looks or intelligence mattered. Shutting herself off from boxing mattered.
During her father’s boxing career, Isla’s nights had been sleepless and anxiety ridden. Sweaty and terrified, she’d wake from nightmares, her mind filled with images of his punched skull rupturing and brain exploding. She’d overheard so many devastating phone calls, had endured so many hospital visits. Face fractures. Nerve damage. She’d lived with dark circles under her eyes and fear in her heart.
Then the panic attacks had set in.
She’d hidden them from her father, Heather, everyone. She’d briefly sought therapy on her own. The therapist had been more intrusive than helpful, so Isla had consulted the internet instead, used techniques to help her cope. When Swinging Graham Slade had finally retired, the attacks had dwindled and ceased.
Until her first physio gig.
Her boss had been gleeful when he’d learned her last name, quickly using her as a draw to lure boxers to their clinic for treatment. A parade of fighters, all caring more about a win than the damage they were doing to their brains and bodies. The worry on their partners’ faces had hooked into her heart. Her nightmares had returned. Different faces, the same agonizing fear. More panic attacks. She’d quit her job, found another. Her last name had followed again, bait used to build another boss’s client list. Her self-taught therapy techniques no longer eased her anxiety.
Opening her own practice had been the only answer. The work helped her focus. Boxing clients would be a non-issue. And her mind had finally begun to settle.
Now her father was asking for the impossible.
“Do you know how hard this would be for me? How much I hated watching you box? Being around the sport brings it all back.”
Her dad didn’t reply. He stared at her, unblinking, and she shrunk two inches. Swinging Graham Slade had one hell of a stare. When watching his boxing matches, she’d swear he’d just look at his opponents until the men hit the mat.
“Isn’t there another favor you need?” She hated the desperation in her voice. “It’s not like I’m the only physiotherapist you can hire.” She felt herself caving, though, unsure how to say no when she owed him so much.
He scrubbed his chin with those thick, callused fingers. “I need someone I trust on this, and you’re the best at what you do.”
“I don’t treat boxers.”
“You treat athletes. Boxers are athletes.”
“Boxers are adrenaline junkies, too stupid to realize they’re killing themselves, one ridiculous round at a time.”
Her father’s hard-knocks face flinched. A minuscule wince. Enough to have her regretting her words. It was a familiar fight, but guilt pressed on her lungs.
“I’m sorry. You’re not stupid. I just wish…” He hadn’t boxed for so long. That his body didn’t ache and pain him constantly these days. That she was strong enough to do this for him, without worrying about falling apart. To this day, she lived with an undercurrent of fear, wondering if the worst of boxing had yet to rear its dangerous head: long-term effects on the brain that developed as fighters aged. “I just wish you’d made different choices.”
He focused on the floor so long her insides twisted. Nervous tics aside, his evasive behavior was unsettling. Selling his car, acting fidgety, stalling—this wasn’t the indomitable man she knew. “Why does it feel like there’s something you’re not telling me? Is something wrong?”
When he finally looked up, tears shimmered in his eyes. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
Whatever worry he’d hoped to curb was on red alert now. “Dad, you’re scaring me.”
He placed his hands on her cheeks and blew out a rough breath. “I have Parkinson’s, Princess.”
2
When Isla was a kid, Swinging Graham Slade would lift her up like she weighed nothing and deposit her on his shoulders. She’d dangle her legs in front of his chest and grip his ears, one of them deformed into a “cauliflower ear,” thanks to repeated hits to the appendage. She’d hum while exploring the rough cartilage, fascinated by the deformity. He’d go about his business, brushing his teeth, making breakfast, pretending he didn’t have a seven-year-old hooked around his neck. Isla’s mother would yell and glare at him. Isla would preen.
On her father’s shoulders, she floated above the stress of homework, above her temperamental mother and the mean classmates who told Isla her hair was too frizzy, her scrawny body too small. On Swinging Graham Slade’s shoulders, nothing could touch her.
She wished she could climb up there now.
Trembling, she pressed her fingers to her mouth. “No.”
Her father’s weary sigh seemed dredged from his bones. “I’m sorry, Princess.”
Sorry didn’t cut it. This was not okay. She was not okay. “Maybe they’re wrong? Maybe you’re not eating right. You quit drinking those smoothies when I moved out. Maybe you just…” Got hit one time too many in the head.
The terrifying facts were etched in her brain, thanks to her research when pleading for him to retire. A boxing blow to the head was akin to being struck by a thirteen-pound boulder traveling at twenty miles per hour. Brain lesions and large blood clots were all in a day’s work. If internal bleeding and damaged organs were your jam, bring on the boxing! Retinal detachment and hemorrhage? Always on the menu if you got hit just right.
She’d once made a PowerPoint presentation about it for him, including a slide of a cartoon man holding his mangled brain in his hand. Graham Slade had looked at her and simply said, “I know the risks, Princess.”
Now she’d have to watch this larger-than-life man wither before her eyes.
Had it already begun? When doing her thorough PowerPoint presentations, she’d researched Parkinson’s and Alzheimer symptoms—diseases more likely to affect boxers. His face had never been expressive, but it’s possible his features had stiffened. It was a symptom. As were stooped posture, tremors, loss of movement, speech changes, sleep disorders, chewing problems… “What can I do? When’s your next doctor’s appointment? When did you find out?”
She’d do more research. Watch his diet. Maybe move back home.
“I’ve known two years, and all I need—”
“Two years?” Forget moving back home. She wanted to throttle him. “How could you keep this from me?”
“This isn’t your burden to carry.”
A maniacal laugh erupted from her. “Oh, so when you get dementia or lose motor function, you think I won’t notice? That it won’t affect my life?”
His Adam’s apple moved slowly down his neck. Trouble swallowing? Another symptom? How many signs had she missed these past two years? How many would she obsess over now? She pictured every future interaction with him overshadowed, their easy closeness usurped by this: her constant assessment of him, analyzing, worrying.
“I didn’t tell you because of how it would affect your life,” he said.
She deflated, her whole body turning heavy. She wanted to slip to the ground, curl into the tightest ball, hide in the tightest space. Hide from this diagnosis. Tears stung her eyes and burned her throat.
“We caught it early.” Her father’s voice gentled, going soft. “So far my symptoms have been the non-motor kind. I’m doing well.”
“Okay, good. That’s good.” She fought the tears and stood taller. It was her turn to be his rock. She would not falter. “But you must be worried about this trip. Is that why you want me to come?”
She’d pack tonight, her boxing-triggered panic attacks be damned. She’d care for him, ease his discomfort any way she could. Parkinson’s patients lived long these days. His quality of life would decline, but they’d make adjustments. She’d be there for him every step of the way. “I assume Brick’s been understanding, giving you time to take care of yourself?”
He ticked up his chin. “Brick doesn’t know. No one knows. Only me, my doctor, and now you.”
Another delirious laugh threatened. “Of course no one knows.”
She could add Stubborn-Ass Slade to his list of nicknames.
She leaned against the counter to catch her breath. Just when life was looking up—new business, new client, new hair, no boxing—she got slammed with a sucker punch. “What do you need?”
“With this fight looming, Brick needs strength on his team. If they learn about my Parkinson’s, his manager will fire me, worried my illness will get into Brick’s head. He’s not wrong, but I’m strong enough, and Brick needs me to win. Problem is I’ve been more tired during the day, having nausea. I’ll need to take breaks. If I say I’m taking that time to be with you, they won’t question me.”
“So you don’t want me because my work is good. I’m your alibi.” His enabler—a fact that stung.
“No.” He frowned. “I mean, partly. But you’re a brilliant physio. You’ll make a big difference in Brick’s training.”
His confidence in her skills mollified her slightly, but she was still mad. He clearly needed to destress, have supports around him, but boxing, as usual, took priority. “Why do you even care about Brick’s win when you’re fighting a disease? Why can’t you just rest for once in your life?”
He flattened his lips. “If I rest, I die.”
She clutched her stomach, too winded to reply, and a thousand ifs clogged her throat.
If he’d retired when she’d begged, maybe they wouldn’t be here now. If she’d pushed harder, he might be healthier.
“What if you get worse?” she said, her voice suddenly small. “What if the stress advances the Parkinson’s faster?”
He gripped her shoulders, two huge hands keeping her from falling apart. “I don’t ask much of you, Isla, but I’m asking this. I need you in Vegas for the training camp. I need you to help me deflect questions because this is how I fight. By not backing down when I’m thrown a punch. And the publicity will be amazing for your business.”
The last thing she wanted was boxing publicity. Still, how could she say no? “Six weeks, and not a moment longer. And when we’re back here, I’m going to all your doctor appointments. You’ll listen to my diet advice and not push yourself as hard.”
His twitchiness subsided, and he tugged on a lock of her newly cropped hair. “I like this, by the way. Not sure I told you.”
Expert topic-changer. She sniffed and wiped her wet eyes. “On top of not pushing yourself so hard, after this fight, please consider announcing your illness.”
“I’ll pick you up next week.” He pulled out his phone, ignoring her demands. “Brick’s manager has a private jet. It’s a sweet ride and Vegas is nice this time of year. Way warmer than Chicago.”
She didn’t care about some fancy jet and balmy weather. She cared about helping her father navigate this new, daunting stage of his life. At least new to her.
He kissed her cheek, his phone pressed to his cauliflower ear, his growly voice talking to someone about schedules and televised training.
He still seemed so formidable. Healthy. A sign he was one of the strong ones. His illness wouldn’t define him, not under her watch. She’d micromanage the hell out of him. Make schedules, assure he had adequate rest. She’d use the next six weeks to work on him, convince him to use his illness for good. He was a boxing legend, after all. The heavyweight champ for over four years. Maybe together they could convince the World Boxing Association to wake up and make changes to better protect its athletes.
