Page 8 of The Knockout Rule

“Thoughtlessness.”

“Thought-less-ness, but”—he snapped his head up, fierce eyes challenging—“your big face is always on the TV, yelling Brick Smash and growling, and people are always nice to you. Giving you stuff. I want fancy stuff.”

Eric had happily sold that fancy stuff to pay for his mother’s dental care and to keep Eliza’s asthma in check. And Asher was wrong about people being nice to his uncle. Boxing fans wanted a piece of him. Promoters and managers used him to fatten their wallets. His PR handler was some kind of evil wizard, having turned Eric Kramarovsky, a quiet Jewish boy who loved to read and study, into an alternate version of himself: Brick Kramarov, illiterate brute with a loud mouth and big fists. A far cry from the linguistics student who got off on words and meanings hidden in language. But smarts didn’t fill seats, as they often told him, and Eric would sell his soul if it meant supporting his family.

His mother came in from the kitchen, tea towel over her shoulder. “Listen to your uncle, Asher. No more Brick Smash nonsense. And you,” she said to Eric, her Russian accent less pronounced when laying down the law. “Breakfast is ready. You must eat before you go.”

He put Asher down and ruffled his hair, then nodded to his mother. “I’ll be in after I help Eliza hunt for Mr. Squish-A-Lot.”

She reached up and patted Eric’s cheek. “Moy horoshiy mal’chik.”

He hadn’t always been her good boy, not when they’d first moved to the United States and he’d been bullied and lonely.

“Tvoy yedinstvenney mal’chik.” I’m your only boy, he replied in Russian. His usual retort.

She swatted him with her tea towel. “I ya tvoya yedinstvennaya mama.”

Yeah, she was his only mother, and he was lucky for it.

When she spoke in English, her accent thick with her history, words like listen sounded like leesten, walk sounded like valk, and she often skipped articles like a and the—giving her vocabulary a childish lilt. In Russian, she was fluent and no nonsense. Using either language, she was the strong woman who’d given up everything so her kids could live the supposed American Dream. He knew better than to let breakfast get cold.

Eric kissed her cheek. “I’ll be in soon. Don’t clean anything. That’s my job.”

She mumbled about doing whatever she pleased.

An hour later, Mr. Squish-A-Lot had been found, Eric had inhaled five poached eggs, two slices of toast, a bowl of yogurt and fruit, his niece and nephew had fought and made up twice, and Whit had licked up a pile of fallen porridge from the floor.

“Your car is here,” his mother called as he packed the last of his books. Upping his boxing training didn’t mean he’d let his mind go soft.

“The Brute Philosopher.” Rosa leaned on the door frame to his room, his sister’s blue eyes traveling over his textbooks.

“I don’t study philosophy.”

“Sorry, Mr. PhD. The Brute Linguist.”

He wasn’t studying for his PhD either, but Rosa was kidding, and he should be used to the teasing. Should being the key word. Everyone he met misjudged and misunderstood him, but comments like “brute” brought more irritation lately.

“You’re taking Whit with you?” She sat on his bed and massaged the dog’s wrinkled neck.

Eric stuffed the last of his clothing in a bag, glad for the benign topic. “Hotel tried to say no, but they gave in.”

“No one says no to Brick Kramarov.”

Another joke about his fighting alter ego, and he yanked his zipper closed harder than intended. He loved that Rosa still had the energy to tease him. Before her pregnancy with the twins at nineteen and her failed marriage, she’d made it her job to mock him, teasing how he slurped his soup, rolling her eyes at the chunky gold chain he’d worn daily, because he’d mistakenly thought it was cool. She’d talk a mile a minute, imitating his deep voice, pretending to box, until their mother had tears streaming down her cheeks.

She’d also been incredibly ambitious, had dreamed of becoming a lawyer, fighting for justice and standing up for the little guy. Now she talked about play dates and hollered at her kids to do their homework, while working part-time as a receptionist.

As much as he’d grown to hate any teasing related to his boxing persona, he didn’t have the heart to come down on Rosa about it. “I left you something for while I’m away. Check your bank account.”

Her eyes turned soft. “What did you do?”

“Got my advance for the fight, deposited the excess. It’s just the start, Rosa. If I win this match, everything will change.”

He’d send Rosa to college to study whatever she wanted. His mother would quit her food packing job at that awful factory. He’d hire a cook and cleaner, force his mother to rest for once in her life. He’d buy them a bigger house, make sure Eliza and Asher never had to worry about affording school or covering medical care.

“You just go have fun,” Rosa said. “Get out while you’re in Vegas.”

He wouldn’t do much except train, but he nodded as they both stood. “Read to the kids every night for me. I’ll miss that.”