Page 10 of The Knockout Rule

“Tread lightly,” Eric said, slightly envious of having a dating prospect. The void of not having someone in his life, a woman to love and spoil, frustrated him at times. None of it was possible with his insane schedule. Now more than ever. “And I’m not one hundred percent sold on her as my physio. If she’s not strong enough, I’ll have words with Slade.”

“If you’re unhappy, I’ll have words with Slade. For now we’re on the yellow ‘Brick’ road. Nothing but gold paving ahead of you, man. So let’s board my very exclusive, very posh jet. They should be here shortly.”

Eric grunted, irritated again at being called Brick. A knucklehead image he was stuck with if he wanted this title.

He knelt and gave Whit a rub. “What say you, Walt Whitman? You okay with a new woman working on me?”

Whit gave a slobbery snort of happiness. Eric grudgingly agreed. He owed Graham Slade a lot. That man was a big part of why he’d recovered as quickly and efficiently as he had. Eric would oblige his wishes, as long as his daughter was a good physiotherapist and didn’t add more stress to their training. He also hoped Preston didn’t make things awkward by asking her out.

4

Isla hadn’t been on a private jet in years. Not since her father’s heyday, when managers and promoters had showered him with riches. Penthouse suites. Expensive champagne. Steaks the size of California. When Swinging Graham Slade had been golden, the world had been his oyster. When his shine had dulled, he’d become an in-debt trainer, unwilling to part with his material possessions. Unless he was helping his entrepreneurial daughter, apparently.

“Told you the ride was sweet,” her father said, his appreciative gaze on the private jet.

“Told you I don’t care.”

The second their driver left to carry their bags to the plane, she swiveled in the back of the car and studied her father’s stony profile. “Have you talked to your doctor about zantamide? If your symptoms worsen, an article said taking it with sefadopa can help decrease or eliminate symptoms for longer periods.”

Jaw clenched, he faced her. “No medicine talk, Isla. No talk about symptoms or treatments. Don’t even ask me how I’m feeling. I’ve been dealing with this for two years on my own and have been doing fine. We can talk about stuff after the fight when we’re home. Until then, not a word.” He reached for the door but turned back. “You’re a hurricane. So strong and determined. When you want something, nothing gets in your way. Makes me proud to be your father, but now’s not the time.”

He pushed out of the car, and she fought the angry retort on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to call after him, give him a piece of her mind for keeping her in the dark so long, forcing her acquiescence now. She wanted to scream at Brick and Preston and the entire world of boxing. Those people didn’t give a damn about her father. If they learned he was sick, he’d be tossed to the curb like yesterday’s garbage. And here she was, about to make nice with the enemy, all because her father couldn’t let himself rest.

She breathed deep and remembered one of her favorite Ramona Estle quotes:

“be a snowflake

my mother whispered

my father, stern

be a blizzard”

Isla was okay being a blizzard made up of millions of quiet snowflakes. It meant she had the power to affect her stubborn-ass father. Control she’d wield after the fight. For now, she’d suffer through this job, put her hurricane and blizzard tendencies on lockdown, and do excellent physiotherapy work.

Body stiff with agitation, she left the car and marched toward the plane. The stewardess greeted her with a wide smile. Isla forced a half-hearted nod. The luxurious black-and-white interior had seating for eight, with plush armchairs arranged in isolated groups of twos that faced each other. Her father was talking with Preston in the grouping closest to the front, the big men sprawled in their seats. Brick was probably in the back, behind the dividing curtain: the king of this castle.

She wanted to plop down in one of the seats, close her eyes and pretend she was flying to some Caribbean vacation, but there was no point delaying the inevitable. She’d use the flight to have Brick fill out forms, answer her introductory questions. Being a good physiotherapist meant being a detective of sorts, figuring out which treatments would serve her clients best. The familiar work would calm her irritation.

Briefcase satchel hung over her shoulder, she passed her father’s seat and aimed for the curtain, but Preston stood and maneuvered in her way. “We’ve never officially met. I’m Preston, Brick’s manager.”

Her strained smile felt plastic. “I know who you are.”

He didn’t move. She tried to relax, but her body felt brittle.

“Your father talks about you all the time. We’re thrilled to have you on our team.” His gaze dipped down to her T-shirt and jeans. She hadn’t dressed nice for the flight. No point when she wasn’t there to impress. Preston’s nostrils still gave a slight flare. “I’m hoping we can spend some time together. Maybe grab a drink in Vegas.”

Preston was attractive. The type of handsome that graced a Fashion Week runway: hair perfectly coiffed, thick eyelashes, brown eyes with a hint of gold, and an aquiline nose suited to a Roman statue. Good looking or not, his timing couldn’t be worse. “I’ll be busy in Vegas.”

Instead of backing off, Preston’s grin grew. “Then it’s a good thing we have the next few hours together. We can sit and chat.”

It was an innocent suggestion, but there was a predatory gleam in Preston’s eyes. Today of all days, she’d rather eject herself from the plane than flirt with a boxing manager. “Are you actually hitting on me in front of my father, who happens to be the former heavyweight champ of the world?” She turned to share a laugh with her father over this idiocy, nip this flirty situation in the bud.

Her father shrugged. “You were talking about internet dating. It’s not safe, and Preston is good people.”

Seriously? Not only was he forcing her to live and breathe boxing again, now he was setting her up with a man cemented in the industry?

“We will be having words,” she told her father, then turned to Preston, attempting to control her temper. “You may be the nicest guy on the planet, but I’m not in the mood. If you insist on flirting with me, I’d suggest you keep a parachute close.”