Page 83 of The Knockout Rule

“say it

yell it

whisper it

sing it

scream it

whatever you do

set

it

free”

“I have panic attacks,” she told her father.

He cut a look at her. “What?”

“I have panic attacks. Awful moments where it feels like I’m suffocating and can’t breathe. Like I’m dying and can’t do anything to stop it.”

“Isla…” He frowned and his bandage wrinkled. “I don’t understand. You’ve never said a thing. When did they start?”

She breathed deep, regretting it when she got a nostril full of the pine tree air freshener hanging from the driver’s rearview mirror. “When I was a teenager.”

“A teenager?” The words were loud, angry. Kind of reminded Isla of how she’d reacted when she learned her father had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s for two freaking years before he told her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

“I didn’t tell anyone. I thought the attacks revolved around boxing—how scary it was for me back then, seeing you hurt, worrying you’d never get up from the mat. But the mind is more complicated than that. I mean, the violence of the sport was part of it, fear of losing you. But it was Mom leaving, too. Unresolved hurt over her loss from my life, dealing with her resentment of me.”

He took her hand. A thin line of red seeped through the bandage on his forehead. “You should have told me.”

Pot, meet kettle. Pride was a pitiful thing. “I should’ve, but I didn’t. I actually didn’t say anything to anyone until a few weeks ago. But I’ve been talking a lot lately, to Heather and Eric and a new therapist, and what’s become startlingly clear is that my biggest roadblock to getting better has been that I’m too much like you.”

He reared back. “I don’t suffer from panic attacks.”

“No, but you’re bullheaded and obstinate, and you think you can handle your illness on your own. You don’t want to burden others, and you think asking for help is weakness.” She was talking about herself as much as him. Her throat burned as her voice quieted. “You’re embarrassed for people to see you as anything but strong.”

“Isla, I…” He rubbed his hands on his thighs. A louder wheeze escaped his broken nose. “You’re not weak, Princess. You’re a hurricane.”

“A hurricane with mental health issues. You’re a heavyweight champ with Parkinson’s, and I can’t keep pretending I’m not worried about you.” A tear snuck out. She didn’t bother wiping it off. “After Eric’s fight, you need to stop pushing me away. I can’t live like this, Dad. I can’t live with you fighting this on your own. I need you to lean on me, so I can be there for you. I want us to fight this thing together.”

Tears shimmered in his eyes. “I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

“Because you’re a stubborn fool, like your daughter. And”—she swallowed hard, remembering all the times he’d ignored his doctor’s advice, returning to training and fights when he should’ve been resting—“maybe consider telling the press about your illness. Use your story to make a stand, force the World Boxing Association to make changes for better player safety.”

He shut his eyes, looking more tired than she’d seen him in ages. “That’s your fight, Princess. Your views, not mine. I’m not using my illness to drag boxing down. I love the sport. I have no regrets there. But being honest with you, letting you in?” He tugged her into his side, kissed the top of her head. “I’ll try and change. We’ll help each other, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” The best promise she could ask for. And she had to respect his stance on going public and attacking boxing. Their views on the sport would never align.

The taxi bumped over a pothole. He kissed her head again. “Eric—he’s been good to you? Not making the anxiety worse?”

Eric hadn’t been awesome this week, but his recent behavior was Brick Smash behavior, not Eric Kramarovsky behavior. Soon the former wouldn’t exist. “He’s been amazing.”

Her father pulled back, looked her in the eye. “Even with my illness, seeing me like this, you’re still willing to date a boxer?”

It was the same question he’d asked when he learned about her and Eric, but there was more heartache in his words this time. More sadness. Tomorrow, after the big fight, he’d learn Eric was quitting. Unlike Swinging Graham Slade, Eric was choosing himself over the sport. Tomorrow, her father would know.