Page 41 of The Knockout Rule

If Eric beat Joe Bradley, not only would BDA be begging him for that endorsement deal, he’d walk away with thirty million large. Enough money to keep his family happy and healthy for the rest of his life. If he lost, his earnings would barely cover his travel costs, the hotel and private training room and salaries for his manager and agent and trainers and the rest of his team. The other boxers who’d been asked to step in for the fight had refused the pathetic terms. Eric didn’t have that luxury, and he understood his position. Advertisers had pulled out when the original fighter had broken his wrist. Eric wasn’t the draw for this match, the big name bringing in viewers. He had no leverage.

What he had was a ridiculous image that felt increasingly offensive by the day. “It’s demeaning and a lie,” he said anyway.

“It’s the business. Like wrestling. You’re a showman, and you’ve almost got that belt in your hands. Why the hell are you pushing back now?”

He’d been off since landing in Vegas, and last night hadn’t helped. With Isla, he’d remembered how good it felt to be real and talk about his passions. Hold a woman who understood him, even platonically. He thought he’d be okay with only being Isla’s friend. This morning, sitting beside her, watching her accept a date with Preston, had been a reminder of how phony his life had become. He didn’t want to just be friends with her. He was lying to the world about who he was and to himself about his feelings.

Envy sunk its claws in deeper. “I’m just tired,” he said.

“Look.” Preston leaned closer. “Behind closed doors, you’re still the brainy guy who sticks his nose in textbooks for some unfathomable reason. You’re the nicest, smartest client I have. Out here”—he glanced around the restaurant—“you belong to them.”

There was only one person he wanted to belong to, and she wasn’t interested in him. “I’m skipping my physio this morning. I need to go for a run, clear my head. Maybe a swim, too. I’ll be your darling brute by this afternoon.”

“That’s my guy.” He picked up his phone and sent a message to someone. “You’ll also have to reschedule the afternoon physio session. The crew filming your training changed today’s schedule.”

The change would mean not seeing Isla again until tomorrow, which was probably for the best. Still, the last thing he felt like doing was strutting around, growling Brick Smash. “How long is the filming?”

“An hour, tops. Your usual training stuff and an interview. But back to the Isla situation, I need your help again.”

Scratch that. This was the last thing he felt like doing. “She said yes to a date with you. Just be yourself.”

“You saw how reluctant she was, and I say stupid shit around her sometimes. Like, I actually get nervous. The poem last time piqued her interest. I just need a little help at the start, to soften her up so she gives me a chance.”

Choosing poems inspired by Isla was no chore. There were endless passages that spoke to her complexity and wit, her beauty and strength and the sadness that lived deep in her soul. He wished he knew what had been upsetting her last night. He sure as hell wished Preston would quit asking him for help. Eric wouldn’t be able to keep his feelings out of it. “I can’t do it.”

“Come on, man. Just find me a couple poems.”

“Why can’t you find them yourself?”

Preston raked a hand through his styled hair. “I got to where I am in business by working with my strengths and delegating to shore up my weaknesses. Poetry’s a weakness. How often do I ask you for a favor?”

His manager didn’t mention lending Eric money, holding it out there as bait, but it seemed implied. You ask me for money, and I oblige. I ask you for help with a woman, and you say no?

What could Eric say to that? Preston had come through for him time and again, never asking questions, always willing to help. All the guy needed was for Eric to choose a couple poems, sentiments that would capture Isla’s attention and give Preston an edge. The rest would be up to him. “Fine, I’ll help you. But this is the last time.”

After his breakfast of six poached eggs, yogurt, fruit, and toast, he changed into his running gear and went on an exhausting run, each hard pound of his feet vibrating up his legs. He hit the swimming pool next, feeling spent but invigorated afterward, his mind clearer. Sifting through poetry for Preston undid all that hard work. Eric found the perfect passages, words that embodied the woman he’d come to know, but his feelings for Isla swelled to the surface so keenly his heart ached.

He sent Preston two poems and suggested he bring her flowers. A mix of light blue hues. According to one website they represented peace, openness, and serenity. It was what he’d have given her, if he’d had the chance, and he liked the idea of her seeing them every day. He even told Preston not to take her to some flashy restaurant. Preston didn’t agree, and Eric had to explain that a woman who loved poetry and nuance would prefer quiet elegance, which of course made Eric picture himself on the date, holding Isla’s hand, being lucky enough to make her laugh.

Frustrated, he gathered his gym bag, ready for another grueling workout. Training specifics weren’t on his mind. He just had an overwhelming need to punch something.

Eric met Graham in the locker room attached to the hotel’s training facility, dumped his bag on the floor, and hopped onto the table.

“You’re early,” Graham said as he got to work wrapping Eric’s hands.

“Needed out of my room.” Out of his head.

Graham wove the elastic cotton over Eric’s knuckles, then around his thumb and between each finger. The methodical process calmed Eric’s unwelcome thoughts. He visualized hitting the double-end bag with consistent combinations, quick punches: 1-2-1-3-1-2. He repeated the combination in his mind, then pictured a 3-1-2 pattern of hooks and jabs, with pivots between, hitting the bag at different angles.

“That should do you.” Graham secured the Velcro at the end of the wrap. “Good?”

Eric made fists, checked that the wraps felt solid, but not so tight they’d cut off circulation.

The day he’d fractured the metacarpal bones in his hand, his wraps had been part of the problem. Eliza had had an asthma attack that afternoon. Worried about her, he’d been late to his fight, and his coach had been in a car accident. Nothing brutal, but Eric had done his own wraps, rushing to get into the ring. The injury had happened in the third round. Eric had been distracted, the day’s string of frustrations eating at him. He’d put his entire body into that calamitous punch but must not have fisted his hand tight enough, and the wrap hadn’t been snug enough to protect his bones. The memory of that sickening crunch still made bile rise in his throat.

Months afterward, the thought of his fist connecting with a body had still curdled Eric’s stomach. When he’d hired Graham, he hadn’t spoken those fears aloud, but his coach would spend extra time wrapping his hands, talking about the strength and purpose of the ritual: to protect the hands’ twenty-seven small bones, maintain proper distance between knuckles. A barrier. A way to absorb impact and keep him safe. Like Graham had known how nervous Eric had been to put his full strength into a jab.

“Feels solid,” Eric said, shaking off the memories. He was smarter now, had learned tricks to keep his head focused. He’d never slack on wraps again. “Are the TV crews here yet?”