Page 54 of The Knockout Rule

“I need a week’s worth of sleep,” she said, sounding exhausted enough to need it. “And a magic kitchen that cleans itself, and I’d kill for one of those spa days, with the manicures and pedicures and fruity water. For now, I’d settle for a hug from you.”

Something else he couldn’t give her. “I’ll be home as soon as the fight’s over. I’ll clean the kitchen and make you fruity water. And when I win this fight, I’ll buy you a year’s worth of spa days.”

Silence lingered. Then she said softly, “I’m so glad you’re doing what you love.”

He almost let out a harsh laugh. He had loved the sport once—the challenge of it, the athletic outlet. In the early days, his mind was always on training and visualization. Then he’d finished high school remotely, had started studying in his free time. Gradually, over the years, something had shifted. He knew his boxing made his family proud. He got a thrill when they boasted about him, but lately any love for the sport felt tainted. Bitter greens he had to swallow.

“I’ll wire more money today,” he said. Money he’d have to borrow.

A distant “give it back” sounded through the line: Asher’s pained whine.

“Goddamn it,” Rosa grumbled. “Gotta go. Love you.”

She hung up and Eric stared at nothing until his eyes blurred.

“Did a tornado blow through here?” Preston stood at the training room entrance, glancing at the contents of Eric’s gym bag sprawled over the floor.

“It’s been a rough morning.” His sweat-slicked skin was stuck to the leather couch. Clamminess settled in the wake of his intense workout. He pushed off the couch, wiped the leather down with his towel, then joined Preston, who was already on his phone, meandering toward the punching bag.

Preston finished his business and jerked his chin at Eric. “I need a favor.”

Eric tensed. He’d been about to ask Preston for another massive favor, more cash to get the heat on in his house. Chicago in November wasn’t freezing, but nights dipped low. Low enough that he needed this work done. Asking for another handout was a blow to his pride. One he’d suck up for his family, but Preston’s comment had him on edge. The last two favors his manager had asked for had centered on Isla.

He’d worked with Isla for two days since her panic attack. Four more painful sessions of them being polite, skirting any discussions of substance, when all Eric wanted to do was kiss her again, take her on the treatment table, against the wall, anywhere and everywhere, as long as it meant he could have her. Now Preston needed another favor.

Eric slung his towel over his shoulder and crossed his arms, squaring off to face his manager. “What do you need?”

“I’m taking Isla for drinks tonight, and I need more of your romance skills.”

Jealousy careened into Eric. He bit down on his molars, surprised he didn’t crack a tooth. The last time Isla had mentioned Preston, before her panic attack, she hadn’t denied having feelings for him, but she’d admitted the chemistry was lacking. Still, she’d said they planned to have drinks. The subject hadn’t been broached since, not that their conversations had been personal lately, and she didn’t owe Eric anything. But he hadn’t expected her to keep that date.

Maybe she was as frustrated as him by their forced separation and needed a night out with another man, someone to help her forget what she couldn’t have. Maybe she really liked Preston.

That notion had him grinding his teeth harder. “Last time you said you needed a little help to soften her up, then you’d do the rest. This is the rest. She wouldn’t have agreed to another date if she didn’t like you as you are.” Eric wanted to choke on his pep talk, hated the idea of them on another date. The idea of her on a date with any man but him had him itching to go ten rounds in the ring.

Preston waved his hand in vague dismissal. “She does like me. And I like her. I mean, nothing’s happened between us physically. But we laugh a lot, and she doesn’t take my shit, which is refreshing. I can actually picture her with my family, getting along with everyone. She agreed to another date, and I don’t want to mess it up.”

Hearing they hadn’t been intimate loosened Eric’s fists. Slightly. Jealousy still simmered behind his sternum, and that call with Rosa was a massive concern. Preston was the only person he could ask for money. Preston, who couldn’t deal with his love life on his own. “I don’t see the problem. Take her out again and leave me out of it.”

“Yeah, well, there was a hitch last time.” He faced the punching bag, all done up in his pressed shirt and tie, and gave a few pitiful jabs. “Those poems don’t stick in my head. I have them on my phone as a cue, but she hates me leaving my phone out, which I get. So I put it away and tried to wing conversation. But I get nervous with her, especially when the night starts out. I just have a feeling this date is a make-it-or-break-it one with her. I need a wingman with me at the table.”

“I’m not tagging along on your date with Isla.” Death by elephant trampling was preferable.

“That’s where being rich comes in handy.” He spun to face Eric and opened his suit jacket. A small black cone was attached inside, with a wire hanging down. “I’ll be wearing this microphone, so you can hear everything we say, and I have a matching earpiece. If our conversation goes off the rails, you tell me what to say—those fancy poems and romantic words. When I’m more myself, less nervous or whatever, I cut the cord.”

Eric stalked over to his scattered clothes and started shoving them forcefully back into his bag. If boxing wasn’t an issue for Isla, Eric would have told Preston about his feelings for her. Apologized for going after the same woman as his manager, but he’d have taken what he wanted. Eric wasn’t a saint. And Isla was no ordinary woman. Eric had never lain awake wishing he could ask a woman’s opinion on a poetry passage, while hungering to whisper those beautiful words along the outer swells of her breasts, down the curves of her belly, against the hot center of her. His unmitigated desire was a roaring, living thing.

If there were any chance she could handle a relationship with him, he’d have told Preston in a heartbeat, dealt with the fallout. Found a way to balance her and his training. But there was no chance for them. Explaining to Preston he’d already fallen for her would be useless. Helping him on another date? That would make him masochistic.

“You’ve officially lost your mind,” he told his manager.

“Or sharpened it. I saw it in a movie once. They did the earpiece thing and it worked perfectly.”

Except this wasn’t a movie, and Eric was way too invested in the other half of that prospective date. But he paused. His focus had been abysmal lately. He had an edginess he couldn’t contain. Isla wasn’t the only source of his frazzled head space, but she was a big part of the problem. Maybe speaking through Preston could settle his mind.

After her panic attack, Isla hadn’t given Eric the chance to tell her how he truly felt. He may have confessed he was interested in her, but she’d run out before he could praise her beauty, tell her how smart and wonderful she was, that he’d also imagined a future for them. He couldn’t tell her now. Not in person. It wasn’t fair to her. But he could bare his heart under the safety of a disguise. Use the confession to find some kind of closure, then shove his feelings down and walk away.

The prospect was absurd. Royally fucked up. So why wasn’t he saying no?