Page 93 of The Knockout Rule

“Oh, honey.” Heather wrapped her arms around Isla. Her friend gave the best hugs. Well, second best. The Baby Whisperer had a black belt in hugging.

Heather rubbed her back. “I hate seeing you like this.”

She hated being like this.

Isla’s phone buzzed. She gave Heather a good squeeze, then found her cell by the sink. She frowned at the message.

Dad: Turn the TV on to channel 9.

Isla looked at Heather. “What station is channel 9?”

Heather shrugged. “News, I think?”

“My dad said to turn it on.”

Curious, Isla returned to her living room and retrieved the remote from the crack beside her ass-groove. The TV blared to life, set to her usual Food Network station. An awesome distraction when sad and mopey.

“Maybe he did another infomercial,” Heather said. “A thigh master for men.”

“He better not have.” Isla still shuddered when she thought of the toilet plunger infomercial he’d done when short on cash. During that delightful E-Z Plunger ad, they’d had him use a regular plunger in one scene on a clogged toilet, only for raw sewage to overflow and flood around his feet.

Isla found the channel and a reporter filled the screen. It was a news station, as Heather had assumed. The brunette was talking about a dog that had saved his sick owner by breaking out of the house and getting help. The story reminded her of Whit, the ugliest, best dog she’d ever known, and she sighed. This sad sack routine was getting tiresome. More wine might help. It would mellow her mood and eradicate the Goldschläger taste in her mouth.

She reached for her glass from the coffee table, but the reporter said something about Parkinson’s. Glass of wine forgotten, Isla swiveled toward the screen.

“Most of us know Brick Kramarov as the recent contender for the heavyweight belt,” the reporter said. “Today, he’s here to talk about something near and dear to his heart and make an exclusive announcement for our viewers. Brick, tell us about your Parkinson’s initiative.”

Announcement? Parkinson’s initiative?

Isla and Heather shared a quizzical look.

None of those words made sense, not with Eric at the center of the hubbub. But his handsome face filled the screen and Isla couldn’t help herself. She moved, like a lovesick zombie, walking toward his back-lit face until she was kneeling on her area rug, a foot from her TV. She tried to absorb every gorgeous inch of him: the blond hair that was a bit longer, those slate-gray eyes, sharp cheekbones, strong nose, full lips that could undo her in seconds. God, she still loved him so much.

“I prefer to go by my real name,” he told the reporter. “There’s no point being Brick Smash when I’m retiring from boxing.”

Isla leaned forward, like the shorter distance would explain the shocking comment coming from Eric’s mouth. She whipped around and searched Heather’s smiling face. “Did you know about this?”

“I’m as surprised as you.”

Isla’s father wouldn’t be surprised, though. He’d texted because he’d known this was airing, which meant he’d been in cahoots with Eric, and Eric must know about her dad’s Parkinson’s. The reporter was asking Eric more questions, details about the retirement and what had prompted the decision. Isla focused on the screen, tried to understand how and when this all had happened.

Eric stared at the camera, his chin ticked up. “Boxing’s been good to me. It allowed me to support the people I love, but I have other aspirations in life, other avenues I want to pursue. I’ve also recently learned some upsetting news that helped me see my path more clearly.”

“Can you share that news with us, Eric?”

His strong jaw tightened briefly. “My long-time trainer, Graham Slade, has Parkinson’s. It was devastating learning about his illness, for many reasons. It was also a wake-up call for me.”

“Because you saw how dangerous a sport like boxing can be?”

He shook his head. “We all know the dangers. Boxers walk into the ring with clear eyes. Graham will tell you himself, he wouldn’t do anything differently in his life. Boxing will always be a tough, dangerous sport. It’s part of the draw and excitement, for most fighters and for the fans. But his admission reminded me that we need to live our best lives while we can, whether it’s facing fists in the ring or walking away from those golden handcuffs.”

“What does this mean for you going forward?”

“Well.” He shifted on his seat, seeming nervous now, the first sign of uncertainty Isla had noticed, and she felt nervous, too.

If Eric was retiring, everything could change for them. The likelihood of him getting sick like her dad would diminish greatly by quitting now, not sixteen years from now. She wouldn’t have to continue pretending she didn’t still love him desperately. But that was a big if. This could be a repeat of her father, retiring one minute, returning to boxing the next. And he might not even miss Isla the way she missed him. He hadn’t reached out to her about this massive change in his life.

Eric cleared his throat. “It means several things. First, I’m leaving boxing to focus on my language studies. I plan to become a Russian interpreter, so I can help people struggling to communicate. While I’m studying, I’ll be working as an assistant coach under Graham Slade for the talented Nikki Castle, a powerhouse who will turn women’s boxing on its head. Second, Graham Slade and I are holding a benefit to raise money for Parkinson’s research. In particular, we’re partnering with Weston Aldrich of Aldrich Pharma to fund a treatment that has shown potential. And third…” He trailed off, closing his eyes briefly as he dropped his gaze. He definitely seemed nervous.