Page 96 of The Knockout Rule
The small space was neat like it had been professionally cleaned, with food and sports magazines stacked evenly on her coffee table. A red shelf held textbooks and novels and pictures of her with her father, some seashells and rocks and other odds and ends. Eric hadn’t imagined her as a rock and shell collector. He pictured them scouring a beach, searching the sand, kissing in the hot sun while waves lapped at their toes. A fantasy that would become reality one day.
A black-and-white shot of her father was framed on the wall. He remembered that magazine layout, a full spread of Swinging Graham Slade. Most photographs had shown him in the ring, his fist connecting with faces, spittle flying. Action shots. This one, though. It was special. His usual sneer filled the frame. Every scar and wrinkle and gnarly surface of his skin was visible. Shadow and light played across him, like a shot of the moon’s textured surface. It was the photograph of a man who’d endured.
“If you want alone time with my apartment, I can leave for a bit.”
Smiling, he strutted toward Isla, picked her up into his arms, bringing her to sit on the couch with him. He tugged her onto his lap. “You’re not going anywhere. I need you to watch the end of my interview.” He needed to see her face when she watched his best surprise.
She snuggled into him, kissed his neck, ran her fingers through his hair. “I’ll watch whatever you want as long as you don’t let go of me.”
His body stirred and he held her closer. “No chance of that. I love you, milaya. Never stopped.” Never would.
“What does milaya mean?”
“It’s a Russian endearment that means darling.” The word didn’t begin to describe how he felt about Isla Slade. But her face transformed, softening into that look he’d missed like crazy. The one that said: you’re fantastic.
“I like that,” she said quietly. “Being your darling.”
He fucking loved it and kissed her deeply because he could. “Just so you know, I didn’t mention your name in the interview. It’ll no doubt come out later, but I made sure the interviewer thought we got together after the fight.”
The last thing he wanted was to hurt her or her business ever again.
She planted another kiss on his chest. “Thank you. And I bet the publicity will be good. Maybe I’ll even be strong enough to take on boxing clients in the future.”
He’d support her in whatever she chose. Holding her closer, he found the remote, rewound slightly, and pressed play, listening as he finished explaining his third reason for quitting boxing.
“…lost her in the process of getting here, and I desperately want her back.”
Eric was used to seeing himself on TV, but not like this. His voice cracked at the end of his confession. He could see the tears in his eyes, remembered how scratchy his throat had felt when admitting how much he’d missed Isla. He looked like a lovesick sap, not a Neanderthal brute, and he’d never been prouder.
Isla tucked tighter into his body.
“I’m not sure there’s a dry eye in Chicago,” the reporter said, blinking rapidly. “And we at the station adore a good love story. So if your lost love is watching now, what would you say to her?”
“Although I study language, I’m not a poet. I can’t put into words how loving and missing someone this deeply feels, so I asked an expert to help me out.”
A split screen appeared, with Eric on one side and a young woman on the other side. She had long dark hair, wore thick-framed glasses, and was dressed in a masculine-cut suit.
Isla gasped. “That’s Ramona Estle.”
Eric laughed. “It is.”
“Ramona Estle’s on the screen. Next to you.” She twisted on his lap and gripped his shirt. “You met Ramona Estle.”
He laughed harder, kissed her adorable mouth. “Turn around or you’ll miss the poem she wrote for us.”
“Ramona Estle,” she repeated, bouncing excitedly, then turned and glued her eyes to the TV screen.
“When Eric told me the woman he loved was a fan of my work,” Ramona said, “I offered to write something special. A snapshot of love and pain, two opposing emotions that often coincide. I titled it: Forgiveness.”
She lifted a single page and read.
“tears land on the page
bleed the ink
anger, they say
sadness, they accuse
