Page 92 of The Knockout Rule

“I’m about to lose something.” Red splotches mottled her cheeks. “Do you know Mom won’t watch your fights anymore? She sits in her room and pretends to sleep. I watch the matches. I watch them, feeling sick every second of every round. Like, physically ill, waiting for the punch that will change everything and mess up your stupid, brilliant brain. Eliza cried during your last match. Asher got quiet and wouldn’t talk for the rest of the night. I only pushed you to keep at it because I thought you loved it. You do so much for us I wanted to do that one thing for you—support the career I thought you loved. I didn’t want you to be stuck in this boring life with us.”

Eric was back in that sinkhole, unsure how to climb out, the walls spinning around him.

Nothing in his world was right. Graham’s illness. Rosa’s shock. He replayed Graham’s rant, how he’d scoffed at Eric’s fighting motivation. I box for my family. Apparently boxing hadn’t lifted Eric’s family up. Not if Rosa’s revelation was true. Boxing certainly hadn’t been good to Isla. And here Eric was, facing his sister, seeing her fears for the first time.

“I only ever wanted to make your life easier,” he said. “Provide for you and Mom. And nothing about living here is boring to me. I love spending time with you and the kids.”

“I let you do it,” Rosa said quietly. “I actually want to work full-time, get out of the house, do something for myself. But every time I bring it up, you get angry, and I clam up. I think I’ve been afraid since Dad and after my divorce. Worried one wrong move would send you away, too. But I should have known better. I should have pushed harder for what I wanted, told you how hard boxing is on the family. So I’ll tell you now: if you don’t love it, it’s the last thing I want you doing.”

Simple discussions neither of them had broached. For a guy who studied language and communication, his observation skills were severely lacking.

When translating, if you switched the order of words in sentences, the meaning changed. Same words, different outcome. Remove context, and you could offend someone in seconds. He and Rosa had done exactly that, not paying attention, reading the wrong words between the lines.

He thought back to the choices he’d made. Not recently, but all his life, the driving force behind his determination, then his decision to finally quit boxing in Vegas, reversed so quickly, always falling back on his imagined family pressure. Getting it all wrong.

“I still owe Preston a ton of cash.”

“But it’s not your burden alone,” Rosa said, patience returning to her voice. “I’m not a kid, Eric. I’m an adult and functioning member of this family. If we work together, instead of you trying to do everything on your own, we’ll figure it out.”

Such a simple statement, a rule you learn as a child: share, work together. When had she become the wiser of them? “I think about quitting boxing all the time, but I’m scared, I think. Like I’ll be doing a tightrope walk without a safety net, one step from falling.”

Rosa nudged his arm. “Then I’ll be here to pick you up, the way you’ve picked me up a million times. Maybe it’s my turn to take care of you for a change. And the timing is pretty great. My office just posted a full-time position, with salary and benefits. I’m pretty sure I could get it.”

His instinct was to fight her on it, but there was brightness in her eyes he hadn’t seen in a while. Pure excitement. He’d convinced himself she’d needed his financial support. That she’d be happier spending as much time with her kids as possible. In the end, he’d forced his views on her, so he could feel like he was the man of the house, standing in where their father had failed. “If that’s what you want, I’ll support you.”

It was also time to start honoring himself. Quit boxing, like he’d considered umpteen times. Not after the next match. Not in a week. Not after he’d secured an endorsement deal. He was done today, if Preston could work his magic and get Eric out of the contract. Rosa securing that promotion would relieve some of their financial burden, and Eric would jump on Graham’s assistant coaching job. Nothing was certain, but for the first time in ages, Eric didn’t feel helpless. He had choices and hope.

Graham’s trust in sharing his illness also gave Eric an idea. A way to help his coach shine a light on Parkinson’s without undermining boxing, as he’d worried. If Eric played his cards right, this move might even be a way to get Isla back.

30

Isla sipped her red wine while Heather cooked her famous buttermilk roast chicken—a succulent bird that always came out golden brown and perfectly juicy. As a food stylist, Heather spent her days shellacking food with non-edible sprays and varnishes to make them look magazine-ready. She also excelled at cooking actual tasty meals. Isla’s apartment had never smelled so delicious, but she was still in a sad funk.

“Dinner will be ready in twenty,” Heather called from the kitchen, “but you’re not sufficiently tipsy. Get your sad butt in here.”

Isla didn’t want to move her sad butt. She had plenty of wine in her glass, and her couch had a comfy groove in the cushion, the exact shape of her ass. She’d been perfecting the ass-groove for the past three months, spending every night making her mopey little nest. Her apartment had also never been so clean. The books on her bookshelf were organized by color. All dust bunnies had been eradicated. Instead of following Heather’s orders, Isla sunk deeper into the couch.

“You either get over here right now, or I dump this gorgeous bird in the trash.”

So much for Fort Wallow. Isla huffed out a breath, leveraged herself off the couch, and trudged into her small galley kitchen, only to find Heather with a shot glass in her cleavage. It was filled with liquid. Isla didn’t need to guess its contents. “I’m not doing Goldschläger boob shots.”

Heather pushed out her full chest. “Oh, you definitely are.”

“I don’t give into peer pressure.”

“Please. This isn’t peer pressure. This is bribery. Do the shot, or the bird is toast.”

Isla glanced longingly at her oven, inhaled the savory, roasted smells making her mouth water. Goldschläger it was.

She leaned down, suctioned her mouth around the shot glass in Heather’s cleavage, and grimaced while shooting it back. “Oh my God, that will never not be gross.”

She wiped her mouth and gave a body shiver, remembering the last time they did boob shots: the day her father had told her he had Parkinson’s. The day she’d agreed to work with his boxer in Vegas. The day that had changed everything.

Isla sniffled, wiped her mouth again.

Heather cupped Isla’s cheeks. “That was supposed to make you feel better, not worse.”

“I miss him so much,” she whispered. An unending ache.