Page 59 of The Knockout Rule

“I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to repeat that. From the beginning. PowerPoint slides would be helpful.” Heather practically had her face pressed against her computer screen as they chatted online.

It took all of Isla’s energy not to flop on her bed. “I can’t say it again. I can’t believe this is my life.”

“But it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“There’s nothing romantic about a guy telling another guy what to do and say on a date, basically lying to my face.” And proving how perfect he was for her. The facts were unacceptable. Preposterous. So freaking unfair.

“This is the definition of romance, especially to a girl who orgasms from poetry. Forget the fact that he’s a genius linguist, which basically means he’s a master cunni-linguist, which is something you need to think long and hard about. He was baring his soul to you through someone else!” Heather inched back from her screen and lay on her stomach. Her blonde hair was tied in a knot on her head. She held a bottle of nail polish. Bubblegum pink. “I just don’t fully understand why he didn’t tell you how he felt.”

“He knows I hate boxing, which means I hate boxers.” And she’d told him he’d been the cause of her panic attack. A partial truth that day. Her father’s call had been the cause, but Eric had been a factor, and she was nervous to confess the ordeal to Heather. Shame still stewed in her gut. Embarrassment over her mental health issues, and the fact that she’d never shared her difficulties with her best friend.

Heather started painting her nails. “You may hate boxers, but the guy’s gone out of his way to try and make you happy, even though it must have been crazy painful for him. Those aren’t the actions of a guy who’d sit on the sidelines because you have an issue with his job.”

“He didn’t think I liked him then.”

Heather froze mid-swipe of her nail polish. “Didn’t think? As in past tense?”

Isla played the same statue game, furious her mind had betrayed her. “I mean doesn’t. He doesn’t think I like him.”

“Ha. No. Don’t try that bullshit with me, girly. Didn’t means there’s been a change in his understanding of the situation. Spill the details or I’m flying out there and will interrogate you by playing “Barbie Girl” on loop until your ears bleed.”

Isla snorted, remembering the two of them having a Worst Songs of the Nineties dance party in their shared apartment, doing shots and devouring pizza. When “Barbie Girl” had played, Isla had plugged her ears and shouted lines from poems to save herself from the godawful song.

Heather pointed her pink-tipped nail polish brush at the screen. “You’re lying to my face right now. If he knows you like him, and he’s clearly smitten with you, why the hell is he letting another guy take you out?”

Last night, after Preston had confessed to asking for Eric’s help the past weeks—planning their first date, choosing Preston’s poetry, speaking to Isla through Preston in the bar—her heart had felt ready to burst. She should have been angry. She had been angry, but not at the guys. She’d been furious at herself. At her mother, her father. Everyone who’d turned her into what she was today: damaged goods. A woman too scared to pursue the most amazing man she’d ever met.

Feeling cheated, she’d thanked Preston for his honesty, but he hadn’t been easy to shake. “You’ll talk to him?” he’d pushed. “Tell him how you feel?”

“Shouldn’t his manager be warning me away from his boxing client before a big fight? Aren’t you worried about his focus?”

“I am worried about his focus. He’s been off lately, distracted when training, and I think you’re the reason. On a business level, staying apart would actually be worse for him. On a personal level, I love the guy and want him to be happy. You need to put Eric out of his misery and go out with him already.”

The only reply she’d been able to form had been a sad, “It’s more complicated than that.”

Infinitely more complicated, and now she was staring at her best friend’s beautiful face, trying to figure out how to share a secret she’d hidden their entire friendship. “I have issues,” she told Heather.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Isla smiled, loving Heather’s no-nonsense personality. “Remember those days when I worked at physio clinics and you’d ask me to go out? But I’d tell you I was tired or had a headache.”

“And I felt like a jilted lover. But I get it. Those places worked you too hard, which is why you’re gonna be your own boss.”

Discomfort swirled through Isla’s stomach. “Those places didn’t work me too hard.”

Heather’s eyes widened. “Oh my God. Were you dating someone in secret? If the answer’s yes, I’m definitely coming with the Barbie song.”

Isla slumped forward, laughing under her breath, thankful for Heather. A best friend who could make her laugh, even in the most stressful times. A friend who might be upset with her shortly. Sighing, Isla said, “There was no secret lover. I actually suffer from…” She inhaled deeply, remembering the soothing feel of Whit’s wrinkly skin under her hands, his slobbery kisses. “I suffer from panic attacks.”

“Isla.” The nail polish disappeared as Heather’s face loomed large on the screen once again. “Since when?”

“Since I was a teenager.”

“A teenager? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was embarrassed?”

Heather’s perfectly plucked brows drew together. “I’d never have judged you,” she said softly.