Page 5 of The Knockout Rule

His money-scraping efforts had always been successful—a TV appearance, that horrid toilet plunger infomercial, exhibition fights with B-list celebrities—but she’d never understood the why of it. Why that stuff had meant so much to him. Proof of what he’d accomplished? Evidence that, although it had cost him his wife, boxing hadn’t left him empty-handed?

There was no knowing with Graham Slade. His emotions were as toughened as his fists. But this? Selling his favorite luxury car for her?

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Tell me about that favor.”

She hoped it was a big one, something huge she could use to show him how appreciative she was. How much she loved him.

He passed his hand over his mouth. “I need you to come to Vegas with me and work with Brick Kramarov leading up to his fight.”

She laughed. “No, really. What do you need?”

Through the years, their fights over boxing had been epic. She’d never told him how deeply boxing had scarred her, but she’d ranted plenty about men and women ruining their bodies, while their loved ones watched in resigned acceptance. Tears had been shed on the topic. Silent treatments earned. The man must have developed a sense of humor.

He didn’t crack a smile, though. “I need you to come to Vegas with me,” he said again, “and work with Brick Kramarov leading up to his fight.”

She didn’t laugh this time. “You can’t be serious.”

“Since when do I joke about boxing?”

Joking in general wasn’t his forte. Neither was asking for favors, but this was too much. “My business opens in seven weeks. Renovations aren’t finished. I need to be here.”

“I have a guy who can oversee the renovation work, and you’ve told me how on top of the other business stuff you are. That you mainly have online things to organize. You’ll be back for the opening.”

“I need to oversee the work, and I actually have a life that can’t be upended.” Sort of. Not really. Definitely not the point. Her mental health was the point. “I can’t,” she said again, a cold sweat slicking the back of her neck.

“I need you, Isla. It’s only six weeks. And Brick is a good guy.”

Brick could be a saint for all she cared. Although she’d never visited her father at his training gym, she’d glimpsed a few interviews of his fighter while watching sports networks. Brick was a hulking boxer. Russian-American with buzzed hair, insane bone structure, and piercing gray eyes—hotter than any man had a right to be—with a vocabulary limited to bust ‘em up, gonna beat his head in, and Brick Smash. Not that his looks or intelligence mattered. Shutting herself off from boxing mattered.

During her father’s boxing career, Isla’s nights had been sleepless and anxiety ridden. Sweaty and terrified, she’d wake from nightmares, her mind filled with images of his punched skull rupturing and brain exploding. She’d overheard so many devastating phone calls, had endured so many hospital visits. Face fractures. Nerve damage. She’d lived with dark circles under her eyes and fear in her heart.

Then the panic attacks had set in.

She’d hidden them from her father, Heather, everyone. She’d briefly sought therapy on her own. The therapist had been more intrusive than helpful, so Isla had consulted the internet instead, used techniques to help her cope. When Swinging Graham Slade had finally retired, the attacks had dwindled and ceased.

Until her first physio gig.

Her boss had been gleeful when he’d learned her last name, quickly using her as a draw to lure boxers to their clinic for treatment. A parade of fighters, all caring more about a win than the damage they were doing to their brains and bodies. The worry on their partners’ faces had hooked into her heart. Her nightmares had returned. Different faces, the same agonizing fear. More panic attacks. She’d quit her job, found another. Her last name had followed again, bait used to build another boss’s client list. Her self-taught therapy techniques no longer eased her anxiety.

Opening her own practice had been the only answer. The work helped her focus. Boxing clients would be a non-issue. And her mind had finally begun to settle.

Now her father was asking for the impossible.

“Do you know how hard this would be for me? How much I hated watching you box? Being around the sport brings it all back.”

Her dad didn’t reply. He stared at her, unblinking, and she shrunk two inches. Swinging Graham Slade had one hell of a stare. When watching his boxing matches, she’d swear he’d just look at his opponents until the men hit the mat.

“Isn’t there another favor you need?” She hated the desperation in her voice. “It’s not like I’m the only physiotherapist you can hire.” She felt herself caving, though, unsure how to say no when she owed him so much.

He scrubbed his chin with those thick, callused fingers. “I need someone I trust on this, and you’re the best at what you do.”

“I don’t treat boxers.”

“You treat athletes. Boxers are athletes.”

“Boxers are adrenaline junkies, too stupid to realize they’re killing themselves, one ridiculous round at a time.”

Her father’s hard-knocks face flinched. A minuscule wince. Enough to have her regretting her words. It was a familiar fight, but guilt pressed on her lungs.