Page 34 of The Knockout Rule

“Not sure what you mean.” The ultrasound beeped. Their session was over. She busied herself wiping his ankle, wrapping the cord meticulously around the cart.

Eric rotated so he was sitting on the table, powerful legs dangling off. “You were about to say something before, about why you haven’t contacted any matches.”

She wasn’t sure why he was pushing. He’d never flirted with her or hinted that he was interested. More reasons why she should cut her losses and cut this conversation short. Whatever interest she felt in Eric, it was purely physical, not emotional, and he didn’t feel the same.

He stood from the table, moved closer to her. “What’s holding you back, Isla?”

His question was so quiet, so earnest, her heart gave a soft whump.

She wanted to look up into his hypnotizing eyes, see her desire reflected back at her. No, dammit. She didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his sexy looks. As attracted as she was to him, tempting herself with something she could never have was idiotic. Eric was in training mode. For now, he was just an athlete honing his body. She hadn’t had any more panic attacks since that first one, but in five weeks he’d be in the ring, punches connecting with his head and body, and everything would change. She couldn’t go through that again, even for a fling with a beautiful man. But his quiet question, the expansion of his chest as he breathed slowly, waiting on her.

“There’s someone who interests me more,” she said, her hands shaking slightly. She forced herself to meet his eyes. “But we’re not a good fit.”

She wouldn’t admit it was him, there was no point. The partial admission on its own had her heart racing.

He didn’t back away or even blink. “Why isn’t he a good fit?”

Better question: why was she playing this game? Lighting a match next to spilled gasoline was less dangerous for her than exploring attraction to a boxer. Still, traitorous words rose, a bit of truth she couldn’t contain. “There are things from my past that affected me deeply. Things I don’t want to revisit. This man would bring it all back.”

Heat flared in his eyes and she stepped back, worried she’d said too much. Damage control was needed. “Plus,” she said quickly, “you and my father know him. The last thing I want is to date Preston and make things awkward with everyone.”

She didn’t want to date Preston. She didn’t want to date Eric either. This was desire, pure and simple. But the heat in his eyes chilled, and her gut hollowed.

“Right.” He turned his back on her and grabbed his shoes and socks. “You should go out with him, if it’s what you want. It won’t be awkward. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He clicked his tongue for Walt Whitman to follow his master out the door. She watched Eric leave, feeling anxious and more confused than ever.

10

“That was nice, Princess. It’s a treat spending time with you.” Isla’s father stood from paying their bill and helped pull out her chair.

“I’m full to busting,” she moaned. Dinner with him had been more than a treat. She’d been thrilled when he’d suggested they go out, relieved he wasn’t pushing her away completely. More importantly, she hadn’t been sure she could sit across from him without worrying over every move he made. But they’d talked easily, perusing the menu, discussing her accounting course, joking about Brick’s slobbery dog.

The relief at their normalcy had been exactly what she’d needed. They were still them. His illness wouldn’t define their relationship or weaken their bond.

“broken hearts

are messy

splintered things

that break time

and again

but keep ticking”

The Ramona Estle quote could apply to many situations: heartbreak, the strength to keep fighting, resilience of spirit, hope for new love. Readers did have so much power, as Eric had said. The choice to redefine a passage, depending on the day or mood or person reading between the lines. Tonight, as Isla walked into the hotel elevator with her father, belly full of delicious food, smile lingering, she spun the poem in her mind, deciding it meant pain was a gift. If you had to endure discomfort, it meant you were still living and loving against the odds.

In the elevator, she nudged her father’s foot with hers. “Remember when you took me to that fight in Atlantic City and you had to pee really badly, and I hit every button in the elevator?”

He laughed. “Told you, you’re a hurricane.”

“The look on your face was priceless.”

He hit the button for their floor, amusement fading as he stepped back. “We had good days, didn’t we? Even with your mom and everything. You still had a good childhood?”

She wasn’t sure where this melancholy was coming from. His illness giving him perspective? She wrapped her arms around his barrel chest and squeezed. “Mostly good. I mean, I got to drink champagne at twelve and splatter painted a hotel room wall while you trained.”