Page 107 of Mean Machine

“You’re the five-to-two favourite to win.” Joseph didn’t add the last bit, but Brooklyn could still hear it: so we recovered pretty well from that stare down.

Then the first few chords of Judas Priest’s “Flame Thrower” rang out in the hall, and Joseph slapped him on the shoulder. Brooklyn began moving without thinking and the doors opened before him, spitting him out from the bright waiting area into the darkened hall with its flashing lights. Seemingly everybody was jumping off their chairs, cheering him on.

Along with the faster beat of the song, Brooklyn more jogged than walked, though it was a slow, bouncy jog that gave people the time to enjoy the build-up. And yet, as usual, he was terrified and could only hope people would take his attempts to control himself as focused calm, because his heart was hammering.

What the hell am I doing here?

But it was also hypnotic, this ritual, with so many people eagerly awaiting the blood, sweat, and tears they’d duly paid for. They might care about the sport, might cheer one over the other, assign hero and villain roles, but ultimately, they’d paid for two men to face each other in a place neither could escape from, and to see that drama play out yet again.

Joseph helped him into the ring, his crew gathered in his corner, and Brooklyn faced Rose again, this time with the ref between them to remind them of the rules.

And it all came crashing down. Brooklyn had faced Rose in the ring, but only in training, and this was nothing like sparring, this was the real deal, and looking at Rose there, looking nothing less than an ideal of a boxer, with his solid courage, unflinching physicality, and knowing what he could do—that he could school anybody in the angles, movement, techniques, and sheer strength it took to break down another man his size—Brooklyn would have given everything to be able to turn around and walk away. And then?

We only love winners. We are all about winning.

Thorne had been wrong. It certainly wasn’t just Americans. He’d felt the same in other audiences in Germany and in England. The crowd loved the comeback, it loved seeing a winner triumph, and it quickly forgot a loser and derided him as a coward or fall guy. Odysseus, regardless of his proud record, was now mostly the guy who’d been beaten and killed. Thorne was playing up the tragedy of a semifake injury to escape that judgement.

Brooklyn tried a half-hearted smile at Rose as they tapped gloves, then stepped back when the bell rang. The movements were those of sparring, the consideration of speed, angle, strategy, the careful study of his opponent to gauge what he was planning, thinking, attempting to do—but this was altogether too real.

Ten million for the loser, twice that for the winner, and the third fight in his big contract, plus four belts. But not for a second could Brooklyn forget that this man was one of his very few friends, and he’d seen that chiselled physique fully naked and displayed for his benefit. Knew what Rose felt like underneath him, and how his eyes flashed when he cracked a joke.

Joseph would tell him that Rose had got into his head with the sex, had all but destroyed Brooklyn’s ability to fight him, but the truth was, Rose had done that the moment he’d shown Brooklyn that he cared about him.

The first round began carefully, slow, as they worked out their distance, tested each other’s space, and they barely traded more than a few jabs. About a minute in, Rose lashed out with a combination to Brooklyn’s body, and each punch was precise and crisp, almost cold and a shock to the system. “Steel Rose” indeed.

Seeing those punches on screen was very different from having to take them. Brooklyn responded with some of his best punches, because he couldn’t be seen to just absorb the hits without giving anything back, but punching Rose was a sickening feeling. None of the satisfaction of landing a well-timed blow and seeing it shake the opponent’s foundations, watching carefully for that telltale sagging in the legs that often announced that they were going, and with them, most of a boxer’s strength.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to fight, landing some good punches and taking more of Rose’s responses.

Neither of them was going for the other’s head. Brooklyn only realised that when the bell rang. Rose hadn’t so much as aimed for his face—and that was the very first time that Rose had done that. He was quite happy to hit whatever part of his opponent he could reach, could work his way around defences whether he faced an orthodox fighter or a southpaw, but Rose had only used body blows.

Brooklyn went back to the stool, and Joseph took out his gumshield and handed it to another crewmember while somebody else squirted some water in Brooklyn’s mouth. He spit it into the bucket.

“What the fuck was that, Brook?”

“Yeah, I know.” Brooklyn was grateful for the cool towel patting off his sweat. “I have to hurt him.”

“Do you have any problem with that?”

Brooklyn stared up into the eyes of his coach. “No.”

Joseph opened his mouth to say something, probably call him a liar, but wisely swallowed whatever he was going to say. He seemed more worried than angry, and Brooklyn understood that. This was unlike him. Everything about this felt wrong—it seemed none of his training, none of his experience, none of his strength and knowledge counted worth a damn, because he didn’t fit here, didn’t belong, didn’t viscerally want to be here, or anywhere near here.

He still accepted his gumshield, jumped off the stool, and started the second round with a full-blown attack, as if to prove to himself, Joseph, and the audience that he wasn’t cowed and hadn’t lost his bite.

Rose grinned around his gumshield and ducked and weaved to evade most of the blows, which missed him sometimes by just a fraction of an inch. The man’s self-possession and control were out of this world—and the bigger strategy became visible. Brooklyn was supposed to punch himself tired, and Rose would deliver the coup de grâce when Brooklyn had gassed out. But twelve rounds of this with a very uncertain outcome would be torture for both of them.

Brooklyn managed to land a couple solid blows against Rose’s chest, and by a hair’s breadth dodged a counterpunch that seemed more a reflex than a planned attack. Brooklyn felt it go past and lashed out again, trying to force Rose to step up and join him in this war of attrition.

The second round left them both sweating and breathing hard, with neither giving quarter unless to change the angle of attack. If they kept this intensity up, one of them would begin making mistakes and the fight would be over faster. And that was really the best course of action for both of them.

Back on the stool, Joseph didn’t seem happy, but at least happier than he’d been. “Are you all right? Hurt? Anything else fucking with your head?”

“No.” Brooklyn swallowed some water. “It’s not about you, Coach. This is on me.”

Joseph wiped his face and chest, shaking his head. “He looks good, but you have the same quality. Don’t take the bait, keep the pressure on. You can take him.”

“I know, Coach.” Brooklyn again accepted the gumshield and returned to the middle of the ring. Rose faced him, pretty much unfazed, his focus on Brooklyn razor-sharp and no anger, no pain in his eyes. Rose looked at him like a puzzle he needed to solve and stayed focused on the job.

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