Page 4 of The Knockout Rule

Isla’s father didn’t mention online dating again, thank God. He breathed loudly, a slight wheeze through his nostrils, like each inhale was sucked through a partly clogged straw.

“You wanted to talk?” she asked.

“I need a favor.”

It was a simple request, but he glided his thick thumb over his fisted knuckles, his square jaw pulsed, and he avoided eye contact. There were only a few instances when Swinging Graham Slade had exhibited those habits all at once, and Isla remembered each of those devastating moments Swarovski-crystal clearly:

The time he’d told her Mr. Zucchini, her beloved turtle, had been crushed by his truck.

The time he’d told her, after promising he’d retire and give his battered body the rest it deserved, he was returning to the boxing ring.

The time he’d explained her mother had left them for another man.

Isla lifted her hand to tug on a lock of her long hair, only to remember she’d chopped it last month. A bold gesture. A new look for her new life.

“we are everything

and nothing

and nothing

we have

is ours”

The amazing poet, Ramona Estle, hadn’t been discussing hair, per se, but the sentiment of not clinging to possessions had struck a chord. At least, that was Isla’s interpretation. The writer’s passages in general spoke to Isla, with their pared-down formatting, lack of punctuation, and insightful messages. She’d stumbled upon the woman’s work a couple years ago on social media, quickly becoming addicted to her soulful wisdom.

Now Isla had killer shoulder-length hair. Thank you, Ms. Estle.

Her waves were still deep chestnut, but with that funky balayage treatment—caramel streaks that screamed I’m-effortless-and-cool-and-spend-my-free-time-sunning-in-the-sand. Isla spent her free time reading anatomy books, absorbing Ramona Estle’s words, and staring at spreadsheets for her fledgling business, but no one needed to know the banality of her existence. What Isla needed to know was why her non-twitchy father was acting twitchy.

Unwilling to twist her fresh-start hair, she fisted her hands. When that didn’t calm her, she crossed her arms. “What kind of favor do you need?”

“An important one.” More jaw bunching. Brown eyes skittering.

He could ask anything, really, and she’d say yes. This was the man who’d been her emotional support when her mother had left them. He’d picked her up when past boyfriends had let her fall. He’d called in a favor to his old sports agent and had sent Álvaro her way. He’d even given Isla start-up money, when he was struggling to run his own boxing gym.

“Name it and it’s done,” she said.

He met her eyes. “The contender for the heavyweight belt broke his wrist and they’ve asked my guy, Brick Kramarov, to step in. They’ve spent too much on advertising to change the event date, so I’m going to Vegas with him. They also want a longer lead-up than usual—bigger media circus to make up for the last-minute fight change. I’ll be there for six weeks.”

As long as he wasn’t the one in the ring, she didn’t care who he trained or where he lived temporarily. “So, you need what? Me to polish the Ferrari you refuse to sell? Housesit the mansion you also refuse to sell?”

“I earned that stuff. Blood, sweat, and—”

“Punches. Yeah, I know. But you wouldn’t struggle with the gym if you sold some of your stuff.”

“I actually did sell the Ferrari,” he mumbled.

She tugged on her ear. “I’m sorry. It sounded like you said you sold the Ferrari you bought with your first winnings, the car you told me you’d rather be buried in than give up.”

Graham Slade’s dark eyes shifted to her exercise area, over the fancy equipment he’d helped her buy, refusing the repayment plan she’d offered.

Awareness dawning, she sucked in a breath. “You sold the Ferrari to help pay for my business.”

It wasn’t a question. The shocking fact was written all over his nonplussed shrug, and she couldn’t wrap her brain around it. A sale that large would’ve funded his parched bank account, but he wouldn’t have done it for himself. He’d been faced with bankruptcy in the past. She’d urged him repeatedly to liquidate his assets, sell one of his five luxury cars, his mansion, his excessive collection of sports memorabilia—Swinging Graham Slade could also be called Spendthrift Slade.

His infuriating replies had always been the same: “None of my stuff gets sold. I’ll figure something out.”