Page 82 of The Knockout Rule

She rushed over and fell to her knees, reached for him, needed to see how bad the gash on his forehead was.

He flinched away. “Why are you here?” He looked slightly dazed. Also annoyed. His usual glare was extra-special sneery.

Something in her snapped, anger burning as bright as her worry. “I’m here because I heard a bang and found you on the floor with a massive cut on your stubborn head, which, by the way, is deep and needs stitches.”

Maybe they could give the man a facelift while they were at it. Change his resting sneering face to a resting happy face. A trusting face that wasn’t too proud to ask for help or admit when he was sick, and God, she was just so mad at him for being so difficult. Sad and scared and pissed off to see him like this, facing the brunt of his illness alone.

He touched his forehead again, looked at his red fingers. “Just fell is all. Smacked my head on the dresser going down. No big deal.”

The man was on his knees, bleeding from his head, blinking to regain his focus. But it was no big deal. “You need stitches.”

“Just gotta get up and wash my face.” He leaned on the dresser to stand. Took a moment to regain his balance, then sat on the bed, never once asking her for support. As usual.

Swinging Graham Slade was a boxer to the core. Hitting the floor didn’t matter. He had an intimate relationship with that hard fall, the blood and pain. It was in his nature to get up, force a brave sneering face.

Biting her tongue, she left him briefly. Returned with a wet cloth and dabbed at his forehead. The white cloth turned pink. He grunted, otherwise keeping quiet while she cleaned him up, but the wound wouldn’t quit bleeding. “You need stitches,” she said again.

“I have a training session to get to.”

“Head wounds bleed like crazy. Do you think Eric wants you bleeding all over the ring while he trains? Will that be good for his focus?”

Another grunt, angrier this time. His molars made a clacking sound as he mashed his teeth together. “Fine. We’ll go for stitches. My focus is off, so you’ll have to text Brick. Don’t say a word about why I fell. Tell him I tripped on something.”

For the first time, she fully supported his plan to lie. As stressful as the training change might be for Eric, the last thing he needed, the day before his big fight, was to learn his trainer had Parkinson’s.

“Keep this pressed to your head,” she told her aggravating father.

She fished out her phone from her purse and went to the bathroom, needing privacy for this awkward text. She closed the toilet lid and sat on the seat.

Isla: I have to take my father for stitches. He slipped on the wet floor in his bathroom and smacked his head.

Although she hated lying to Eric, her racing heart slowed slightly. She craved this connection. A moment of concern from him, a brief balm for her haywire emotions.

Eric: He’s missing training?

She frowned at his text, waited for another message to show up, one asking if Graham was okay. If she was okay. Nothing came.

Isla: He’ll miss this one.

Eric: I need him here.

Isla: He needs to see a doctor.

Eric: Fine. I’ll see him later.

Fine. Like a disgruntled teen’s “whatever.” So much for concern and comfort from the man she loved.

Isla: I’ll have your trainer back as soon as possible.

Eric wouldn’t know how scary this was for Isla. He didn’t have a clue about Graham’s illness. And he was stressed. Their kiss before he’d walked out of their physio session hadn’t just been a loving farewell. His rough movements had been laced with desperation. Hints of distress. Still, his selfishness stung. He didn’t care if she was upset or if her father was okay. He cared that his trainer was missing a session.

She closed her eyes and exhaled. He’d warned her he might be rude and challenging this week. It shouldn’t be a surprise. The outcome of this fight impacted his entire life.

* * *

Three hours later, she was riding in a taxi with her father. They hadn’t spoken much during the drive to the hospital, or while waiting for a doctor, or while lying to the doctor about why he’d fallen. His head was stitched up. His balance seemed fine. She still felt brittle and mad, tired of Swinging Graham Slade constantly fighting her help.

The taxi stopped at a light. The driver talked to someone on his Bluetooth in a language she didn’t understand. Eric would likely recognize the words, but thinking about him made her edgier. Her father’s usual wheezy breathing filled the backseat’s silence, and when she glanced at his stern profile and the bandage on his forehead, exhaustion swamped her.