Page 7 of The Knockout Rule

She leaned against the counter to catch her breath. Just when life was looking up—new business, new client, new hair, no boxing—she got slammed with a sucker punch. “What do you need?”

“With this fight looming, Brick needs strength on his team. If they learn about my Parkinson’s, his manager will fire me, worried my illness will get into Brick’s head. He’s not wrong, but I’m strong enough, and Brick needs me to win. Problem is I’ve been more tired during the day, having nausea. I’ll need to take breaks. If I say I’m taking that time to be with you, they won’t question me.”

“So you don’t want me because my work is good. I’m your alibi.” His enabler—a fact that stung.

“No.” He frowned. “I mean, partly. But you’re a brilliant physio. You’ll make a big difference in Brick’s training.”

His confidence in her skills mollified her slightly, but she was still mad. He clearly needed to destress, have supports around him, but boxing, as usual, took priority. “Why do you even care about Brick’s win when you’re fighting a disease? Why can’t you just rest for once in your life?”

He flattened his lips. “If I rest, I die.”

She clutched her stomach, too winded to reply, and a thousand ifs clogged her throat.

If he’d retired when she’d begged, maybe they wouldn’t be here now. If she’d pushed harder, he might be healthier.

“What if you get worse?” she said, her voice suddenly small. “What if the stress advances the Parkinson’s faster?”

He gripped her shoulders, two huge hands keeping her from falling apart. “I don’t ask much of you, Isla, but I’m asking this. I need you in Vegas for the training camp. I need you to help me deflect questions because this is how I fight. By not backing down when I’m thrown a punch. And the publicity will be amazing for your business.”

The last thing she wanted was boxing publicity. Still, how could she say no? “Six weeks, and not a moment longer. And when we’re back here, I’m going to all your doctor appointments. You’ll listen to my diet advice and not push yourself as hard.”

His twitchiness subsided, and he tugged on a lock of her newly cropped hair. “I like this, by the way. Not sure I told you.”

Expert topic-changer. She sniffed and wiped her wet eyes. “On top of not pushing yourself so hard, after this fight, please consider announcing your illness.”

“I’ll pick you up next week.” He pulled out his phone, ignoring her demands. “Brick’s manager has a private jet. It’s a sweet ride and Vegas is nice this time of year. Way warmer than Chicago.”

She didn’t care about some fancy jet and balmy weather. She cared about helping her father navigate this new, daunting stage of his life. At least new to her.

He kissed her cheek, his phone pressed to his cauliflower ear, his growly voice talking to someone about schedules and televised training.

He still seemed so formidable. Healthy. A sign he was one of the strong ones. His illness wouldn’t define him, not under her watch. She’d micromanage the hell out of him. Make schedules, assure he had adequate rest. She’d use the next six weeks to work on him, convince him to use his illness for good. He was a boxing legend, after all. The heavyweight champ for over four years. Maybe together they could convince the World Boxing Association to wake up and make changes to better protect its athletes.

She nodded to herself, refusing to fall apart. She was a strong, competent entrepreneur. Would be one shortly, at least, with Álvaro front and center on her patient list. And she’d prepared herself to deal with her father’s inevitable health issues. Those PowerPoint presentations hadn’t been for nothing.

She’d just keep an emotional distance from Brick Smash Kramarov. They wouldn’t become friends. There would be no connection beyond work, no panic attacks. He wouldn’t affect her like the boxers at her previous physio jobs. Easy, considering the last thing she recalled hearing the brute say to an interviewer was, “Gonna bust him up so bad, he ain’t gonna be able to eat through a straw.”

3

Eliza tugged on Eric’s sleeve, her adorable face scrunched up. “I can’t find Mr. Squish-A-Lot, and I can’t start the tea party without him. Everything’s gonna get cold, and Mrs. Nutter and Mr. Green and Miss Candy Cane are gonna raise a fuss.”

And Eric’s studying would go the way of the West African Black Rhinoceros.

He closed his Latin textbook and blinked hard. So easy to get lost in his studies, his mind filled with verb conjugations, tangled masculine and feminine nouns, the unlocking of words once spoken on every tongue. So absorbing he could forget his seven-year-old niece was setting up a tea party beside him.

He brushed the brown curls off Eliza’s puckered forehead. “I saw Mr. Squish-A-Lot in the bathroom. Probably got lost and forgot about the tea party. Should we send out a search party?”

Her eyes widened, bright with a new mission. “I’ll get my search party hat! We’ll use Whit to sniff him out.”

It was impossible for anything to get lost in their cramped house, but Eliza was always up for a game. She bounded off, almost falling as she skidded around the living room’s corner. Eric’s bulldog, Whit, scrambled to his feet and scampered after her. His favorite human.

Chuckling, Eric unfolded his legs and stood, groaning at the stiffness in his joints. This morning’s run and workout had been brutal. Hard, but invigorating. His hour of studying had been equally challenging. Maybe he’d earn a heavyweight belt for mastering dead languages, too.

Asher bounced into the room, his fists up as he punched at Eric’s calves. “Brick Smash! Brick Smash! Gonna beat your stupid head in.”

Goddamn it. How could twin seven-year-olds be so different? He grabbed the scrawny kid by his shoulders, lifted him until they were eye to eye. “What did I say about talking like that? Words are a resource. Don’t waste them with meanness or thoughtlessness or…” He trailed off, waiting for Asher to fill in the blank.

Asher turned boneless in his grip, head lolling back with a theatrical sigh. “Or people’ll treat me with meanness and thoughtess—”