The knockout rule, p.7
The Knockout Rule, page 7
Nice and easy sounded like heaven. “I’ll take one of those.”
“Your wish is my command, ma’am.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me ma’am.”
“Noted and abided, miss. You can call me Jason.”
Miss wasn’t much better, but Jason played the part of old-fashioned server well, and she wouldn’t mind gazing into those deep-brown eyes all night. Or she could extricate her phone and scroll through her thankfully silent dating app. Between this afternoon’s second physiotherapy session with Eric, her hours on her phone and the internet trying to figure out how to navigate her new appointment-booking software, she hadn’t given the app a second thought.
The bar’s atmosphere was the perfect place to sneak a peek. The room was half-full with low-talking patrons. Freshly roasted, spiced nuts were delivered to the couple at her left. She inhaled the tempting aroma as Jason slid her drink in front of her. She took a sip and added talented to his list of lovely attributes. The man made a mean cocktail.
Another sip sliding down her throat, she pulled out her phone and tapped on the app.
First up was Brett. Brett’s photo showed him holding a huge fish. The caption read: Size matters. She clicked the X icon to delete the match. Brain size matters more, Brett.
Vincent was next. He was handsome and athletic. His picture had been taken while on a hike, amid towering trees. Promising. When she read his profile’s last line—Modern technology will be the downfall of the world—her lips puckered. A tad dramatic for a dating profile on the internet.
X marks the spot, Vincent.
The next two had selfies that screamed Cocky Womanizer. They got axed so fast she nearly knocked over her Gangster’s Mistress. Not a fabulous start, but there was one more, and all it took was one intriguing profile, one fun date, one first kiss to find her match.
She clicked on the last notification and sat taller. Lance looked like the intellectual type she usually dated: trim beard, glasses, a kind smile. His name made her think of a pampered frat boy, but his profile didn’t set off any sociopath alarms. He was an algebra professor and even made a cute math joke: I’m looking for a relationship like an exponential curve: unbounded.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, ready to swipe right and open a chat, but no flutter of excitement rose—the hint of butterflies that accompanied the stirrings of attraction. All she felt was hungry for the yummy smelling roasted nuts.
Earlier, when treating Eric, those butterflies had sparked to life. During their afternoon session, while she’d worked on his shoulder mobilization and lower back, he would occasionally say something in Russian. A random word when he was in pain. The guttural sounds had been oddly sexy, even though nothing about their interaction had been intimate. She’d used traction on his back, active release on his shoulder. All the while she’d avoided asking about his studies, his language skills, anything outside of their professional relationship. Questions that still nagged at her.
What would his dating profile say? Handsome boxer who loves languages and pretends to act like a dimwit. Enjoys punching faces and kidneys on weekends.
She glanced again at Lance’s photo, tried to muster enough interest to swipe right. She motioned for Jason to fill her drink instead.
“Hello, beautiful.” Preston slipped onto the stool beside her.
This man and his flirtations. “Somehow I’m not surprised to see you.”
“It must be fate.”
“Or we happen to be staying at the same hotel and both wanted a drink in the quietest bar.”
“See? We already have so much in common.” He slid his credit card over to Jason, who was doing a fine job of shaking up another Gangster’s Mistress. “Her drink’s on me. I’ll have a martini, extra dry. And some of those amazing smelling nuts.”
Those nuts really were making her mouth water. “If I ask to share your nuts, will you misguidedly assume I’m flirting with you and ask me out again?”
“That’s a given.” He swiveled on his stool, angled his body closer. “And you don’t have to ask to have at my nuts.”
She half-snorted a laugh. “You don’t do subtle.”
“Subtle is for the weak. And you were on a dating app when I got here. Guess things didn’t work out with that other guy.”
So much for that lie keeping his flirting at bay. “Things fizzled.”
Instead of pushing the point, he pulled out his phone, checked the screen, and set it down. “Brick seems happy working with you.”
“Yeah?” There were those butterflies again. At the wrong time. For the wrong man.
“He’s bluntly honest when he’s not happy. I actually don’t think I’ve ever caught him in a lie. If he says he likes working with you, it’s true.”
“That’s nice to hear.” A relief she’d redeemed herself after their first meeting and the morning’s blunders.
“Feel free to push him. He’ll work his ass off for you.”
“Like most boxers, he needs plenty of treatment.” She pictured a jab connecting with Eric’s face, his head jerking back. The damage to his neck and face and brain. She winced.
Preston scrubbed his jaw, studying her. “You don’t like boxing.”
Understatement. “It’s a rough sport.”
“It is, but it also gives kids confidence. Promotes a better sense of self, helps make them aware of their strengths, their weaknesses. Gives people an outlet when their other options might be less constructive. Plus, it’s a great workout.”
Easy to say when he earned a mint off his clients. “For the average Joe, sure. For professionals it’s all about ego and money.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with using your skills to earn money. Your father certainly benefited from his fists.”
Any butterflies lingering from discussing Eric died a fiery death. “He also benefitted from lots of hospital visits.”
“Most things in life come with risks.”
“Ninety percent of boxers sustain a brain injury.”
She bit her cheek and shut the hell up. Her father would lose his mind if he’d overheard that harsh remark. It teetered too close to his illness. Not close enough for Preston to guess why she was steadying her breaths and calming her urge to keep arguing. But still.
Jason, thankfully, delivered their drinks and the nuts, but the spice-laden aroma had lost its appeal. She focused on her drink. Preston snacked readily, sipping his martini as the negative energy between them lingered.
“I’m not a boxer,” he said finally.
He sure had the tenacity of one. “Because you don’t want to damage your pretty face?”
He swiveled toward her, dimple flashing. “So you think I’m pretty?”
She laughed. “You know you’re pretty.”
“Go out with me, Isla.”
“We’re out right now.”
He picked up his phone, scrolled through it for a second, then placed it down. “We are, but it’s not the same. I promise we’ll have fun.”
Dating Preston wasn’t the same as dating a boxer. His brain cells wouldn’t be rearranged, while blood-hungry fans cheered or booed. Still, he was entrenched in that world, would always talk about Eric and his other clients and engage in heated discussion on the topic. She also couldn’t imagine him lounging around on a Sunday, a book in his hand as they traded thoughts on their readings.
Tired of turning him down, she stayed quiet.
Preston ran his finger over the base of his martini glass, eyes downcast. “‘I know the shape of your hands,’” he said, still not looking at her. “‘I want to know the shape of your heart. How it beats that intoxicating tune, both sad and beautiful.’”
She stared at him as his words sunk in. No, not words. A poem, the meaning implying he was looking deeper, wanting to see more in her than she’d shared. A few charred butterflies rebirthed, ash falling from their fluttering wings. “Who wrote that?”
His cheeks looked pinkish in the low light. Like he was embarrassed or shy. Two descriptions that didn’t fit with the Preston she’d met. “No one famous. Eric…”
“Eric wrote that?” Forget a few butterflies. This was a swarm.
“Brick? No, not Eric Eric. His name’s Eric Enyert. Some random guy.” He dipped his head slightly, as though nervous. “I read it online and thought of you.”
She wasn’t sure why he wasn’t meeting her eyes. Up until now, his confidence had been an entity of its own. Maybe, under his cocky exterior, Preston was a sensitive guy who liked to read poetry and imagined himself a romantic. “What stood out about that piece in particular?”
He glanced at his phone again. Was he waiting for a call?
He swallowed and faced her. “You’re a complex woman who keeps a lot of herself hidden. I’d like to get to know you, understand what makes you tick.” A gleam returned to his eyes. “And you’re beautiful. I’d be lucky to look at you from across a table all night.”
Cocky Preston was back, and she felt off balance.
She’d misjudged Eric horribly before they’d met. Could be she’d done the same with Preston, everything with her father throwing her judgment askew. She certainly wouldn’t have expected Preston to recite poetry in an effort to win her over. Saying yes to one date wouldn’t be the worst thing. One night to see if they actually had anything in common, as long as she set a ground rule. “If we—”
“Sorry, hold that thought.” He grabbed his phone again and pulled up the sports highlights. “There’s an interview on—Brick on ESPN. I need to make sure they didn’t mess up the editing.”
She fought a laugh. She was about to agree to a date, with one rule: they wouldn’t discuss boxing. Here he was, interrupting her to watch his star athlete shit-talk his opponent.
Note to self: trust your instincts.
She gathered her purse to leave, but Eric’s huge frame filled Preston’s phone, and curiosity had her pausing. Eric had been focused and thoughtful in their sessions, fun to talk to, his face pensive more often than not. Brick Kramarov was a scowling monster.
She inched closer to Preston, fascinated.
The camera panned back slightly, revealing the interviewer. The woman was pretty, with long dark hair and bright red lips. She looked up at Eric’s towering figure, microphone in hand. “How are you feeling about next month’s fight, Brick?”
He grunted. “Joe Bradley’s toast and he don’t even know it. Gonna cream that guy.”
“This fight’s been a late addition for you, but Joe’s been training for months. Are you doing anything different to prepare?”
“Prepare?” He sneered at the camera. “I was born ready. Gonna knock that amateur out.”
The interviewer gave him a condescending smile. “Joe won the last defense of his title in a third-round knockout. I wouldn’t call him an amateur.”
“He ain’t no challenge for me.” Eric dipped his head lower, getting right in the camera’s view. “Enjoy your belt, Joe. Give it a smooch goodbye before our match. That’ll be the last time you see it.” He snarled at the TV audience and finished with a vicious, “Brick Smash!”
Preston smacked the bar top and turned off his phone. “A thing of beauty.”
“What about that was beautiful?” A man didn’t need to dumb himself down for fans, just like a woman didn’t need to hide her smarts to be liked.
“That Brick Smash stuff is gold. Crowd loves it.”
She opened her mouth to tell him this ruse was silly and demeaning and, as far as she’d surmised, emotionally scarring for Eric, but that would entail standing up for her client. A boxer. One she found attractive. Exactly what she shouldn’t do if she wanted to keep her emotional distance from Eric. “Thanks for the drink. See you around.”
She was one step away when Preston said, “What about our date?”
“Strike two,” she said, without turning around.
She could have sworn he laughed, but she didn’t look back to check. Preston wasn’t her type. That poem had been a one-off. But she did need to find a date. A man through her app. Someone who’d help her quit thinking about Eric’s intellect and his rough Russian words and his slumped shoulders when she’d admitted she’d misjudged him, thinking he was as Neanderthal as his image. Lance might be getting a right swipe after all.
Lance had gotten a swipe. But it had been to the left. A quick internet search had showed several horrifying Facebook posts with him on a hunting trip, standing over a dead elephant. That was a hard no. Something else that was hard was Eric’s ridiculously toned body as he did his weighted heel raises the next morning.
“Slower on the way down,” she told him. “Make your muscles do the work. Don’t rely on momentum.”
He nodded, sweat dripping down his neck during his last few reps. He finished with a satisfied grunt. Tank top sweat-slicked to his body, he grabbed his water bottle, sucked back a huge amount of water, then wiped his neck and face with his towel. “My sister always tells me I do my exercises too fast.”
“Is she a physiotherapist, too?”
“She’s a know-it-all.”
Isla laughed, picturing Eric—the man who was all Brick Smash in his interviews—being bossed around by his sister. “Are you two close?”
“Yeah.” He took another swig of water. “When we were younger she drove me nuts, but we laughed a lot. As we’ve gotten older, she’s become more subdued and crazy busy with her kids. Getting pregnant at nineteen, then going through a rough divorce has aged her in ways that upset me. So I do what I can to help her, but it never feels like enough. I wish I could’ve brought her to Vegas, given her a break.”
Isla had been battling panic attacks at nineteen, barely able to take care of herself. She hadn’t met his sister yet, but she was already awed by her strength. “She’s not missing much with Vegas. It’s pretty much like being stuck in a Spice Girls video.”
The edge of Eric’s lips curled up. “More like Lady Gaga crossed with Guns N’ Roses. Flashy and loud.”
“You know, I kept thinking you must be a Gaga fan.”
He let out a low laugh. “I get that a lot, Sporty Spice.”
“I’m the missing sixth Spice Girl: Neurotic Spice.” With a dash of Workaholic Spice. “And seriously, the crowds here are brutal.”
He took another sip of water, wiped his mouth. “I can’t stand the music blaring from the cars.”
“Everything’s so noisy.” They should get to work, head to the treatment table, but Eric leaned against the cable machine, and Isla liked looking at his crooked smile, the softening of his gray eyes as he regarded her. He was nothing like the brute in last night’s interview. This morning, all she saw was a kind and curious man. A really hot kind and curious man.
“Tell me something about Vegas you love,” he said.
“The food.” She leaned her knee into the workout bench beside her. “I love the variety.”
He twisted the towel in his hands, watching her. “But you prefer the smaller places.”
A flutter moved through her stomach. He was certainly perceptive. “I do. What about you? One thing you love.”
“The shows. Preston took me to Cirque du Soleil our first night. It blew my mind.”
“You loved the athleticism?”
He rubbed at his chest. “Of course. Their skills are unbelievably impressive. But it’s the magic of it. The spectacle.”
“Like you’ve been transported to another world.”
He cocked his head, another slow smile forming. “Yeah, exactly. Did your dad take you to those shows as a kid?”
“He did, and I loved them.” Swinging Graham Slade had loved spending his money on anything and everything, but the memory made her think of her dad back then, big and strong and healthy, attacking each day, not caring if he spent every dime, because he lived in the moment. Even now with his diagnosis, he wasn’t worrying about the future. He was focused on the present, working, doing what he wanted to do now.
“Did I bring up a bad memory?”
Aware of her frown, Isla focused on Eric, the compassion on his face. He may not know what she was going through, but his tenderness was a balm. “Not bad, exactly. My father’s my favorite person in the world, but we’ve had our ups and downs, always related to his career. Going to shows and extravagant things like that brings back some of those tougher moments.” Her toughest moment was in the present, but it was all linked.
“Family’s like that,” he said gently. “They’re the most important people in my life, but they also contribute a lot of stress. Unconditional love is amazing and complicated.”
They stared at each other, mutual understanding drifting between them. He opened his mouth slightly, as though about to speak again. He didn’t, though. Just bit down on his bottom lip and smiled that slow smile of his, while Isla’s heart raced faster than it should.
8
Eric walked through the promenade, eyeing the busy shops, searching for inspiration, coming up short. He didn’t have much spending cash, but he wanted to bring his niece and nephew something cute from Vegas: a new stuffed animal for Eliza’s tea parties, a cool eraser for Asher’s colorful eraser collection. Rock music flowed from one restaurant. Mexican guitar strummed from the bustling balcony above—loud people eating tacos, drinking margaritas. A guy dressed as a gorilla hawked theater tickets up ahead.
Then something wet landed on his head and dropped to the ground—a fucking lime wedge.
“What do you call a lime that falls on your head?”
He whipped around, unsure if he’d imagined Isla’s voice. But no. There she was. Sitting on the edge of the promenade’s fountain, sunglasses on, bottle of water in her hand, smirking at him.
He wiped his head and waited for a family of five to pass, then he moved toward her. “I call it disgusting.”
“I call it a fruit punch.”
He snorted, then schooled his face. “If that was funny, I’d laugh.”
“If you had a sense of humor, you’d laugh.”
“See that gorilla with the blue sunglasses?” The fact that he could utter that sentence without a hint of irony said so much about this town.
