Page 16 of The Knockout Rule

“You can read.”

She looked up sharply. The man was smirking, challenge in the quirk of his lips.

“I practice every night,” she answered drily. “I just thought your name was—”

“Brick?” The lift of his blond eyebrow said all he hadn’t: what kind of idiot would name their kid Brick?

If one of them was dense, she was certainly taking lead. “Guess I didn’t think about it.”

He shrugged. “Guess not.”

“Brick is part of your boxing persona then?”

“It is.” Flat reply, not giving her an inch.

She deserved his irritation. “I feel like I’ve misjudged a lot about you, Eric.”

He stared at her a beat, then said, “Happens.”

He dropped his gaze as the word died on his lips, the challenge in his quips evaporating with the sad sound. He looked so defeated suddenly, this massive man beaten down by his alter ego, and Preston’s words came floating back: If anything, he gets pissed that they think he’s dumb. She could see it—the defensiveness, his sudden dejection—how much he hated the misconceptions. Thoughts of his thick thighs and the treatment table fled, replaced with the urge to say hey, it’s okay and I know you’re crazy smart. In an instant she cared.

The worst possible emotion.

At her former physio gigs, caring had led to worry. Worry had led to anxiety. Just ten minutes ago, she’d been panting by the door, fighting off a panic attack. She couldn’t think about Brick’s—Eric’s—thighs or intellect or the sad slump of his shoulders. She was here to focus on her job and her father.

Another quick scan of his forms later, she said, “How’s your hand, the one that was broken?”

“Strong. Gets stiff at times, but it’s not an issue.”

“And your left Achilles—how long has it been bothering you?” That was better. She sounded strong, sure. Like a physiotherapist.

He watched her before replying. “On and off for the past year.”

“Why don’t you lie down while we talk? Take off your socks and shoes. I’ll poke around a bit, if that’s okay?”

He grunted, still moody, but followed her instructions.

Once he was on the treatment table, she lifted his leg and palpated around his Achilles and ankle. A couple of nodules bumped along the tendon. “What have you done to strengthen it?”

Another pause, this one shorter. “I stopped skipping for a while, wore a heel lift in my shoe to take off pressure. Did typical strength building. My physio did ultrasound and electrotherapy on it.”

“All good treatments.” She stretched his lateral ankle. “Does this hurt?”

He stared at the ceiling, his face unreadable. “No.”

She changed her angle slightly. “What about this?”

He grunted. “It’s a bit tender.”

They continued like that, with her stretching his Achilles and testing pressure points on his calf. He offered the odd grunt, but as they progressed his replies came more easily, each answer a bit more specific. Whit slept nearby, unperturbed by his new surroundings or his owner’s physio assessment. A few times, Isla glanced at Eric, only to find him staring at her. He’d blush and glance away, like he’d been caught shoplifting tampons, and her face would heat.

He was likely trying to figure her out, a woman who’d been hot and cold with him. Whatever the source of those glances, she didn’t dwell on them. This was her job. The familiar work settled her overactive mind. Until her phone chimed.

Whit’s head lifted up. Eric frowned in the direction of the sound but didn’t speak. She never normally had her phone nearby when working. Distractions were unprofessional. But she took this job to help her father, made him promise to call or text if he needed her. Since she’d never heard that particular sound, it couldn’t be her father. Her only guess was she had a match on the dating app. She hadn’t expected a match this soon or considered how disruptive the buzzing chime would be. The early riser reaching out to her better be this morning’s only Casanova.

The second she got back to work another chime sounded.

“Sorry,” she said, embarrassment seizing her as she lowered Eric’s leg. “I should deal with that.”