Page 86 of The Knockout Rule

Eric’s right eye and his lips were swollen. Joe wasn’t as cut up, but they both looked tired and sweaty, their feet heavy as they danced around each other. Then Joe surged, a quick combination that had Eric’s head whipping backward. Isla winced. Joe worked him into the ropes, landed a couple more body shots. But Eric lifted his arms. Pushed back and maneuvered off the ropes. Fought to regain control. Isla sucked in a harsh breath, her entire body tense.

Then the bell rang. The referee got in the middle of the men.

And it was done. Over.

Instead of feeling relieved, her stiff limbs felt ready to snap.

“Who won?” Heather asked.

From Heather’s play-by-play and the bit Isla had seen, she wasn’t sure the answer was Eric. She picked at her cuticles, anticipation making her queasy. “They’ll announce it soon. Hopefully before my pacing drills a hole in the floor.”

The network showed a shot of Eric in his corner, being tended to by her father: iron pressed to Eric’s swelled right eye, blood wiped from his split lip. They cut to Joe, and Isla wanted to force the camera back. Those were her guys in that ring. Her favorite men in the world. What were those idiot cameramen thinking taking the focus off of them?

She paced. Couldn’t watch the screen as it panned between the judges and commentators. Then the announcer was out, his voice booming from the TV. “Your winner and still heavyweight champion of the world is…Joe Bradley!”

The crowd roared, but Isla’s heart sank. Joe’s people flooded the ring. They only showed a quick shot of Eric, the dejection and defeat in his eyes, and Isla started rushing.

“I have to go,” she told Heather. Jeans. She needed to change out of her sweats, put on jeans. Get to Eric as quickly as possible.

“Go take care of him. Send him my love.” They hung up.

Isla hoped her love would be enough to ease that defeated look on Eric’s face. Competitive athletes took their losses hard. He’d be angry with himself, crushed about the cash he’d lost. She’d have to help him through this, discuss his options going forward. Figure out how to make his retirement work. All daunting prospects, and her gut twisted.

What if he changed his mind? Decided he needed to fight again, salvage his image? Earn money with his fists instead of his mind?

No. She firmed her jaw and caught her reflection in her room’s full-length mirror. She had dark eyes, like her father’s. She could mimic his glare, too. She was strong. Unyielding and persistent. She wouldn’t let Eric falter. He’d been beyond frustrated with his life, playing the role of Brick Smash. This life change wasn’t about money for him. It was about being true to himself.

There would be interviews after the fight. People wanting one last piece of him, before he trudged to his locker room to shower and lick his wounds. She’d be there for him when he was out.

28

Eric pressed his hands to the shower wall, head bent forward, water pummeling his sore body. Images flew through his mind, each one making him angrier. Joe Bradley standing over him. Joe Bradley landing punches to his ribs. Joe Bradley calling him a dirty Russian, cabbage eater, and other slurs to get into his head.

Nothing new in the ring, but tonight, he’d thought about his mother, working herself half to death in that first vinegar factory, sending him to school with cabbage rolls, the sour smells, the taunts from kids. How helpless he’d felt back then. The way he’d felt helpless lately, with Eliza and his family’s money problems. And suddenly he’d been more angry than focused.

Instead of going slow, wearing Bradley down like he’d been trained, his mind clung to one word: attack. An uppercut for the father who’d left them. A jab for the choices Eric had been forced to make. A right hook for Eliza’s damaged lungs, for his mother’s broken wrist and Rosa’s struggles and Eric’s shame at borrowing money time and again. Pissed off fighting. Not calculated moves and counter moves.

Graham had barked at him to get his head in the fight. DeAndre had said fuck ten thousand times. So many people he’d let down, himself most of all.

He dragged a hand down his wet face, over his swollen right eye. His mouth and right cheek weren’t much better. He leaned into the pain and thought of Isla, at the center of everything. A woman who expected him to retire now, walk away with nothing—no pride, barely enough cash to live on, beyond paying the extra expenses and his mounting debts.

When he’d promised her he’d quit, he hadn’t known Eliza would get sick again. Preston hadn’t come to him yet, anxious, asking for money. And Eric hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate this outcome. Loser.

He watched the water pummel the floor, swirl down the drain, mixing with the blood from his cuts. He breathed and welcomed the hot stab in his ribs, the throbbing in his head and face. He was bruised and battered and looked like hell, and he didn’t want to leave the shower.

Eventually, he turned off the spray. Trudged to the locker room with his towel around his waist. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he needed something stiff tonight. A lot of that something stiff. He changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, every shift and move making him wince. He paused to catch his breath, leaned on the locker.

Preston sauntered into the room, dressed in another of his fancy suits. “Tough match.”

More like embarrassing match. “Sorry I let you down. I know you need the cash.”

Preston crossed his arms and shrugged one shoulder. “Looks like I’ll be one private jet lighter, among other things, but life goes on. Has the doctor been in?”

“Briefly. Told him I’m fine.” Moving hurt, along with thinking and breathing, but he didn’t have the patience to be prodded tonight. He’d borrowed money he couldn’t pay back, and Preston was once again proving how decent he was, not holding guilt or the debt over Eric. “I’ll get you the money. It won’t be quick, but I’ll pay you back.”

He wasn’t sure how. He pictured himself returning to training mode, growling Brick Smash in interviews. Telling Isla retirement wasn’t realistic, trying desperately to convince her she was strong enough to date a boxer, when he’d promised her he was getting out. Something inside him shriveled, but he didn’t know what else to do. He had no qualifications yet. His studies had only been a hobby. More schooling cost money and took time. Minimum wage at some job wouldn’t cover Eliza’s bills or Preston’s loans.

“Speaking of paying me back,” Preston said, “I have a lead on an endorsement deal. Not BDA and you’ll hate the idea, but it’s quick cash.”