Page 48 of The Knockout Rule

“A woman’s sick husband,” he said.

“Care to elaborate?” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Her movements on his Achilles had become more of a soothing rub than therapeutic pressure. The change was unprofessional, but she wasn’t sure how to stop. She felt out of control and out of her depth.

Eric still lay with his hands clasped over his abdomen, as though unaffected by their proximity and personal conversation, but he hummed a soft purr, like a satisfied cat. “My father left us when I was six and Rosa was four. We were still living in Russia, but my mother had it in her head that she could give us a better life in the States. She had a friend here, a woman who married an American. They helped us come over, but the transition was harder than my mother expected.”

“Because of the language?”

“In part. Her English was bad, and the only job she could get was at a vinegar manufacturing and bottling plant—another connection with a fellow Russian immigrant. She’s at another factory now, but she worked long hours then, would come home smelling sour, like she’d bathed in vinegar. I hated that smell. Hated that she was exhausted all the time. And school was hard for me. I got bullied for how I spoke and the foods my mother would pack for me: cabbage rolls and potato knishes.”

“Knishes?” She’d seen those on a menu before, at delicatessens on trips to New York with her dad. “Are you Jewish?”

He shifted on the table. “I am, but Preston thought it was best to keep my religion out of the press. Thinks it’s better to present a more neutral front, attract as much attention from the largest number of fans.”

More sides to Eric she was discovering, endless complexity that upped his appeal. But the choice to suppress such a fundamental part of him didn’t sit right. “Why would you agree to hide who you are?”

He focused on his hands, picked at his cuticles. “My Brick Smash routine isn’t any different. None if it’s who I really am. And I’m not religious. I feel a strong connection to the cultural aspect of Judaism, to the history my people have suffered, but it’s not part of my daily life.”

“Is your mother religious?”

Frown lines sunk between his brows. “She lights candles on Friday nights and makes sure we all celebrate the High Holidays and Passover, and that I had a bar mitzvah when I turned thirteen, but religion was part of the reason her immigration was so tough. Not speaking English well made attending synagogue tough. She felt very alone and lost, I think.”

Isla couldn’t imagine raising two kids alone in a new country, with a new language, few friends, a new culture, and no family to ground you. “Your mother must be incredibly strong.”

“She’s the most amazing person I know.” He said the words while staring at Isla, a different expression on his face than she was used to. Warmer. Searching. “Do you mind working on my rotator cuff a bit? It feels tight after those exercises and could use some active release.”

She liked being given a task, something to focus on besides the palpitations threatening her equilibrium. He adjusted on the treatment table as she moved, so he was sitting upright. The change brought them closer, near enough she could see the small scar under his right eye. His lips looked softer from this proximity, the stubble on his cheeks deliciously rough.

“Language,” she said, her voice suddenly husky. “You still haven’t explained how you got into language.”

She pressed her thumb into his infraspinatus, got him to actively move his arm, creating tension in the tight muscle. An attempt to break down a fraction of the scar tissue that had built up over the years.

Eric adjusted his position, a small shift, enough that his warm breath grazed her neck. “When I was nine, my mother had a friend at work whose husband got sick. The woman came to America a year after us, and her English was still horrible. My mother’s wasn’t much better, but I worked my butt off to lose my accent and perfect my English.”

“Always a natural at languages.”

He huffed out a flat laugh. “Bullying can be a powerful motivator, and I wasn’t big enough to intimidate those cowards into silence back then. But yeah, I had an aptitude.” He inched closer to her. She wasn’t sure if it was for a better stretch or to shrink the distance between them. She wasn’t sure which option she preferred.

“My mother’s friend was in a panic,” he said, his tone low and intimate. “She couldn’t understand the doctors and didn’t know what to do. So my mother brought me to the hospital to translate for her. I helped her and the doctor make decisions together, then helped her buy medicine at the pharmacy.”

Isla pictured Eric as a young boy, blond hair longer, gray eyes inquisitive and determined as he made a staggering difference in those people’s lives. “That’s some pretty astounding work for a kid.”

He gave a slight, unaffected shrug. “It made me realize how important language is. It can be a barrier and provoke bigotry toward immigrants. It’s also a powerful key that connects people. I was proud of what I did, amazed something so simple could have so much impact, and I was hooked. I studied Hebrew and French to start. When other kids my age were reading comics and messing around on skateboards, I used my free time to pore over books. Later, after I got my high school diploma, studying linguistics was a natural move.”

More pieces of his puzzle clicked together. But not the biggest one. The central piece that made her growing feelings for him terrifying. “That’s a powerful story. And inspiring. But how did a book-obsessed language nerd become a boxer?”

He was still so close, his warm breath ruffling the loose hairs of her short ponytail. “You’re asking a lot of questions, Isla.”

She was. She wanted to understand all of him. Couldn’t fight the urge. But these questions weren’t just curiosity. She was collecting evidence, proof that following her reckless heart and giving into this incredible pull to be with Eric wouldn’t ruin her. Every fascinating detail about his life was a checkmark in the YES column. I can date him. I can survive him. He will make me happy. Learning about his boxing life could fill the NO side with one measly point and tip the scale.

“I’ll stop the inquisition if you want,” she said.

He stilled her hands and swung his legs around. With him sitting on the edge of the table they were at eye level. He spread his thighs wider, invited her to move between them. She did—of course her traitorous body did.

He gathered her hands in his. “I know talking about boxing is hard for you.”

“All of this is hard for me.” The statement came out angrier than intended.

Eric tipped his head forward in quiet understanding. “My bullying was bad enough that I came home a couple times with black eyes. The woman whose husband I helped owned a boxing gym. When my mother told them how rough school was for me, he suggested I start to train. No cost to my mother. They were beyond thankful for my help, but I had to clean the gym and do the laundry. I worked for my training.”