Page 70 of The Knockout Rule

Eric: Now I’m nervous to see him.

She smiled at his worry. If Isla had to guess, her father wouldn’t say much to Eric about their involvement. He’d keep their training professional, keep his golden boy focused on the tasks at hand. She wanted to put Eric at ease, though. Not just for him. She was frustrated with the snail’s pace of their relationship. Nothing about their involvement had followed a typical get-to-know-you schedule. Working together twice a day, spending nights together the past week, had accelerated their emotional attachment. There was no game playing between them. No waiting to call or wondering if Eric was into her. All their chips were on the table, neither of them questioning the other’s intent, and she was starting to resent leaving his room at night.

Heart racing, she typed her message.

Isla: Will it make you less nervous if I tell you I plan to sneak into your room tonight, wearing nothing but my bathrobe?

Dots bounced to indicate a reply. They disappeared. Reappeared.

Eric: Don’t rush this if you’re not ready.

Again, always putting her first.

Isla: Not the sexy reply I was hoping for, Rick Rosner. And I’m ready. For you and everything that comes with that decision.

More dots. There, then gone.

Eric: My craving for you is ether. Seeping into me, bleeding out from me. Consuming me with insatiable hunger. Our story begins in a burst of flames. If you sneak in here, you better be sleeping over, milaya.

Hello, rapacious desire. Nice to make your knee-buckling acquaintance.

Who else but Eric would woo her with seductive poetry, his creative mind one of the many reasons this decision felt so right. And milaya. She hadn’t asked what the intimate word meant. She loved when the guttural syllables slipped past his lips and couldn’t wait to get ready for tonight: dinner with her favorite people, an intoxicating evening showing Eric she was all in. Nervous but excited, she pocketed her phone.

22

“Hands up, you fucker. You’re tripping over your fucking feet.” DeAndre danced around the ring, his pads in Eric’s face, saying fuck every chance he got. “You like being slapped on the fucking head?”

This was target practice. DeAndre moved his pads around for Eric to jab or cross or hook, being unpredictable, often swatting Eric’s head. Timing. Speed. Reflexes. “Fuck, man. Hands. The circus will be here in twenty fucking minutes. Show me some fucking hands.”

DeAndre made a “pop, pop, pop” sound as Eric’s fists connected with his moving pads. Eric blocked, ducked, sidestepped. Tried to anticipate DeAndre’s next move, while protecting himself. Breath, speed, pads, fists. The beauty of his body moving like he could predict the future.

Graham worked Eric differently than DeAndre. He focused more on the mental approach, getting Eric’s mind ready and focused. DeAndre was aggressive, relentless. The yin to Graham’s yang. Both trainers were integral and often fed off each other. This afternoon’s session had Graham on the sidelines, shouting directions: Watch DeAndre’s upper body. How are his feet planted? Is he leaning to his left or right? Where will he hit next? Think before you act.

Eric slid a look Graham’s way, wondering if he was happy about him being with Isla. Or pissed off. There was no knowing with the man. He hadn’t said a word since Eric had gotten Isla’s texts today.

DeAndre slapped Eric in the head with another, “Put your fucking hands up.”

“You’re distracted,” Graham yelled. “Get it together.”

Eric was slightly distracted. Hard not to be when Isla teased him with promises of unwrapping her beauty tonight. And Graham just stood there, not a word to Eric about dating his daughter. Eric shook his head and dug in. Train. Focus. Work hard. Win that damn match. Those were the only thoughts he should entertain.

He danced around DeAndre, went at it for another ten minutes.

“Fucker,” DeAndre mumbled as he snuck in another head slap. “And your time’s up. Let the fucking circus fly.”

On cue, a security guy at the door let waiting reporters into the training gym, their cameras up and ready. Eric was dripping, his lungs pumping hard. He held up his hands to go another round with DeAndre. The press liked him like this: grimacing, already sweating buckets, like he’d run a marathon. Anything for publicity. Even chopping wood like an asshole.

After the show and shots, Eric answered a few questions. Snarled Brick Smash and glowered at the cameras. He sucked back water, then showered. No longer reeking of sweat, he walked into the locker room, exhausted and sore, wearing nothing but a towel, only to be confronted with Graham’s hard-knocks glare. “Hurt her and you deal with me. And you better keep your focus.” He marched out.

Eric stood frozen, blinking at the empty room, his pulse back to racing. He was glad Graham had broached the topic, even if it was more of a blunt warning than a discussion. An ultimatum Eric could get behind. If he hurt Isla, he’d happily walk into Graham’s big fists. Eric hoped she wasn’t getting ahead of herself. That she was ready for the closeness that came with sex. It was her choice alone at this point. If she snuck into his room later, he wouldn’t have the strength to turn her away.

He went up to his room, relaxed a bit with a book, took Whit for a walk, then got dressed for dinner. When going on first dates, Rosa often told him to wear his gray crewneck sweater. She said it was soft to touch and fitted enough to show off his assets. Girl catnip had been her words. Since he wasn’t a style-addict like Preston, he took Rosa’s advice. The gray sweater, dark jeans. A pile of nerves about the night ahead.

He left his room and walked down the hall to Isla’s door. Took a deep breath, then knocked.

“I’ll just be a sec,” she called, giving him more time to fidget.

When she finally opened the door, he blew out a rough breath. She wore a blue-green dress, low cut. Her hair was loose with its slight wave, brushing her shoulders. Pink lips. Dark-lined eyes. Rosy cheeks and days of sex appeal.