Page 1 of The Knockout Rule

The Knockout Rule

Kelly Siskind

1

Isla loved having her hands on athletic bodies. Soccer players. Basketball players. Baseball players. The sport didn’t matter, as long as none of them were boxers. Their bodies mattered, and Álvaro Garza’s strong physique had her undivided attention. He was six-feet-two-inches of sculpted muscle, fine-tuned to be the best, and he wasn’t giving her an inch.

“You can go harder,” he said while lying face-down on her treatment table. “I’m not made of glass.”

Isla pressed her thumbs into his hamstring, working into his biceps femoris. He grunted but didn’t relax into the deep tissue work. This was her first session with the center fielder, soon to be Rookie of the Year, and she planned to rock his physiotherapy world. If she didn’t, starting her fledgling business would be an uphill climb. Of the Everest variety.

Time for some active release treatment. Flexing his knee so his ankle could rest on her shoulder, she put her fist against his hamstring, ready to apply pressure. “Extend your knee as I work. If I go too deep, tell me.”

“No pain, no gain.”

Typical athlete. “Some pain is good, too much is bad. This only works if we communicate.”

“Then go deeper.” His tone was flippant. Even worse, he went slack and closed his eyes, like he was verging on a nap.

Not the relaxation she was after.

Álvaro may have been there for a free session to test her services prior to her opening, but she’d been through this before—the arrogance and snap judgments. Álvaro’s last physiotherapist had been a man. Many athletes didn’t believe a woman had the strength to work their muscles.

She dug her fist deeper as he extended his knee.

He flinched. “Fuck. No. Not that deep.”

Gotta love making grown men weep. And proving a point. “That’s what she said.”

Álvaro laughed, short and abrupt, then he narrowed his eyes. “You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re as judgmental as you look.”

Another laugh, this one loose and charming. “Strong and a ball buster. Where have you been all my life, Isla Slade?”

She’d been eyeballs deep in textbooks and classes, while inhaling take-out food on the fly. Lately, she’d also been inhaling details about Álvaro, like his enjoyment of dirty jokes and straight talk. She was seven weeks from opening her practice. All intel uncovered was crucial. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Garza?”

“If you have to ask, I’m not doing a good job.”

“I don’t date athletes, or clients, and you’re too young for me.” Best to get the fine print out of the way, especially since she needed his business.

Snagging Álvaro Garza as her first client would be huge. A triumph that would draw other athletes to her soon-to-be opened doors. Proof she’d made the right choice leaving the security of an established practice. This whole business ownership thing was no joke. Her bank account was draining fast. Building out her office space had been fraught with obstacles. And failure wasn’t an option. It would mean loss of independence when she’d worked so hard to support herself. But as the poet Ramona Estle wrote:

“cocoons are

dark

cramped

uncomfortable spaces

don’t expect yours

to be gilded”

Isla was in her new cocoon now. A slightly terrifying place that might crush her, but change often came with risk.

She gradually increased pressure to Álvaro’s muscle.