Page 85 of The Knockout Rule

Heather sighed. “I need one of those.”

Isla had one of those. Well, not quite. There wasn’t anything average about her hulking linguist, who whispered Russian endearments against her skin. A man who was possibly getting his face busted up right now. Yep, the walls felt painfully close.

She glanced at the clock. With the media preamble and televised circus, Eric would be twenty minutes into his match. Almost halfway, assuming there wasn’t a knockout. The arena wasn’t far. A block and a half down the strip, where the man she loved was facing off against the heavyweight champ of the world.

Clammy sweat developed on her brow. She swiped it off with her forearm, left her computer for a minute to gulp some water.

Heather’s “Oh, shit” had her diving back to her bed.

“Oh shit…what?” Isla tried to calm her pulse. It wouldn’t slow.

Heather’s wide eyes filled the phone’s screen. “Nothing. Nope. Not a thing. Just spilled some popcorn is all.”

“It’s the match, isn’t it? You’re watching it.” After promising they’d boycott it together.

Heather bit her lip, looking so guilty it would have been funny if Isla wasn’t a pile of nerves. “Maybe?”

“What happened? Is he okay?” She desperately needed to know. She didn’t want to know.

“First tell me how you’re feeling.”

“I’m angry at my best friend, who said we were watching a rom-com so I wouldn’t stress over my boyfriend’s boxing match.”

Heather swatted her hand at the screen. “Your internal Zen. Are you feeling okay enough to know, or will it set you off?”

Isla was about to shout a string of swear words at her phone and tell Heather where to shove her Zen, but she paused, took a deep breath. She was not awesome, that was for sure. No one would hire her to spread Christmas cheer, but she didn’t feel like she was choking on air. She was worried and scared, but she also felt strong and lucky to have a friend like Heather. “I can take it. Just tell me if I need to get Whit from Eric’s room for support.”

“I don’t think so. Eric went down, hit the mat hard, but he got back up.”

Isla massaged her chest, hating the visual of her big, strong man taking a huge blow. Had he been hit in the kidneys? His ribs? His handsome face? There was no way she’d be able to watch a silly rom-com now. “Give me the play-by-play.”

“You sure?”

Isla was surprisingly sure. Watching his match herself was a different story, but pretending it wasn’t happening was a losing battle. “It’s better than imagining the worst.”

For the next twenty-odd minutes, Heather winced and cheered and told Isla when Eric took charge, forcing Joe into the ropes. When Joe snuck a hook to Eric’s kidneys. As far as Isla could tell, the match sounded relatively even, but Eric had hit the mat that one time. Not good for his score, and Heather wasn’t a boxing aficionado. Her descriptions wouldn’t paint an accurate picture of the match.

Isla paced, wrung her hands, occasionally pressed her face close to her phone to ask Heather how bad Eric looked.

“Cut up and tired,” Heather said this last time, worry in her voice.

Another visual that gutted Isla. Instead of falling apart, she focused on how compassionate Eric was, always following her lead, taking things slowly when she’d admitted her feelings. Putting her first. She reminded herself how supportive Heather had been, her father as well. Her team, always in her corner. For tonight, her anxiety hadn’t won. For tonight, she was victorious.

“What happens when it’s over and both guys are standing?” Heather asked. “How do they decide who wins?”

“Is it over?” Please let it be over.

“Last round.”

And Eric was still standing. Not laid out on the mat or being rushed to the hospital. Yet.

“The judges keep scores each round,” Isla said nervously. “They mark things like defense, clean punches, getting knocked down. Then they tally them for the winner.” The answer was rote, details her father had taught her. All she could think was: it’s almost over. Eric’s boxing career is almost finished. Please let him come out of it okay.

She suddenly needed to see him. Be there for her man, even from a distance. Even if he didn’t know she was watching him. She found her remote and turned on her TV, flipped to the televised channel, heart beating in her throat. The first thing she saw was Eric jab Joe Bradley, a hard shot to the ribs, and she shouted, “Yes!”

“You’re watching, aren’t you?” Heather asked from the phone Isla had tossed on the bed.

“I had to.” She resumed pacing, one arm wrapped around her stomach, her fist pressed to her mouth.