Page 43 of Mean Machine

Dragan Thorne?

“Thorne, I’m coming for you!” Brooklyn shouted against the din.

The man looked up, met his eyes, even though it was very nearly impossible that Thorne had heard him over the commotion. Brooklyn almost shrugged off the ref who tried to push something into his hands, but then realised it was the belt. He draped it across his shoulder, keeping his eyes firmly on Thorne.

At least for as long as he could. An emergency crew was now crowding the ring, kneeling around Odysseus, who still didn’t move, and Brooklyn noted with a chill of recognition how one of the men stabilised Odysseus’s neck, while two others got him ready to be moved onto something that looked like a stretcher.

Kicking legs.

Jessica.

Rose was suddenly at his side with a hand on his arm. “Let’s go, Brooklyn.”

Santos guided him from the other side, and Brooklyn obeyed, too numb to do anything. Adrenaline held the pain at bay, mostly, but his body throbbed with the abuse of the fight. He had to step around the medics, cast a fleeting glance into Odysseus’s slack face, struck by the fact that his glazed eyes were open but seeing nothing. A shadow under his head caught Brooklyn’s attention. Was that blood running from his ear or just a shadow from the harsh stage light?

Nobody looked at him inside the ring—everyone’s attention was on Odysseus, and Brooklyn couldn’t muster enough strength to fight off Rose, whose broad hand pressed between his shoulder blades, the other hand on his arm, all but pushing him along.

He made it somehow into the changing rooms, where Eric and Emilio took up guard outside and Rose and Santos stayed with him. Brooklyn didn’t know where to look and then realised he was carrying the fucking belt. He tossed the thing against the nearest wall with a growl.

Deep in his gut sat the icy knowledge that Odysseus wouldn’t get up again. He couldn’t know that—but he felt it. Maybe some primal thing inside him, something from the age of dinosaurs, told him Odysseus was dying. Maybe already dead. Like he’d known the same thing about Jessica, once he’d seen the way her skull was deformed. The horror crawled towards his throat, and he felt on the verge of throwing up. Santos’s dark eyes knew too much. He didn’t say anything, didn’t lie to him, which was maybe not as bad as being lied to but still fucking horrible.

Rose looked on, concerned. But he too offered nothing.

Brooklyn turned around and slammed his gloved fists so hard into the concrete wall, he felt the pain down into his toes. Immediately, a large body was on him, holding him back from doing it again—and again and again—until the same hands that had killed two people were nothing but blood and bone shards.

“No, Brook!” Rose shouted at him. “Don’t do this!” His accent was stronger when he was agitated, but Brooklyn found nothing there he could hold on to. He struggled, tried to break free, and was glad to have actual resistance he could fight against. Rose was rested, though, and held him close and tight, not allowing him to hit anything.

“Please, Brooklyn, that helps nobody,” Rose said.

Brooklyn relented, too exhausted to fight on. The pain from his hands was so sharp it overrode the dull aches from his face and the rest of his body. He let Rose cut the tape off and remove the gloves from his hands. It hurt, but he didn’t say a word. Not even when Rose took off the bandages, which hurt more. Couldn’t bear the thought of anybody fussing over him now.

“We need a doctor for his hands,” Rose said.

“Get him cleaned up.” Santos shook his head, tsk-tsking. “Silly boy.”

Brooklyn turned his head. “What did you call me?”

Rose moved between them, as if he were about to attack Santos. He wasn’t. The thought of hitting anybody made him almost ill. Santos didn’t flinch away either. Instead, he came closer. “Odysseus did his job, as did you. He knew what could happen in the ring.”

Like that changed anything. Making it sound like Odysseus had collapsed from a bad heart or a stroke didn’t help.

“He’s a boxer. He knows the risk when he enters a ring,” Rose added.

“You don’t fucking get it.”

Santos shook his head and moved towards the door. “Rose, help him clean up.”

Brooklyn didn’t resist much when Rose shoved him towards the shower. Hot water might bring some relief, but his guts were churning, and the nausea had its claws buried in the insides of his throat. He tried to untie his laces but couldn’t manage. His fingers were shaking too much and hurt fiercely.

Rose knelt down on the tiles and opened the laces, carefully removed the boots and socks. Brooklyn held his hands close to his chest, hurting too bad to even consider punching anything again. Not wall, not man. He just wanted to crawl under a rock and die there.

Rose glanced at him, reached for Brooklyn’s shorts, and pulled them down. Then his kidney protector, underwear, and the cup he wore against the low punches, until he was completely naked. Rose stood and started the water, turning the levers until it was hot enough, and Brooklyn stepped under the spray, keeping his sore face out of the water.

“Need more help?”

Brooklyn shrugged and let the water run down his body, trying hard to shed the memory of the man stretched out in the ring with all the medics around him. The stretcher being lifted over the ropes.

Rose’s tender touch on his face came like a shock. “I’m only washing the blood off,” Rose said in a low voice, and Brooklyn noticed Rose had shed his tracksuit. He felt the brush of a lot of naked skin against him, and he kept his eyes closed as Rose moved behind him, fighting the misery that was welling up again.

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