Page 6 of The Knockout Rule

“I’m sorry. You’re not stupid. I just wish…” He hadn’t boxed for so long. That his body didn’t ache and pain him constantly these days. That she was strong enough to do this for him, without worrying about falling apart. To this day, she lived with an undercurrent of fear, wondering if the worst of boxing had yet to rear its dangerous head: long-term effects on the brain that developed as fighters aged. “I just wish you’d made different choices.”

He focused on the floor so long her insides twisted. Nervous tics aside, his evasive behavior was unsettling. Selling his car, acting fidgety, stalling—this wasn’t the indomitable man she knew. “Why does it feel like there’s something you’re not telling me? Is something wrong?”

When he finally looked up, tears shimmered in his eyes. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Whatever worry he’d hoped to curb was on red alert now. “Dad, you’re scaring me.”

He placed his hands on her cheeks and blew out a rough breath. “I have Parkinson’s, Princess.”

2

When Isla was a kid, Swinging Graham Slade would lift her up like she weighed nothing and deposit her on his shoulders. She’d dangle her legs in front of his chest and grip his ears, one of them deformed into a “cauliflower ear,” thanks to repeated hits to the appendage. She’d hum while exploring the rough cartilage, fascinated by the deformity. He’d go about his business, brushing his teeth, making breakfast, pretending he didn’t have a seven-year-old hooked around his neck. Isla’s mother would yell and glare at him. Isla would preen.

On her father’s shoulders, she floated above the stress of homework, above her temperamental mother and the mean classmates who told Isla her hair was too frizzy, her scrawny body too small. On Swinging Graham Slade’s shoulders, nothing could touch her.

She wished she could climb up there now.

Trembling, she pressed her fingers to her mouth. “No.”

Her father’s weary sigh seemed dredged from his bones. “I’m sorry, Princess.”

Sorry didn’t cut it. This was not okay. She was not okay. “Maybe they’re wrong? Maybe you’re not eating right. You quit drinking those smoothies when I moved out. Maybe you just…” Got hit one time too many in the head.

The terrifying facts were etched in her brain, thanks to her research when pleading for him to retire. A boxing blow to the head was akin to being struck by a thirteen-pound boulder traveling at twenty miles per hour. Brain lesions and large blood clots were all in a day’s work. If internal bleeding and damaged organs were your jam, bring on the boxing! Retinal detachment and hemorrhage? Always on the menu if you got hit just right.

She’d once made a PowerPoint presentation about it for him, including a slide of a cartoon man holding his mangled brain in his hand. Graham Slade had looked at her and simply said, “I know the risks, Princess.”

Now she’d have to watch this larger-than-life man wither before her eyes.

Had it already begun? When doing her thorough PowerPoint presentations, she’d researched Parkinson’s and Alzheimer symptoms—diseases more likely to affect boxers. His face had never been expressive, but it’s possible his features had stiffened. It was a symptom. As were stooped posture, tremors, loss of movement, speech changes, sleep disorders, chewing problems… “What can I do? When’s your next doctor’s appointment? When did you find out?”

She’d do more research. Watch his diet. Maybe move back home.

“I’ve known two years, and all I need—”

“Two years?” Forget moving back home. She wanted to throttle him. “How could you keep this from me?”

“This isn’t your burden to carry.”

A maniacal laugh erupted from her. “Oh, so when you get dementia or lose motor function, you think I won’t notice? That it won’t affect my life?”

His Adam’s apple moved slowly down his neck. Trouble swallowing? Another symptom? How many signs had she missed these past two years? How many would she obsess over now? She pictured every future interaction with him overshadowed, their easy closeness usurped by this: her constant assessment of him, analyzing, worrying.

“I didn’t tell you because of how it would affect your life,” he said.

She deflated, her whole body turning heavy. She wanted to slip to the ground, curl into the tightest ball, hide in the tightest space. Hide from this diagnosis. Tears stung her eyes and burned her throat.

“We caught it early.” Her father’s voice gentled, going soft. “So far my symptoms have been the non-motor kind. I’m doing well.”

“Okay, good. That’s good.” She fought the tears and stood taller. It was her turn to be his rock. She would not falter. “But you must be worried about this trip. Is that why you want me to come?”

She’d pack tonight, her boxing-triggered panic attacks be damned. She’d care for him, ease his discomfort any way she could. Parkinson’s patients lived long these days. His quality of life would decline, but they’d make adjustments. She’d be there for him every step of the way. “I assume Brick’s been understanding, giving you time to take care of yourself?”

He ticked up his chin. “Brick doesn’t know. No one knows. Only me, my doctor, and now you.”

Another delirious laugh threatened. “Of course no one knows.”

She could add Stubborn-Ass Slade to his list of nicknames.