The knockout rule, p.9
The Knockout Rule, page 9
He hated how tight of a string they lived on. Training cost money. Preston cost money. His wellness team cost bundles, all to keep him healthy enough to box one more match, clinch one more win, make enough money to last until dental work and medical bills bled them dry again.
He could ask Rosa to find something full-time but being home for the kids after school was too important. She’d end up spending her few free hours fighting with the kids to clean up and do their chores and schoolwork. Exactly like it had been for their mother. He didn’t want that exhausting life for her.
“I’ll get the money to you this afternoon. And I’m sorry. I hate that you have to deal with everything on your own.”
“We’ll be fine. Just focus on your boxing.”
She hung up before he could apologize again or ask to speak to their mother. He’d call his mom later, after he figured out the money issue.
Cellphone stashed away, he faced the bustling, noisy street. A person dressed like Spider-Man pointed at Eric’s dog and shook his finger. Yeah. Eric knew he was breaking Vegas law: no dogs allowed on the strip between noon and five a.m. Eric stood taller, daring the guy to make a scene. Spider-Man mimed some nonsense and hurried off, melting into the sea of pedestrians. At least Eric’s tough-guy image paid off at times.
“You could totally take Spider-Man,” Preston said, pocketing his phone. They waited for Whit to quit his investigations, then moved with the throngs.
“Spider-Man can climb on walls and shoot webs. All I can do is throw a punch.”
“A damn good punch.”
A group of men walked toward them, red-faced, weaving slightly. They all held large plastic cups. One spotted Eric and awkwardly shadow boxed. “Brick Smash! Man, do you see who that is?”
His buddy burped. “Dude’s gonna have his ass handed to him in that fight.”
They passed, laughing.
Preston sneered. “Vegas brings out the schmucks, but it also brings out the dough. That was BDA on the phone. They’re caving on negotiations for your endorsement deal. Once you win this fight, you’ll be buying your own private jet.”
He sure as hell hoped so. Not the jet part. The having loads of money part. He wanted to prove to his family that some men stuck around and provided for the people they loved. Show Eliza and Asher what it meant to have a responsible father figure, even if he was only their uncle.
Unfortunately, waiting for that win was getting harder by the day. “I hate to ask you this, but I need some cash until then.”
Preston didn’t stop abruptly or cut him a questioning look. “Sure,” he said, nonplussed. “Tell me what you need.”
No judgment. No guilt. The time Eliza’s asthma had landed her in the hospital with acute bronchitis, Preston had helped pay the bills, zero hesitation. Eric had been flattened during that time, devastated seeing his niece in a hospital bed, unable to help. There hadn’t even been a huge match on the horizon to pay Preston back quickly. His manager hadn’t once held it over him.
“I owe you, man,” Eric said.
“You do, and I’d like to collect.”
They turned off the main drag, headed toward their hotel. “Unless you want to be paid in slobbery kisses from Whit, you’ll have to wait.”
“This is more of a quid pro quo situation. I do you a solid, you do me one.”
“Way to make it sound shady.”
They dodged a group of giggling girls, never breaking stride. Navigating Vegas sidewalks was a sport of its own.
“It’s not shady,” Preston said. “I need more help with Isla. She’s a tough nut to crack.”
Preston might not have hesitated with his financial help, but Eric sure as hell hesitated now. With how much time he’d spent with Isla—six days, two sessions a day, plus that fun afternoon shopping together—he’d felt off about helping Preston with that poem. The more time he spent with Isla, the more he liked her. Thought about her when they weren’t together. Imagined asking her out, going on a proper date to talk more, learn more about her, tell her more stupid jokes so he could watch a smile break over her beautiful face.
The flare of interest in her he’d hoped would pass was only growing, but she likely never thought about him outside of their sessions. Would never consider dating a boxer. Helping Preston by telling him what to say would only add to his frustrations.
“It is completely shady,” he told his manager.
Preston stopped outside of their hotel. “How’s it different than me looking up poems online? You’re a better resource. You see her every day.”
“It’s just different.”
“What happened to you owing me?”
A woman with a massive hat and shoulder bag sashayed toward the revolving door, practically knocking into Eric. Pulling Whit closer, he stepped aside, feeling anxious. Irritable. He was worried about his mother. Hated borrowing money from Preston. It was more than that, though. Eric liked Isla. He was developing feelings for her, looked forward to their physio sessions. He wasn’t sure how to separate those emotions when coaching Preston on how to woo her, or if Preston was pursuing her for the right reasons.
“What do you like about her?” he asked.
Preston crossed his arms, smirking. “You have seen her, right?”
Most nights, instead of working on his visualization, he closed eyes and most certainly saw Isla: intelligent eyes, full lips, that birthmark on her neck. He wanted to knock Preston’s smirk off his face. “I’m not talking looks. Why are you suddenly so interested in her?”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “The women I’ve dated have always wanted something from me: gifts, vacations. My money, basically. Isla’s different and down to earth. Smart and gorgeous, but she’s also a ball buster, which is refreshing.”
“You enjoy the challenge.”
“It’s not like that.”
Eric wasn’t sure. “So you want more than a hookup with her? You’re actually after something serious?”
A couple near them stopped to take a selfie, big smiles, hearts in their eyes. They laughed and kissed afterward. The closeness reminded Eric of the in-love couple he and Isla had joked about.
Preston sighed. “You know how my parents are? Always teasing each other, touching when they think no one’s looking?”
Their affection was impossible to miss. Preston had invited Eric to several family dinners—Thanksgiving, birthdays. Rebecca Church always fussed over Eric, made sure he had enough to eat, while Preston’s two older brothers talked sports and his father badgered them to take a family fishing or camping trip. “Like the old days,” he’d say.
Jokes about burned food and landing a fish hook into Preston’s thigh would follow.
They were a boisterous, male-dominated family, but the second they left the dinner table, Preston’s father would take a plate from Rebecca’s hand and kiss her cheek while clearing the table together. He’d sit right beside her on the couch, arm draped over her shoulder, fingers in her hair, when there were three roomier seats to be had.
The only romantic relationships Eric had witnessed growing up had both ended with tears: the father who’d left them in Russia, Rosa and her husband splitting apart. The love and affection in Preston’s house had been a revelation. “Your parents are lucky,” he said.
“They are, and I’ve been thinking about them more lately. How I’ve had so much success in business, but I don’t have someone to share it with. I’m kind of envious.”
The word success hit Eric in the gut, so forcefully he felt slightly ill. He’d spent his life striving for success, earning money to support his family. He’d done an okay job of it at times. If he really thought about it, though, he didn’t feel particularly successful. He studied secretively, never pushing his mind as hard as he pushed his body. He wasn’t working the job he wanted, he was doing his duty, and he was so far from having a relationship like Preston’s parents he may as well claim celibacy.
What would it be like to just walk away? Quit boxing, study full-time. Get a job translating for people who needed his help. Affect lives, beyond offering brute entertainment. He’d even be able to ask Isla on a proper date instead of helping Preston charm her.
He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure where the hell those reckless thoughts had come from. Some people had the luxury of living selfishly. He wasn’t one of them. “Thanks for the loan. And yeah, I’ll help you with Isla. I have a session with her in a bit. I’ll send you a couple poems this afternoon.”
Ashamed at having to ask for the handout, he dropped his head and followed Preston to his room to get the check. He really did owe the guy. Big time. He still planned to make sure Isla was on the same page, that she seemed interested in Preston. Check that she wasn’t already dating someone else she liked through that stupid app. Or maybe those precautions were excuses because he didn’t have the stomach to play cupid with her and his manager.
Isla spread gel on Eric’s Achilles and switched the ultrasound machine on. She liked finishing their sessions with ultrasound. Mobilization and strength building to begin, localized treatment promoting local healing and blood flow to end.
Eric lay on his stomach, eyes closed. He inhaled deeply and exhaled a long breath as he relaxed. She’d treated him for six days now. At the end of every session, he’d grunt out the same slow breath. Like he was on his first vacation in ten years. Whit, always nearby, sighed in tandem.
“You did great today,” she told Eric. “But your calves are crazy tight.”
“The running and skipping are murder on me. Seems worse lately.”
“Because your training’s too intense. All you do is workout, eat an insane amount of calories, and walk your dog, which is also exercise, by the way.”
The dog in question gave a snort.
He laughed. “I sleep, too.”
Maybe, but there were dark circles under his eyes. His rotator cuff was paining him more than usual. She wanted to prod, ask if he planned to beat his body down until he was as sick as her father, but those were landmine topics.
“Do you exercise this much in your home gym?” she asked.
“Home gym?” He made a scoffing sound. “My house is barely big enough for Eliza and Asher’s toys.”
Isla blinked at Eric’s back. She knew he lived with his family, had assumed they lived in an extravagant mansion, not a house too small for a home gym.
She didn’t prod and ask if he hadn’t made as much money as she’d assumed. Not exactly polite conversation. She focused on her work instead, moved the ultrasound’s probe around his ankle in slow circles. Unfortunately, her gaze also moved, roaming over the expanse of his muscled back and shoulders, emphasized in his sparse workout clothes. The man was criminally attractive.
He angled his head to catch her eye. “How’s the dating app going?”
Her movements jerked slightly. Had he sensed her heated perusal? Unlikely. That hadn’t been the first time she’d taken an eyeful of his body, but she was always quick to school her features, lead them to neutral conversation.
“It’s going slow,” she said. A noncommittal reply.
More like it wasn’t going at all. She’d been busier than expected while away, communicating with the contractor who was finishing her office space, putting out fires when they’d painted the bathroom the wrong color, taking an accounting course to brush up on her bookkeeping. Dating had once again taken a back seat.
Eric shifted his hips. A small move, but heat moved through her. She suddenly envied that treatment table, wished she was the one under him feeling the hard press of his body.
Jesus. She really needed to deal with her extended dry spell.
He stilled, but his dating inquisition persisted. “With all that chiming, I figured you’d have met someone by now. I mean, unless…” The tips of his ears pinked. “Forget it.”
She gripped the probe harder. “Unless what?”
Was he insinuating she was too picky? Picky with food. Picky with men. A high-maintenance woman who was too difficult to date?
He turned his head face down on the pillow. “Nothing,” he mumbled.
“If it was nothing, you’d tell me what you meant.”
He didn’t reply.
She moved the ultrasound in faster circles. “You’re seriously going to say something like that and leave me hanging?”
Whit whined from the floor.
“See?” Isla said. “Even your best friend thinks you’re being rude.”
Eric laughed, a muffled sound that shook his body. He lifted onto his elbows and rotated enough to look at her. “Unless you’re only after a hookup. I assumed you wanted a relationship, but then realized in this day and age most people use those sites for other things.”
“Oh.”
She did want to fool around with a guy. Feel desirable and let loose. She also wanted to date with an eye on the future and didn’t like the idea of Eric thinking she was careless with her body. They should switch topics, talk about why he’d named his dog Whit or discuss the rain expected tomorrow. “It’s not for a hookup,” she said.
He stared at her, rolled his tongue over his teeth. “Do none of them like poetry?” he asked, then winced. “Sorry, forget I asked that.”
Well, now, that was impossible. Prodding about poetry hadn’t been a random question, and they hadn’t discussed books or reading or anything of the sort the past week. Delving into Eric’s intellect would have only exacerbated her attraction to him.
That left one explanation. “Did you read my dating profile?”
He shrugged weakly. “It was right there that day.”
“Yeah, Snoop Dog, it was. That didn’t mean you had to creep my profile.”
“You hate boxing.”
She kept working the ultrasound probe, quiet, hoping he’d drop the subject.
He laid back down, his head twisted to the side, his gaze on the gym equipment at their left. “If you hate boxing, why are you here?”
She wasn’t sure which topic was more difficult, his sudden intimate knowledge of her likes and dislikes, or the real reason why she’d taken this job. “My father and I haven’t spent much time together lately.” The truth. “When he mentioned this last-minute fight, I asked if I could come.” Not the truth. She didn’t have any other choice.
“But you hate boxing,” he said again.
“Huh.” She glanced around, wide-eyed. “Is there an echo in the room?”
He laughed, a deep rumbling sound that filled the room. “Who’s your favorite poet?”
She should never have let him silence that app. “Aren’t we due for another stupid joke?”
“I’ll only give you a stupid joke if you answer my question afterward.”
“Holy demanding Batman.”
“My jokes aren’t free.”
“You’re right. I pay for them in my embarrassment for you.” But talking poetry shouldn’t be a big deal. She’d occasionally tried to convince Heather to read passages, so they could share their thoughts. Heather would get distracted by a random food craving for pickled beets or prosciutto or fiddleheads, and they’d end up on a food mission. Heather was a food stylist who spent her days making dishes look mouthwatering for photographs and commercials, a job that bled into her daily life. Poetry was a hard sell.
Talking poetry with Eric would be a treat. It was also safer than talking about her dislike of boxing. “Fine. Joke first, then I’ll divulge my poetry secrets.”
He smiled, clearly pleased with himself. “How do you catch a squirrel?”
“By baiting it with a crappy joke teller?”
“You climb a tree and act like a nut.”
Oh, man. Those really were too lame. And cute. She tried to muffle her snort, but it snuck out. “You continue to amaze, Kramarovsky.”
“Favorite poet,” was all he said.
“Ramona Estle,” she finally admitted. “When I stumbled on her, I felt like I discovered gold.”
“She writes Instagram poetry, doesn’t she?”
Isla stilled. “You know Ramona Estle?”
“Not intimately, but her work’s really accessible. Not as hard to untangle as some poets. Everything she writes feels tangible.”
Eric was still focused on the gym equipment, but she felt exposed. Seen. “That’s exactly it. But I’m honestly shocked. I’ve never met anyone who knows her.”
“Shocked because I’m Brick Smash?” Accusation crept into his tone.
One hint she still thought he was stupid and he was back on the defensive. His PR team had really done a number on him.
She pressed the flat of her hand against his calf. The muscle was bunched. “Not at all. Estle just isn’t as popular as Poe or Angelou or Whit...” She stared at his back, her mouth dropping open slightly. “Your dog—you named him for Walt Whitman, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Still no cat named Smart, though.”
“Wow, I am such an asshole.” His dog’s name hadn’t been misspelled as Whit, short for witty, as she’d first assumed. He’d named his pup after a famous poet. She couldn’t have misjudged a person more harshly if she’d tried.
“Assholes don’t love Ramona Estle,” he said, his lips curving up slightly.
She released his calf, still horrified with herself. She tried to focus on the probe in her hand, applying his therapy. “Not an asshole then. But I’m an awful, judgmental woman.”
“Why Ramona Estle?” he asked, not disagreeing with her self-assessment.
She shook her head, tried to quit mentally flogging herself long enough to form a reply. She’d never forget the first Estle passage she’d read, the one that had struck an immediate chord:
“the longer
i stayed
the uglier
i became
leaving wasn’t a choice
it was for you”
That poem had sucked the breath from Isla’s lungs. She’d thought of her mother instantly, wondering if there’d been more to her abandonment than her husband’s boxing, her resentfulness toward her daughter. Maybe she’d been depressed or simply hadn’t been capable of love. After reading that passage, Isla had felt the first stirrings of forgiveness in her adult life.
