Page 9 of The Knockout Rule

More than a head shorter than him, she gripped his shoulders. “You don’t get hurt. You be careful and come back to us in one piece.”

He loved her like this. Strong, so much like their mother. “Stop being so nice. It’s freaking me out.”

She laughed and punched his arm.

Eric whistled for Whit. The dog jumped off the bed, trailing after him, both of them walking with purpose. Next time Eric stepped inside this house, it would be to put a For Sale sign on the property and tell Rosa she could have whatever future she wanted.

* * *

Eric’s taxi pulled onto the tarmac, close to Preston’s private jet. His manager was on his phone as usual, the thing practically an extra appendage, and waved vaguely at Eric. By the time Eric’s bags were unloaded and Whit was sitting happily at his feet, Preston stashed his cell in his expensive suit pocket, grinning his world-conqueror grin. “Guess who’s considering offering you a killer endorsement deal?”

The best offer he’d had to date was from a used car dealership. It had entailed Eric wearing a barbarian costume. “It better not involve a ridiculous outfit.”

“That’s not a guess.”

“Ask Whit. He enjoys your guessing games more than I do.”

Whit made his usual wheezy, snorty sounds.

Preston wrinkled his nose. “I’ll never understand the bulldog thing. And since you’re no fun, the answer is Big Dipper Athletics.”

BDA wasn’t Nike or Reebok, but they were no joke. “How serious are they?”

“If you win this match, they’ll be begging on their knees.”

When he won this match.

He was an underdog. It was no secret. Telecasters blasted his stats all over social media, a different song than those gossip mongers used to sing.

He’d been a golden boy once, on the cusp of greatness, before he’d fractured the metacarpal bones in his hand. Everyone had written him off. Preston had told him to find a new gig. Then his mother had lost her factory job for a few months, thanks to a dip in the economy. She’d needed dental work. Eliza’s asthmatic bronchitis had ended in a pile of medical bills. He hadn’t weighed his options. He may love linguistics, but it didn’t pay the bills. Boxing was his ticket, his fastest way to a decent paycheck.

So he’d hired Swinging Graham Slade to train him. They’d developed an intense schedule that’d left no room for studying or socializing. Hard core physiotherapy. Strict sleep guidelines and a stricter diet, everything in his life measured and planned, all with one end goal: get back into fighting shape and support his family.

Three years later, at age twenty-seven, Eric had defied the odds. His body pained him most days, but he was a contender for the heavyweight champion, his recovery story part of why they’d asked him to fight. Along with the ridiculous Brick Smash image his PR team had concocted. And the fact that the first three guys they’d asked couldn’t do the short notice and balked at the shitty contract.

“Tell them the match is mine,” Eric said. Failure wasn’t in his vocabulary, unless he said it in Latin or French or Japanese. But he suddenly thought about stuffed animal hunting with Eliza, running around the backyard with Asher, cleaning with his mother in the kitchen. All mundane, ordinary things, but a pang went through him. Like he didn’t want to leave.

He shook his head, unsure why he was feeling sentimental.

Preston clapped him on the back. “That’s my guy. And FYI: there’s been a switch in physiotherapists. Slade’s daughter is coming on board for the fight.”

Unease curled through Eric’s stomach. Preston slipped that nugget in like it was no big deal, but change before a fight this big wasn’t cool. “I’m used to Gilpin. He knows my body and what I need.”

“I hear you, but Slade pushed for this. Figured having him was more important than having Gilpin.”

That kind of nepotism didn’t sound like the Graham Slade Eric knew. Slade was all business, always making the best decisions for Eric’s career. He’d never even mentioned his daughter’s job, let alone suggested she work on him. “Did he actually say he wouldn’t coach me unless we hired her?”

“You pay me to manage you, so let me do my job. There’s no need for you to stress about the details.”

The vague answer didn’t settle his agitation. “Is she good?”

“Great, as far as I’ve heard. And she’s hot.”

Eric wouldn’t know. Graham’s daughter had never shown her face at training sessions or fights. “Doubt Slade wants a player like you ogling his daughter.”

“First, maybe I’m tired of playing the field. Kind of like the idea of settling down, so don’t go spreading rumors. And Slade went out of his way to tell me about her. He actually suggested I ask her out.” He shrugged. “No harm testing the waters.”

Preston changing his womanizing ways was a surprise, but the man had a heart of gold. When Eric had asked him to help with his mother’s dental care, before Eric had recovered enough to fight again, he’d loaned him the money, no questions asked. He never missed the twins’ birthday parties. Kind-hearted or not, he still blew through women like a fickle, careless wind.