Page 38 of The Knockout Rule

He’d read that quote before, had spent time dissecting it. He liked it even more spoken in Isla’s soft voice. “Never give up,” he said. His favorite interpretation.

She shook her head. “The end is just the beginning.”

“Nothing truly dies,” he said. Another possibility. So many.

Her interpretation: “Challenge yourself to do more.”

His: “Let your imagination guide you.”

“I don’t,” she said, sighing. “I’m a planner, always ten months ahead, checking off my to-do lists.”

“You’re a control freak.”

“Guilty as charged.” She reached up as though to touch her hair but switched tactics and fiddled with the hem of her yellow top. “I felt like I had zero control growing up. My mother came and went until I left for college and she just went. My dad’s fights were terrifying for me. I was always waiting for one bad hit to hurt him irreversibly. As an adult, I thought I had control. But…” She flattened her lips. “Control is an illusion.”

I hate boxing. The last line of her dating profile made more sense now, how hard the lifestyle could be on a child. How damaging it had been for her. “Sometimes control is a hindrance. Chasing it keeps you from experiencing life fully.”

She cut an accusing look his way. “Have you ever considered giving your body a break? Not working so hard that you need physio twice a day?”

Her sharp turn in conversation was aggressive, and his gut hardened.

On top of the odd feelings about his stagnant life and lack of success weighing him down today, this morning’s call from his sister and learning about his mother’s injury had been rough. Not as bad as the call he’d placed to his mother afterward. She’d been dismissive of his worry and positive in general, but he’d heard the tiredness in her voice. Her frustration at being hurt. He should be home, helping Rosa with her kids, making sure his mother was healing well. He wasn’t boxing for fun, damaging his body for the thrill of it, pushing his studies to the background for shits and giggles.

“I don’t have a choice,” he told Isla, more forceful than intended. “Not with this fight coming up.”

“What about after?” She moved to sitting, gestured angrily at nothing. “Why don’t you go lie on a beach somewhere? Take a break and not make your family worry so much.”

“My family understands my job. They’re proud of what I do. The kids love having a boxer uncle to brag about.”

“Or they’re too scared to tell you how they really feel.” Her eyes were glassy again and kind of ferocious.

He wasn’t sure they were still talking about his family, and he was done justifying his situation. She wasn’t a lover or a girlfriend. He didn’t need to explain his reasons to her. And Isla’s experience of the sport didn’t compare to his family’s. She’d been a kid watching her father. Rosa wasn’t young and vulnerable, and the twins thought Eric’s fighting was cool. Isla was projecting her childhood trauma onto him.

Still, he wasn’t okay with her leaving distraught, not with how he’d found her. “What happened before I stepped off that elevator? Why were you upset?”

She glared at him, the pinched expression so reminiscent of her father he almost laughed. “I think we’re done here. You can ice your shoulder on your own.”

She started getting to her feet, but he was bigger and faster and blocked her path to the door. “If someone hurt you, I’ll be dealing with it.”

Her frown softened slightly. “No one hurt me, but thank you for your chivalry. Consider it noted.”

Chivalry had been in her dating profile. An attribute she liked. He’d happily uphold the sentiment, but she was still upset. “Let me help you.”

“You can’t help with this,” she said bluntly. Angry. Eyes shimmering with more tears.

She wasn’t ready to confide in him. That didn’t mean he couldn’t help.

When he’d been on the road and Eliza had been rushed to the hospital with asthma, there had been no one to turn to. No one to offer an ear or words of wisdom or a simple hug. He’d flown home the next day, paced angrily outside her hospital room while staff had cast worried glances his way. Preston had showed up and helped pay the bills. His mother and sister had sat vigil, supporting each other. The whole while, no one had offered him the one thing he’d needed in that moment. They always assumed he was strong on his own.

He approached Isla and brushed a few hairs from her face. “Sometimes physical contact is the best medicine.”

She tensed, her chest barely inflating. “Whatever you’re thinking, please just…don’t.”

“I’m hugging you, Isla. Nothing more. Just one friend giving another comfort. Can you handle that?”

He wasn’t sure he could. It didn’t change his resolve.

She crossed her arms. “Why?”