Page 91 of The Knockout Rule

Graham’s big hand landed on Eric’s shoulder. “This isn’t the life for you. Your brain’s too damn important. You’re a natural-born athlete with enough drive and hunger to get the job done, but your heart isn’t in it. It’s with my daughter. If you don’t quit now, while you’re still young, starting over will only get harder.”

“I have responsibilities. People who need me to take care of them.”

Graham leaned in closer. “I used to think I was fighting for Isla. Then I found out my career gave her panic attacks. We see the world the way we want to see it. Warp our views to fit our own agendas.” He released Eric’s shoulder and stepped back. “I’m in talks with a fighter who wants me as a coach, even with the Parkinson’s—Nikki Castle. She’s good and hungry and has a ton of potential. DeAndre got an offer to head up Max Rietveld’s team, which means I’ll need a new assistant coach. You’re smart and a great strategist, and you know how I work. The job’s yours if you want it. If you decide to keep fighting instead, I’ll still coach you too. But that would be a pretty fucking stupid choice.”

In typical Swinging Graham Slade fashion, he marched out of the office, leaving Eric sitting on the hard chair, reeling from Graham’s barrage of information. He kept picturing Graham in the future, tremors quaking his limbs, unable to land a punch or aim a fork toward his mouth or hug his daughter with strong arms. He pictured Isla caring for him, as she no doubt would, watching that powerful man deteriorate slowly, bit by bit.

The realities of boxing had never hit so close to home, and Eric hated not being there for Isla. He wanted to hold her, let her cry on his chest, take care of her while she took care of her father. The only way he could do that was by quitting boxing. Not eventually. Now. Prove to Isla he could be trusted. But he’d lose the endorsement deal. They’d insisted on adding his next match to the fine print, a clause stating Eric had to boast about the food chain when interviewed.

If he quit, he’d have Isla, but he’d be in the red again. Preston had managed to save his own financial ass, another client’s big deal making him flush. But Eric still owed his manager money and assistant coaching would only help so much. What if Eliza got sick again?

His breathing came faster. The room spun slightly, like a sinkhole was spiraling around him. One wrong move and he’d tip into the unknown, drop into a freefall.

Was this how Isla’s panic attacks felt? An invisible force dragging her under?

Somehow, he got to his feet, walked to his car, drove home. When he opened the front door, Whit ran at him, tongue lolling as he made his snorty sounds. Eric crouched and dug his hands into Whit’s wrinkly skin. Let the pup’s heat ground and settle him. He really was the best therapy.

“Asher has a favor to ask,” Rosa said, standing inside the entrance. “For the twins’ birthday next month.”

Eric stood, brushed the fur from his hands onto his sweatpants. He was still processing Graham’s diagnosis, working through all the possibilities tangling his mind. Distracted, he glanced at Rosa. “Why isn’t he the one asking me?”

She folded her arms around her middle and rocked on her heels. “He wants you to be Brick Smash, entertain his friends with boxing stuff.”

Irritation flared up his neck. That was the absolute last thing he needed to deal with right now. “I won’t act like a dimwitted fool in this house. This is my space. My escape from the madness. The answer is no.” After everything he’d done for them, how could she even ask?

She flinched. “You don’t need to yell about it.”

“You should know how much I hate playing that role.”

“Hate it? You love boxing and marching around yelling Brick Smash.”

He stared at her, dumbstruck. Was she really this clueless? Did she have no idea how much he’d grown to despise his image? Resent his career? Graham saw him to his core, why he boxed and what the ring had cost him. How could Rosa not know her own brother?

Just as quickly, the answer hooked him in the jaw.

This had been part of the role he’d played with his family. Be the strong one. Don’t show weakness. Support them at all costs. He’d never talked about how hard the responsibility was on him. He hadn’t wanted them to worry.

Whit lay on his dog bed, eyeing them warily from the small living room. The dog didn’t like raised voices. Eric didn’t like his tone much either. “Can we sit a sec?”

Rosa nodded and followed him to their couch, tucked her leg under her as she faced him. “You’ve seemed sad lately,” she said. “And angry.”

Maybe he’d shown more weakness than he’d realized, more vulnerability. It was time he explained why. “When I was in Vegas, I worked with Graham Slade’s daughter. And…” He pictured Isla’s smile, the brightness in her dark eyes when discussing poetry, how she supported Eric’s studying and made him laugh. Fighting the burn in his throat, he said, “I fell in love with her.”

“Eric.” Rosa’s eyes brightened, pure joy beaming at him. Then her face sobered. “So why have you been a bear, moping around, barely talking?”

“She broke things off. She doesn’t want to be with a boxer, and she’s right. She shouldn’t be with me. So when you say I love what I do, you’re miles off. I’m good at what I do. Not the best, obviously, or I’d have won in Vegas. But I’m good enough to earn us money. To pay for broken furnaces and hospital bills with endorsement deals. And if I ever win big, I’ll send you to school and the spa and hire a housekeeper and buy us a big house, and mom will never work again. That’s why I box, Rosa. For all of you.”

“You box for us.” It was a statement, not a question, but the incredulity in her voice was odd.

“Only ever for you.”

“You are such an idiot.” Rosa shook her head slowly, then punched his arm.

“Why the hell did you do that?” He rubbed his arm. He’d certainly taught her how throw a jab.

“If you think we wanted you to box, you really are dense. My genius brother who speaks a trillion languages is a moron.”

“Have you lost your mind?”