Page 62 of The Knockout Rule

“I’m flattered,” Eric told the pretty redhead, “but I’m in Vegas to work.” He was dreading his physio session with Isla, though. Didn’t understand why she’d looked upset just now. A confusing turn of events. Not that it mattered. He was tired of being affected by her. Analyzing her every blink and twitch.

The redhead pouted. “If you change your mind, I’m in room 517.”

He wouldn’t change his mind, but he might have to do something more drastic about Isla.

He grunted at the redhead, didn’t risk smiling and being caught on someone’s sneaky phone. He walked through the garish casino, the dinging bells a lullaby compared to his clanging thoughts.

If he wanted to win this match, he had to gather himself, quit this silent moaning over a woman he couldn’t have. Give everything to his training. Win this for his family. But his mind kept skittering to Preston slipping into Isla’s suite last night, the hurt in her eyes just now, and fuck. Normally he’d be focused on his body, his physio and training ahead. For some goddamn reason he couldn’t shut everything out.

Maybe he should fire Isla. Try to get Gilpin back.

She did excellent physio work. Better than Gilpin at times, but Eric’s focus had been off since arriving in Vegas. Exactly when he’d met Isla. Her distracting presence didn’t fully explain why he’d felt down this morning, wishing he were at home, having a tea party with Eliza, instead of training to get his ribs punched. He’d rather be further into his Latin studies than grunting for fans. He’d rather be kissing Isla than any of those things, and he needed to get his head on straight.

A few fans stopped him as he crossed the casino. Asked for autographs, pictures. He played up his barbarian image, gave them what they wanted. The act made him feel sick.

At the door to the gym, he crouched and gave Whit a pat. “At least I have you, bud.”

Whit nuzzled into his side, easing some of his tension. The second he walked past the security guard into the gym and saw Isla, he was back to agitated.

She was wiping down the treatment table, rubbing vigorously, like she needed to clean a blood stain. “Hey.” She didn’t glance at him. Just kept wiping. “We’ll start with your Achilles. Work on lateral movement and endurance.”

She turned, still not looking at him, and her hip knocked into the ultrasound machine. The gel tube hit the floor. She swore and bent to pick it up, then smacked her head on the table edge as she stood. “Shit.” She pressed her hand to her head, squeezed her eyes shut, and swore a few more times.

“You okay?” You’re fired, is what he should say. Remove her from his life. Get back to normal and geared up for this match. But he’d never seen Isla this frazzled. Distressed, yes. Upset, yes. Frazzled and clumsy? No.

She rubbed her head some more, then slumped against the treatment table. “I’m clearly not okay.”

He stepped forward. Pure instinct. Go to her.

She raised her hand. “Please, stay there. When you’re near me I get muddled, and I need to be un-muddled for what I’m about to say.”

Whit whined. Eric wanted to whine. He didn’t understand why she’d seemed upset on the elevator, why she was twitchy and clumsy now, stewing over something she had to tell him. The way her night had ended with Preston, he’d expected her to be giddy and glowing. “Isla, what’s going on?”

“What isn’t going on?” Her tired voice trailed off.

He felt that weariness in his bones, and he suddenly regretted prodding her. He wasn’t in any frame of mind to hear about whatever drama was going on with Preston. Not when the only thing he wanted to do was corner Isla against the treatment table and kiss her breathless. He certainly didn’t have the stomach to fire her. “Let’s cancel the session. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

He turned to go, but she said, “Wait.”

He faced her, couldn’t fathom why she was shaking slightly, red blotches dotting her cheeks. Another panic attack?

She shook out her hands and stood taller. “I wasn’t sure I was ready to say anything, but I’ve apparently embodied a hopeless teenager and would rather not wind up with a broken leg when I get extra awkward around you and trip over a speck of dust. So…” She seemed to slow her breathing, then met his eyes. “I know you’ve been coaching Preston on our dates.”

He flinched and dropped his gaze. Instinct had him wanting to raise his arms, block his body from incoming punches. There was no defensive pose to protect him from his bad choices. “I’m sorry. It was wrong and I—”

“I’m not mad,” she said softly. “I mean, the move was ridiculous, and I gave Preston a piece of my mind, but I’m more touched than mad. What you said to me, even through him—no one’s ever made me feel that special.”

He finally looked up. Saw longing, not anger on her face. Or was that wishful thinking? His heart kicked against his sternum, a desperate, hopeful pound, until he remembered last night. “Preston went into your room.”

She frowned. “What?”

“Last night, I saw you. He went into your room after your date.”

She nibbled her lip and fidgeted with her fingers. “That wasn’t a romantic move. He came in to tell me what you guys had done, because I stupidly confessed to still being into you. And I am. Like off-the-charts into you, and learning you planned our first date and said all those beautiful words through Preston exacerbated how I feel. I want you so badly I’m in physical pain, but I’m still worried about how being with you will affect me. Then there was that whole elevator thing—watching you flirt with that redhead. Knowing you’re going out with her is the absolute worst and working with you, seeing you now, I don’t know how to do this with how much I feel.”

He hadn’t moved. Had barely breathed. His heart was about to pound out of his chest. He ached to erase the distance between them, but she’d asked him not to come closer. “I’m not going out with the woman from the elevator.”

“She was beautiful,” Isla said hesitantly.