Page 63 of The Knockout Rule

“She’s not you.”

Tears shimmered in her brown eyes. “How do I do this?”

The question seemed rhetorical, directed more to herself than to him, but he wouldn’t let its intention slip away. Not when he was so close to what he wanted.

Along with the stirrings of hope, his frustrations from the past weeks returned—the constant training and fighting and acting like a Neanderthal—when what he truly wanted was to study, maybe turn language into a real job. Could he do that? Walk away from this grind and unlock the secrets of language for others? Not right away, but after winning this fight maybe. The payout was huge. Maybe then he could start putting himself first.

He focused on Isla, her moon-rise eyes and cherry-blossom lips, her breathtaking beauty not nearly as enticing as her inquisitive mind. He soaked in this special woman and said, “I’ll quit boxing.”

An insane promise.

A future he’d never let himself contemplate.

With those words came a rush of utter relief.

* * *

If there wasn’t a table at Isla’s back, she’d have stumbled. Fallen ungracefully on her ass.

“You’ll what?” She must have misheard Eric. Kept replaying his shocking words: I’ll quit boxing.

He ticked up his strong chin. “After I win this match, I’ll quit. You won’t have to worry about dealing with the training and the fights. I’ll just be a man, putting the woman he cares about first.”

All the years she’d begged her father to quit boxing, he’d never entertained the idea. His first retirement had only happened because his vision had gone blurry.

After a particularly vicious match, the doctor had prescribed him steroids and told him to avoid punches. She’d been sixteen and thrilled for the reprieve, having convinced herself he was done boxing for good. Stupid sixteen-year-old naiveté. She’d doted on him and made his favorite salami sandwiches and talked about the fun things they’d do now that he didn’t box: long drives in his fancy cars, a trip to New Orleans to see a fun magic act—The Marvelous Marlow Boys. He’d nodded along with her grand ideas, never promising anything, never explaining the retirement was temporary.

In her heart of hearts she’d known his intent. The knowledge hadn’t stopped her from crumbling when he’d stood in front of her, his thick thumb gliding over his fisted knuckles, his square jaw pulsing as he’d avoided her eyes and broke the news: he was returning to the ring.

Now Eric stood before her, this brilliant, compassionate, incredibly strong man, offering her the one thing her father never had. “You’ll quit boxing for me?”

“No.” He massaged the back of his neck. “Not for you. I’m tired of the show and hiding who I am. I’m tired of squeezing studying in, instead of giving it my focus. I want to make a career out of it, maybe. Broaden my studies. Teach people languages or be a Russian translator and help people the way I helped immigrants when I was young. Honestly, I’ve barely thought it through, and it may feel sudden, but it isn’t. This lifestyle’s been eating at me for a while, making the Brick Smash image harder to stomach. But with this win, everything will change. I’ll have enough money to support my family without worrying one hospital visit will set us back. I’ll be home enough to be there for them when they need me. And…” He stepped closer, one small move, bridging the gap between them. “I can be with you.”

Yes, she wanted to shout. Yes, let’s do this. I want to try. But the brain was a complicated organ, and she’d barely begun to deal with her issues. Plus, there was a massive hole in his thoughtful, ridiculously perfect, too-good-to-be-true plan. “What if you lose the match?”

“I won’t.”

“You could.”

He broke eye contact and paced, then stopped and faced her. “I will win. I’m hungrier and need it more. If I lose, I’ll figure something out. It’s time I make changes in my life.”

Just like that. The man she wanted would change his life. For himself mainly. For her a little, the romantic gesture not lost on her. Either way, he was proving he wasn’t a stubborn fool like her father. Swinging Graham Slade hadn’t retired until forty-three. Old for a boxer. Eric was twenty-seven. If he retired after this match, that would be sixteen fewer years of punches to his head. Less likelihood of him developing a disease like Parkinson’s. Not that anyone could guarantee a long, healthy life. But his choice to leave boxing would help his odds.

“I’m still scared,” she said.

Another step closer. “I know. But I’m not going anywhere. We’ll take this slow.”

She gripped the treatment table at her back. “Like, really slow.” Injured-turtles-walking-up-a-sand-dune slow. “And we can’t be public about it until I stop treating you. I can’t be seen dating a patient.”

He took another step, then another. “So slow, milaya. And I’m fine keeping this quiet as long as needed.” He stopped right in front of her, a tower of a man, gazing down at her with so much desire her stomach clenched. He threaded his fingers through hers, lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles. Soft lips, a hint of rough stubble.

She practically melted. “I told Heather this morning about the panic attacks.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’ll try therapy again, look for a therapist I connect better with, which means I really can’t rush this.”

He released her hand and ran the tips of his fingers through her hair. The slight drag of his nails on her scalp sent shivers down her spine. “Take whatever time you need,” he said, low and rough. “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t push you for more than you can give until you’re ready, but I don’t want you pushing me away either. I’m done hiding how I feel.”