Page 84 of The Knockout Rule

Today, she said, “I love him so much. He’s my match.”

Her father pressed his lips together, but he nodded. “Then I support you.”

“And you’ll quit acting like an overprotective tyrant, giving us the evil eye when we’re together?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth. “How’s your new office space doing? My guy said he got all the work done.” Mr. Subject Changer.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s all done and ready for next week’s opening. And I’m serious about the dirty looks.”

“You should teach me how to make those smoothies you used to whip together. With all that green stuff? I’ll start making them when we get home.”

She laughed at avoidance number two, too content to keep nagging him. Her father had promised to quit shutting her out. Her business was full steam ahead, with two Major League Baseball clients on her roster. She was in love with a (cunni) linguist who recited poetry in French and Russian and Hebrew. All she had to do was survive Eric’s fight tomorrow night and her life would be better than she could have imagined.

27

Eric sat on the table in the arena’s locker room, wraps secured, gloves on.

Graham got up in his face. “Keep your brain switched on. Don’t rush your moves. Joe’s too big to go hard at him. Pick him apart, wear him down.”

“Let loose in round three. Yeah, I know.” Graham had drilled in their plan, every day for six weeks.

“Keep him moving. Tire him out.”

Eric grunted. They’d worked hard on his endurance: extra runs, swimming, skipping, endless sparring. He was as fit as he’d ever been. Physically, at least. Mentally, he needed to get his shit together.

He shouldn’t have called to speak with Eliza yesterday. He’d tried to push his niece’s sickness from his mind. Rosa would call if she got worse. No news was good news. But he’d caved, needing to hear Eliza’s sweet voice for himself. Instead of making him feel better, her rattling cough had broken his heart. Then Isla’s text had come in.

He’d been sitting on his bed, his head in his hands, when he learned about Graham’s fall, and he’d felt unhinged. Furious at everything undermining his focus. At himself for being rude and inconsiderate to Isla when she’d probably been upset about her dad. Her news had been one more setback. One more uncontrollable event. One more unplanned hiccup infecting his mind. Distractions he needed to quit reliving on the day of his fight.

He jumped off the table, bounced on his feet. Loosened his body and arms and neck.

Joe Bradley. The fight. The win. Nothing else mattered.

All this hard work and training culminated in this one night, to prove he was the stronger man, earn the right to his freedom. Pay Preston back, love Isla properly, offer his sister and mother financial security, give Eliza the biggest hug and maybe a dog. She’d like that. A pup of her own. Company if Whit was somewhere with Eric.

Joe Bradley. The fight. The win. He smacked his gloves together.

Graham grabbed Eric’s mitts and stilled them, stern as ever. “Your mind is your secret weapon. Stay focused. You’ve got this.”

Eric nodded. The hard bass of a hip hop tune thumped from the auditorium, followed by cheering: Joe Bradley making his entrance. Eric bounced on his toes some more, shadow boxed. Visualized his footwork, punching combinations. The song changed to the screamer music his PR team said suited his Brick Smash image. Whatever it took. This match was his.

Joe Bradley. The fight. The win.

Graham led the way and opened the auditorium doors.

Noise and energy blasted from the sold-out venue. Eric’s adrenaline punched up, his vision swimming along the edges, while his central focus became razor sharp. Joe Bradley. The fight. The win. He followed Graham into the madness.

* * *

“If I could kiss Justin Timberlake,” Heather said, “I’d happily join a nunnery and never touch another man.” She was back in Chicago, video-linked with Isla through their phones while they watched Friends with Benefits on their computers—tonight’s movie choice for their rom-com watch party.

Otherwise known as tonight’s avoid-the-biggest-boxing-match-of-the-year party.

“I mean, JT is cute,” Isla said. “But not join a nunnery cute.” Not that she’d paid much attention to JT or the movie. Anxiety hadn’t fully sunk its claws into her yet, but her hotel room felt slightly claustrophobic. Her ability to focus was abysmal.

Heather’s blonde hair was in a messy knot on her head, as usual. She flicked a piece of popcorn at her phone’s screen. “JT’s hilarious. And talented. And there’s something about him seeming like an average guy. But he’s, like, way better than an average guy.”

“An average guy with benefits.”