Page 81 of The Knockout Rule

“I miss you all.”

They hung up and Eric rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, stress throbbing in his temples. He wished he were at home, reading to Eliza in the hospital, having tea parties with Mr. Squish-A-Lot and Mrs. Nutter and Mr. Green and Miss Candy, not worrying about her from across the country.

He clenched his jaw.

He needed to clear his mind. The match of his life—his last match—loomed so close. The only way to win was to push these problems aside. Not think about Eliza. Preston. Money. Any of it. He had a job to do, and Joe Bradley didn’t give a shit that Eric’s niece had been gifted with a weak set of lungs.

26

For the end of their physio session, Isla attached electrodes on either side of Eric’s Achilles. The electric current helped stimulate blood flow and promote pain relief. Before their seven days of abstinence, they’d joke and talk and flirt during those quiet minutes. Use the time to their benefit. They were on day six of Eric’s intensive training, the last day they’d see each other before his match, and neither of them said a word.

He was on his stomach, lying on the treatment table with the side of his face pressed to the pillow. His eyes were closed, his body tense when he should be relaxing into the treatment. She wanted to place her hand on his back, tell him to breathe. With how quiet and broody he’d been this week, she didn’t dare.

He’d warned her he’d be distant and possibly rude. She wouldn’t describe this week’s behavior as rude exactly. But definitely cold. Based on what she knew about Eric, she’d go so far as to say he’d seemed upset—the downward tilt of his lips she’d noticed, the slight slump of his shoulders when he rested between exercises. She’d never witnessed him during the lead up to a fight. This could be normal for him. That fine line between too much pressure and just enough to bolster his training.

Her father had certainly been extra gruff the week of a fight. She didn’t remember him seeming sad. In the zone was a better description. He’d march through the house, his face pursed and fists clenched, like he’d swivel around with a right hook to your face at any moment. She’d stayed away from him those days. Let the man be in his head, get ready for his fights.

She did the same with Eric.

She busied herself cleaning up the physio room, wiping down equipment. The machine beeped when it was done. She felt ready to beep. Be done with the world of boxing. Move on to the part where Eric studied on weekends, while she curled up beside him reading a book. No bloody matches on the horizon. Just them and a lot of sex. God, she really missed the sex.

Eric cleared his throat. He’d already removed the probes and was standing at the table, his expression unreadable. She’d been so in her head, she hadn’t noticed him get up, and she wasn’t sure what to say. He flexed his fingers, the thick tendons along his forearms straining.

She wanted to run to him, kiss him with all she had, make him promise to come out of the ring tomorrow whole and healthy. The closer his fight loomed, the more on edge she’d been. Therapy sessions had been a godsend, and she’d talked to Heather daily. Voicing her stress with others made her anxiety more manageable. She was jumpy and hadn’t been sleeping great, but all in all, she was dealing with Eric’s impending fight pretty damn well. Still, she wanted it done. Whether or not he won, they’d figure out their life, as he’d promised. But winning would be even better. A reward for how hard he’d worked these past weeks—his entire career—to get to this match. Go out with a bang.

She twitched, about to go to him, but he moved first, stalking over to her and sweeping her up into his arms. He hugged her fiercely. It wasn’t even sexual. More like the comfort hug he’d given her when she’d been scared over her father’s health. She squeezed him back, offering as much understanding as she could, but his limbs trembled slightly, like there was more going on with him than the stress of the match.

She shouldn’t ask if something else was bothering him. He’d been clear about his needs during this time. “Are you okay?” she whispered anyway. She wasn’t a robot. This was the man she loved, and he seemed to be hurting.

He hugged her tighter, stuck his nose in her hair and breathed deep. Then he was kissing her, desperately, passionately, moving hard and fast, their compassionate hug turning heated. He was suddenly turned on. There was no missing the erection jamming into her stomach. She was on fire. This abstinence nonsense was physically painful. It shouldn’t be. She’d gone a heck of a lot longer without a man. This was what happened when you knew what you were missing.

She tugged at Eric’s shirt, pushed her hands underneath the fabric, absorbed the heat of his skin. He slowed his lips before she got too far, pulled back, and stepped away. He didn’t answer her question: Are you okay? At least, not in English. He said something in Russian, his penetrating eyes intense, and left before she could wish him good luck.

* * *

He’ll be fine, Isla told herself on the way to the elevators. Eric was just an uber-focused athlete, doing mental gymnastics to prepare for the fight of his life. The sad desperation she’d sensed in that hug and kiss had been her projecting her worries onto him.

Yep, the man would be perfectly fine.

She rode the elevator up, tapped her heel while thumbing through her phone. There was an email from Mark Lawson, the Major League pitcher her client Álvaro had mentioned might be looking for a new therapist. She squealed in delight. She hadn’t heard more about Álvaro’s possible referral and the timing couldn’t be better. Another big name for her client list, who might refer other athletes her way. Exactly the good news she needed today.

The basics of her website were up and running, thanks to Eric. She still had to go in and add some content, but he’d done the tough stuff. All she had to do was change details. That work would be the perfect distraction for the next day and half, until Eric’s fight was over. Then they’d fly back to Chicago together, on Preston’s fancy jet. Maybe have fun on those white leather couches in the back area. She’d finally force her father to rest, and she’d be able to share his illness with Eric. Eric would better understand some of the anxiety she’d been battling, why his choice to quit boxing meant more to her than he knew. They wouldn’t have to date in secret any longer.

She wasn’t sure how Eric’s decision to quit boxing would affect her father’s career. She was still hopeful her father would go public with his illness when they returned home, hoped there were boxers who’d still want to be trained by the legendary Swinging Graham Slade, regardless of his diagnosis. Only time would tell, and Eric needed to start thinking about himself.

The elevator opened on her floor. She walked off and eyed her father’s door up ahead. He’d be resting before his next training session with Eric. She should knock. Wish him well. Hug him just because she felt like hugging him. She put her phone in her purse and reached to knock, but she heard a bang and thud.

From her father’s room.

“Dad,” she called, knocking hard. “Dad! Are you okay?”

Nothing. She couldn’t hear a damn thing except her wild knocking and the loud pound of her heart. “Dad, please. Open up.”

Shit. Key. She had his emergency keycard, and this was an emergency if she’d ever seen one. She rifled through her purse, digging through a notepad, pen, eye drops, and other useless items. She found the keycard, but her hand shook too hard to use it on the first shot. Effort two had the green light flashing.

She pressed on the door handle, pushed the door open, and gasped.

Her father was on his knees, hunched forward, one hand braced against the hotel dresser. Then he turned his head toward her and she saw blood.