Page 42 of The Knockout Rule

Graham gathered a couple towels and slung them over his shoulder. “They are, but there’s been a change.”

The irritation in Graham’s tone had Eric sitting taller. “What kind of change?”

Graham’s jaw flexed. “Preston brought in a tire, an axe, and massive stone slabs for the show. You’ll do a circuit, flipping the tire, cutting wood with the axe, and moving the stone slabs into a stack, with speedball and double-end bag work between.”

“Stone slabs and an axe?” Did he want Eric to gnaw on a massive turkey leg as well? “That’s ridiculous and wasn’t what we discussed.” Preston must have officially lost his mind.

Graham ran his hand over his buzzed head, a slight snarl on his weathered face. Not unusual. The snarl was a permanent fixture. “He said something about a baby and you screwing up your image. Wants your training to look rough and old-school. Get into Joe Bradley’s head. I believe his exact words were: make it look like that Rocky Four training montage.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Eric hopped off the table and grabbed his phone from his gym bag. He shot off an angry text to Preston and glared at his cell until it chirped with a reply.

Preston: The baby incident is all over social media. This meme is my favorite.

A side-by-side image came through, with Eric on the left holding the baby, a content smile on his face. The image on the right was of a vicious-looking Joe Bradley, his fist connecting with a man’s face. The caption read: Who would you bet on?

Eric fisted his hand and breathed deep to keep from crushing his phone. Holding a baby wasn’t a crime. What fighters did in their down time shouldn’t impact a fight. They were tested in the ring, not on social media.

Preston didn’t send anything else. He’d made his point. This absurd televised training was his team doing damage control. “Social media is evil,” Eric mumbled.

A new text came in while he gritted his teeth.

Rosa: Call Mom and tell her to stop trying to cook with her broken wrist. She won’t listen to me.

Their mother didn’t listen to anyone, and frustration knotted tighter in his temples.

Graham patted Eric’s shoulder. “The circus sucks, kid. I know. But you gotta play the game. Growl for the cameras. Be the big, strong brute your fans want. Then we buckle down and keep your head focused. You’re fighting for yourself, not them.”

Eric wasn’t fighting for himself. He was fighting for his family, and he needed to remember that. More televised humiliation was nothing compared to the tough hours his mother put in on the factory line, when her wrist wasn’t broken. Rosa’s daily burdens put his stress to shame. “We’re training after, though?” he asked Graham. “Without the media?”

A loud bang came through the door to the training room. A stone slab landing? Graham sucked his teeth. “I’m bringing Sanchez in for sparring. He’s fast on his feet, like Joe. We’ll work on matching his speed and mobility. Try to stay ahead of him, and don’t let him work you into the corner.”

Eric nodded. Time with Sanchez would help sweat off any lingering irritation from chopping wood.

Graham collected Eric’s boxing gloves, moved some stacked towels to the left, then back to the right. “How’s the Achilles?” he asked, something different in his voice. Hesitation? “Did today’s treatment go okay?”

This locker room, like the private gym where Eric worked out, had been built to attract athletes and the publicity that followed them. The attached training area, complete with boxing ring and necessary equipment, had been tossed together for this fight. The equipment was modern, the space comfortable enough for their needs, but the gray walls in the locker room were bare, the general vibe antiseptic. Graham was studying the stark room like it was a rare archeological site.

“I didn’t work with Isla today,” Eric said. “Went for a run and swim instead.” Followed by a lunch of three chicken patties and a load of roasted vegetables. Enough to fuel him for the afternoon. One mention of Isla, and his gut gnawed at him like he hadn’t eaten at all.

Graham quit pretending to stay busy. He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at Eric. “You haven’t seen her today?”

“Well, yeah. I saw her this morning. At breakfast.”

“And she canceled the physio? Is she not feeling well?”

She’d seemed fine health-wise, both last night and this morning. He wasn’t sure why Graham was grilling him when the man could just call his daughter, but he remembered how sad and lost she’d looked standing in the hallway, not far from her father’s door. He’d assumed a date had upset her. She’d been dressed as though she’d gone out. Maybe the source of her turmoil was standing in front of Eric.

“I actually canceled the sessions. Needed a different outlet this morning.” A breather from a woman who wasn’t interested in him. Still, his curiosity persisted. “She has been off, though. Did you see her last night?”

Instead of getting defensive, Graham scratched his nose and resumed busying himself. “We had dinner. Great meal at the Japanese place in the hotel, but she seemed tired afterward. Just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

DeAndre poked his head in the door, glancing between Eric and Graham. “You fuckers ready yet?” Eric’s assistant coach had a chipped front tooth, crooked nose, and seriously foul mouth, but the man was killer with pad work and strategy.

“Be right there,” Eric said, wanting to finish this conversation with Graham. Figure out why the man was clearly lying about Isla. Something had gone down between them last night. Whatever the conflict, it was bad enough that Isla had all but sobbed in Eric’s arms. Before he could push for answers, Graham spun around and walked out the door. Probably for the best.

Their family drama wasn’t Eric’s business. He needed to focus on what mattered: getting through this farce of a spectacle so he could get down to the real business of training. Winning that thirty-million-dollar pot. Stop letting his mind wander to useless things like wishing he was at home cooking for his mother. He’d work his body hard enough that he’d crash the second he got to his room, not leaving himself time to think about his family, or about Preston going out with Isla tonight. Preston holding her hand. Preston using Eric’s words to pursue her.

Maybe chopping wood wouldn’t be so bad.