Page 2 of The Knockout Rule

His come-hither smile widened as she worked. “At least I can enjoy the scenery while you…shit.”

She eased up slightly. “There’s nothing pretty about watching me shit, hot shot.”

Another laugh. A bead of perspiration appeared on his temple. “That’s good. Hamstring’s tight as a motherfucker, but yeah.”

They progressed from active release therapy to exercises in Isla’s almost-finished, state-of-the-art mini gym. This physio session was preventative. Work to build-up Álvaro’s chronically strained hamstring muscles. Her favorite part of physiotherapy: strengthening the body, protecting it from the wear and tear of aggressive sports. Not infallible, but if it wasn’t enough, if a sprain or fall put a client on the injured list, she’d be there to walk them through the steps toward recovery.

She focused on her A-list client and guided Álvaro through his session. They started with “good mornings,” adding a low-weighted barbell to his upper back, followed by a series of single-leg deadlifts, then leg curls on the floor, rolling the stability ball with his feet. She owed her father a kidney for sending Álvaro her way. And for fixing her leaky faucet this week. And for buying her the gym equipment, always wanting to help, to buy, to cheer her on. The one constant in her corner.

Watching Swinging Graham Slade get his face bloodied as he’d earned his heavyweight titles had been on the devastating side of stressful growing up, but he’d also been the man who’d shown up at school band concerts and dance recitals and spelling bees, his piercing whistle overshadowing her mother’s usual no-shows.

There was no repaying her father for all he’d done.

After the session, Álvaro leaned on her reception counter, filling out his paperwork, because she’d nailed his therapy. “I’ll send you a proposed schedule,” she said. “We’ll start at the end of next month, after I open. Let me know if anything conflicts.”

“Will do. And can I pass your name to Mark Lawson? He’s looking for a change.”

The pitcher? Could this day get any freaking better? “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

If she were alone, she’d do a celebration dance and knock out embarrassing dance moves. Instead she did an internal happy dance while smiling at the polished stone and natural wood in her sleek space. A trickling fountain would be installed in a few weeks, after the painting was finished. The contemporary design pushed her budget to its limit, but she wanted the space to exude relaxing calm and a healing atmosphere.

“Well, hello there, handsome.” Heather swept into the small office, ogling Álvaro’s defined legs and cute behind. So much for a healing atmosphere.

He placed his pen down and gave Heather a flirty wink. “I can’t handle this much beauty in one place.”

Isla cringed. “Seriously?”

Álvaro gave a sheepish shrug. “Too much?”

“Heather’s the one who’s too much,” Isla said. “And you should save it for the groupies. What do they call those in baseball? Bat Bunnies?”

“I prefer Ball Handlers.”

Isla snorted. “Let’s pretend I didn’t ask. Don’t forget to do those hamstring stretches at least once a day. And have fun at your niece’s birthday bash. I want all the gory bouncy-castle details next time I see you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He bowed to Heather, who fake fainted. Laughter trailed Álvaro out the door as Heather picked herself up off the floor. “How do you work with these fine male specimens and not drool all over them?”

“My salivary glands are on hiatus while at work.”

“My salivary glands want to meet that man’s rock-hard calves and full lips in a dark alley.”

No doubt Álvaro was pretty, but Isla never crossed those professional boundaries. When she worked, she saw bones and muscles and joints, not rock-hard calves and full lips. “He probably wouldn’t mind, but keep it PG-13 in the office or I’ll have to ban you from visits.”

Heather riffled through her oversized purse and lifted out a flask and two shot glasses. “No, you won’t. If Mr. Rock-Hard Calves hired you, which I assume he did, we’re celebrating. If he didn’t, we’re commiserating.”

She grinned. “We’re celebrating.” And she could always count on Heather to bring the party with her.

The first day they’d met, both of them barista babes at the short-lived Bean and Babes—a Hooters-style shop for the coffee-addicted hipster set—Heather had handed her a note scrawled on a Just Say No to Drugs flyer:

Meet me at the Rusted Wheel for cheap liquor after our shift so we can bitch about the douche with the sweater vest who keeps hitting on you.

This message will self-destruct in sixty seconds.

Your new best friend,

Heather