Page 53 of The Knockout Rule

Isla made a startled sound, a muffled kind-of-laugh. From the corner of his eye, he caught the hint of a smile. “I don’t know,” she said.

“A bad hare day.”

Her tentative smile grew. “Have I told you your humor hovers at a grade-one level?”

“Have I told you that you have no sense of humor?”

“I wouldn’t know. I usually tune you out.”

He chuckled at that, turned his head toward her, bringing their lips dangerously close again. Her hand was still on his back, maintaining his posture. Her thumb moved, a small stroke he felt everywhere. They breathed deeply at the same time, their chests expanding like their hearts were reaching toward each other.

Then they got back to work. Less awkward this time. They talked more easily. Joked occasionally. Everything out of Isla’s mouth sounded like foreplay to him: move slower, hold that position, yeah like that. But he somehow found his focus, stayed attuned to his body’s needs and pains, assessing when muscle fatigue meant a break was due. Neither of them crossed the invisible line they’d drawn. They were once again patient and physiotherapist, no different than during their early sessions. But everything was different.

16

Eric slammed his gloved fist into the punching bag, sweat dripping down his face as he danced around the swaying bag. Each hard jab shot tension up his arm, jolted his shoulder. He did pullups next. Bench pressed enough weight to have his pecs and triceps screaming. Sit-ups, one-handed pushups, box jumps, double-unders, and back to the bag. Wash, rinse, repeat.

His last punch rattled the punching bag’s framework so thoroughly the whole thing nearly toppled. His breath raked through his lungs. Whit gave a disapproving chuff.

“Yeah, buddy. I know.” Eric couldn’t be in a worse frame of mind. Where he’d hoped his affections for Isla would mellow as their friendship rediscovered its footing, the opposite was happening. He was braindead from little sleep and heartsick for a woman he couldn’t have. Add in his mother’s injury, his sister’s frustration, their money woes, and nothing in his life felt like it was in his control.

His phone rang from his gym bag. He peeled off his gloves and grabbed a towel, wiping his face as he checked the screen. The second he saw Rosa’s name, his gut hardened.

It was just after 6 a.m. in Vegas. Chicago was two hours ahead. Rosa should be running around, wrangling the kids so they could get to school and she could get to work. Her morning shifts finished at one, leaving her time to shop, pick up the kids from school, spend time with them. Shaking up their schedule meant something was up.

He answered before it clicked over to voicemail. “Everything okay?”

“I’m sorry for calling again, but the heat’s out.”

“Shit.” He scrubbed the towel harder over his face, wanted to shred it to pieces. He could hear the exhaustion in her voice. Could imagine how stressed she’d been with Mom’s broken wrist on top of it all. “Have you called someone to fix it?”

“He just left. We need a new furnace. And I’m at my wits end, trying to hold everything together, not feeling like I’m doing a very good job of it.”

She did the best she could as a single mother. Eric was the one who should’ve done better, earned more money over the years. How could he have left them so strapped for cash? Frustration thrummed through him, so hot and fast he kicked his gym bag, sending clothes and boxing wraps flying. He pressed his fist to his forehead, worked to calm his voice. “I wired you extra money for the medical bills. Is there any left?”

“Not enough to buy and install a new heater. And Asher needed new sneakers. He grew out of his.” Her sigh was bone weary. “Honestly, I think it’s time I figure out a full-time job.”

“We’re not talking about that again.” He wouldn’t stand by while she worked herself to the bone. She’d end up spending half that money on after-school daycare, being ten times more exhausted than she was now. If he couldn’t provide for his family, what kind of man was he?

Last night, unable to sleep, he’d tortured himself by googling Ramona Estle and reading various quotes. A way to feel closer to Isla and get into her head, even though it was the last place he should be. One poem came back to him now, along with a heaping of shame.

“daughters soak up

hate

faster than

love”

Rosa was his sister, not his daughter, only two years younger than him, but Eric had assumed the role of man of the house, earning money, making sure she studied and finished high school. He’d reprimanded her when she’d made bad choices, like the time she got caught cheating on a math test, and the night a parent called because Rosa thought it was a genius idea to drink a bathtub worth of peach schnapps.

Without their father around, he’d grounded her as needed and showed up for science fair presentations. He’d sacrificed his schooling and wants and had taken care of his family, as it should be. He wanted her to experience unconditional love and support from a man in her life.

He wouldn’t fail her now.

There was a leather sofa in the corner facing a TV, where he often watched videos of Joe Bradley with Graham and DeAndre, analyzing Joe’s fighting style, strategizing techniques.

He dragged his ass over there and fell onto the cushioned seat. “I’m sorry for raising my voice. You’re just such a great mom who always puts her kids first, and I want to keep it that way. Aside from more money, is there anything you need?”