Page 14 of Mean Machine

“Yeah, lots of work to do tomorrow.” Brooklyn stood and trotted off to the washrooms. In the mirror there, he looked tired, like he’d just run a marathon and was struggling to recover. Back when his life had still been in his own hands, this would have been a good moment to break away and take a couple days off. Fly over to the continent, see something else, do something else. Drift. Think on whatever he had to chew through.

He wasn’t giving up. He hadn’t resigned. But right now it was harder than normal to keep fighting.

Going to bed felt a lot like hiding, evading the real issues, but it gave him some respite. Time he could spend alone, at least until the other boxers began coming in and getting ready for bed.

Stu slept to his left, a new addition to his right. At the end of the hall stood a chair for the guard. Lights were never completely off, and he heard the distant rumble of the trains heading into and out of Victoria Station.

He folded his pillow under his neck and tried to relax and calm down and maybe sleep while Stu moved his bulk around until he’d found an agreeable position. Some men exchanged murmurs, but nobody spoke up.

The guard tonight was Charlie, not the worst of the lot, but he hated to be disturbed doing his sudoku, and outside were several more guards who were only too happy to “enforce discipline.” Their main qualification seemed to be extensive experience as schoolyard bullies, but Curtis was also a dyed-in-the-wool sadist. Nobody made a secret of that. Funny how the usual niceties like manners and overall courtesy evaporated or became at least optional when convicts were involved.

Maybe that had been the most disconcerting thing about Nathaniel. He’d seemed soft. Polite. As if he gave a fuck.

THIS TIMEthe crowd seemed louder. Wilder. Brooklyn did his best to ignore both noise and crowd on the way out of the ring. He was still hyped up, but at the same time tired as hell. Sore and exhausted, grinning even though he’d only won on points.

Les had told him to go easy, and Brooklyn had agreed. Technically, he’d been the better boxer, and O’Dowd had kept his face well-guarded. Winning by points was easier. He had his eyes firmly on Florian Esch, and Les wanted him to save some for the German.

He showered, dressed, had a quick check-up, and headed to the car. Yes, the crowd outside was definitely bigger. More women shouting at him. Some were screeching what he assumed were obscenities, but it was all a blur after the fight. Les and Curtis just pushed him through, and Brooklyn ducked away as fast as he could.

“You apparently have a fan,” Les said.

“Fan?”

“The same guy wants to see you again.”

Fuck. After twelve rounds, he was no longer equipped for head games. He couldn’t hope or rely on Nathaniel really only wanting to watch him sleep and eat. Somehow, it seemed more likely that the man would pounce eventually. But he paid.

“Right now?” Brooklyn clenched his fists and then threw himself into the corner of the car.

“Yep.”

“Okay.” Whatever.

It apparently meant the Diamond Royal again. Princess suite. Brooklyn went through the motions, back up to the suite. Les was just as reluctant as last time. “You don’t have to put yourself through that. Yes, your fees are increasing and more people are interested in you, but mark my words, a few more months and you’ll make much more by winning larger purses.”

“They aren’t interested in me. They want to fuck me. That’s two different things.” Brooklyn kicked off his trainers and sat down on the bed. Nice, soft, springy mattress, unlike the one he usually slept on.

“If I were cynical, I’d say that’s the price of fame.”

Brooklyn laughed. “Right. Like that means a bloody thing in my situation.”

“Brook.” Les placed a hand flat on Brooklyn’s shoulder. “I didn’t make this game. You know I’m against this.”

“What do you think when you leave? Imagine anything? Ever worried?”

“Yeah.” Les sighed. “For some of the guys, it’s a vent, a way to get out of the gym for a few hours, but you….” He shrugged eventually, as if reluctant to share another one of his way-too-close observations about Brooklyn. “I don’t understand why you’re doing that to yourself.”

He stepped back and turned, all but rushing out.

Then nothing. Silence. He lay back on the bed—feet still on the floor, his spine flattened, stretched out—enjoying the kind of muffled silence that spoke of good insulation, thick carpets, and triple glazing. Not a sound from the street below, no rolling trains rattling past. Blessed silence. If only he could become a piece of furniture. Without emotions. Without regrets. Without memories. If he could just fight all day, every day, and not crash to earth in between, it might be almost bearable.

The door opened.

Yes, it was Nathaniel. Same sharp grey suit, shirt so white it looked the faintest shade of blue. A day’s stubble made him appear more rugged than he was.

“Good evening, Brooklyn. Excellent fight.” Nathaniel opened the buttons of the jacket. “Still, I worry a little when you get driven into a corner.”

“He got a couple good ones in,” Brooklyn conceded. He rolled onto his side to be able to watch Nathaniel without craning his neck.

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