Page 78 of The Knockout Rule

She tilted her head up, her expression bright with interest. “What did that mean?”

He wasn’t sure he’d get the translation perfect, but he gave it a shot. “It’s Latin. It means I know that I know nothing.”

She scrunched her nose. “I don’t follow.”

He took the soap from her, turned her around to wash her back, map her body in the brightness of the shower this time, every curve and crease lit for him to see. “With you, the rules I know about my life are out the window. My expectations for myself are changing. I’m seeing possibilities where they never existed before. Like someone told me a knocked-out opponent has the right to stand again. Regain his pride. Find his footing and fight back.”

Steam filled the stall. The water pelted them both.

She rested the back of her head on his chest. “Am I the referee in this new knockout rule of yours?”

“No. You are the knockout rule. You’re the loophole that allows me to get back up and fight, for myself this time.”

She turned and wove her slippery arms around his neck. “You said you weren’t quitting boxing for me.”

“I love you, Isla. Really fucking love you, but I’m quitting for me. I just needed someone to believe in me before I could believe in myself. When I win this match, I’ll be celebrating my freedom as much as my victory.”

He’d been hungry before, intent on the money that came with beating Joe Bradley. The win was doubly important now. That cash would pave the way for a future he hadn’t been brave enough to imagine on his own.

Isla traced patterns on his neck and ear. “You’ve done that for me, too. Gave me a reason to challenge the rules I set for myself.”

Because they made each other better. “We’ll celebrate tonight, a private party in my room. Toast to our own knockout rule. The chance to get back up and fight to be better.”

She tipped her head back and laughed. He hadn’t said anything funny. No stupid jokes this time. The move seemed to be pure happiness, and he’d been the one to put that smile on her face. A flood of contentment filled him, along with another shot of determination. Nothing and no one would stop him from getting this win.

25

Eric loved studying grammar. Where most people’s eyes glazed over when they learned how many rules were woven into basic conversation, he got off on the intricacies of communication. How the smallest change in structure altered meaning.

He sat on his couch this morning, focused on Latin’s past tense: the imperfect, the perfect, the pluperfect. Variations of each, translating sentences, checking his answers, getting some wrong, but getting most right, mainly thanks to Isla. She’d walked Whit every morning the past two weeks, giving Eric time to study. She’d also warmed his bed and body every night. She was his reward at the end of each grueling day. Just knowing they’d be having dinner together, making love, cuddling and talking poetry under the sheets, made his intensive training more bearable.

His studies were further along than he’d have expected, but this morning was his last session. His match was in a week. The only thing on his mind for the next seven days would be boxing and more boxing. Which meant he had to have a potentially uncomfortable conversation with Isla.

Twenty minutes later, his favorite person and animal walked in.

Isla unhooked Whit’s leash and gave him a vigorous rub. “We almost got arrested. Didn’t we, Walt Whitman?”

Whit squirmed and snorted under her attention, then he trotted to Eric, stubby tail flailing, like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

Eric put down his pen and scratched Whit behind his ears. “Did Isla try to sell you on the dog black market again?”

Isla huffed. “Apparently it’s illegal to feed pigeons in Vegas.”

He gave Whit one last pat, then focused on Isla. His girlfriend. A sentiment that still winded him. Who’d have thought this match would have led him here. “Where were you feeding pigeons?”

“We weren’t feeding them. Some other criminal mastermind scattered the breadcrumbs,” she said, gesturing animatedly. “But Whit liked watching the birds, so we stopped and observed the pecking action. Until a rent-a-cop decided we were inciting a pigeon riot.”

Only in Vegas. “How’d you escape with your life?”

“I used your name.”

“It was that serious, was it?”

“I wasn’t about to spend the next six months in lockup for a crime I didn’t commit. And your name has clout. The cop was a fan. I also saw my father on my way back to your room. He’s perfected his evil-eye routine.”

Graham had been glaring extra hard lately. Especially at the hickey Isla had left on Eric’s neck last week. “I like that he’s protective of you.”

“That makes one of us.”