Page 41 of Mean Machine

“Probably too close and not nearly close enough.”

Brooklyn grabbed his shirt and pulled him into a kiss, which startled Nathaniel. God, that was awfully cute of him. Concentration and all that. If he did sit close, he’d be able to hear the punches. “I’ll try not to splatter his blood on your nice white shirt, then.”

Nathaniel straightened again and touched Brooklyn’s face. “You’re much more courageous than I am.”

Brooklyn snorted. “He’s just one man.”

Nathaniel’s smile turned wistful. “I wanted to be here to tell you something.” His eyes were ever so slightly widened, like in stress or fear, or disbelief. “And now I can’t get it out.” He made a sound somewhere between a cough and an aborted chuckle. “And I maybe shouldn’t, because of your focus. I really don’t want you distracted in the ring because of me.”

“You’re overthinking this.”

“I love you.”

Brooklyn stared. His first impulse was to say, “Yes, I love you too,” but shit, he’d not said anything like that for more than three years. Never as a convict. “Good job,” he muttered, and then grabbed Nathaniel when he tried to pull away. “I mean, what else will I think of in the ring now?”

I love you.

God. What to do with this?

“I thought it finally needed saying.” Defensive. Hurt showing in Nathaniel’s eyes.

Shit.Shit.What to say? Those words would make him more vulnerable. Would place him in Nathaniel’s hands. The truth was, while he couldn’t even pick his own fights, couldn’t sign contracts, and was really only half a man before the law, he couldn’t strip himself of the rest of his armour. Not when he needed every ounce of it in the imminent fight.

Brooklyn took Nathaniel’s face in both his hands, forced him to make eye contact. “I can’t take that with me out there. Let’s talk about it later, okay? I’m not saying I’m not… I’m just….” Not ready.

Nathaniel nodded. “Sorry. A nice dinner is more traditional for this.”

“Fuck tradition.” Brooklyn touched his lips to Nathaniel’s. “We’ll talk, okay?”

He was unspeakably relieved when Santos arrived with enough water for a herd of elephants and his gumshield in the other hand. “Time to wrap your hands, Brooklyn.”

“Yeah.” Brooklyn settled down again and watched Nathaniel leave.

I love you.What the hell did this mean now?

He flexed his hands in the bandages, slowly rebuilding the energy that seemed to have fled the moment Nathaniel had touched him. Unlike other men, Nathaniel’s touch didn’t wind him up, didn’t make him want to lash out.

Eric opened the door and led in Odysseus’s trainer, whom he knew from his preparation and the weigh-in. The man walked up to Brooklyn, who stretched out his bandaged hands. Once examined, the man pulled out a black felt pen and signed across them on both sides.

Santos handed the boxing gloves to the other trainer, who checked them and gave them back. Santos then helped Brooklyn put them on and taped them around the wrists. The tape was again signed. No foul play possible. The trainer gave Brooklyn a curt nod and left.

Once Santos had tied the laces of his boots, Brooklyn went back on the exercise bike to warm up his legs, keeping things nice and easy.

Soon, Santos pointed at him, then at the door. “It’s time.”

Brooklyn missed Cash, missed Les. His first bout without them. Still, Santos would know how much he could take. He did some final stretches, but he was as ready as he’d ever be.

“Don’t throw in the towel. Whatever happens, don’t. I’ll win this.”

Santos nodded and walked by his side through the catacombs. The hard guitar riff of his ring music sounded through the doors.

From the utilitarian concrete into the gloom of the hall, flashes of light dancing off him, the sound system blaring his fight song—Judas Priest’s “One on One”—so loudly Brooklyn barely even heard the crowd.

He walked into a solid wall of hostility. Odysseus was popular—an entirely wholesome boxer with flair, always polite, always nice, no scandals. Brooklyn wondered if he’d walked in with Edwin Starr’s “War,” which had always struck him as ironic.

But, Brook, villains sell tickets, Cash would say.Villains are harder to play, so it’s good you can fill that role.

They turned the whole event into a pantomime—no different from wrestling, which made more money anyway. But still, the hostility was like a strong hand pressing against his heart. If he was lucky, he might win some people over, but he wasn’t counting on it.

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