Page 75 of Mean Machine

“We’re coming from two very different places.”

“And?”

“Some people will never consider me anything but a piece of rough.”

“Well, I’m sure we can scrub you up nice and have you photographed sitting on silk cushions and seventeenth-century furniture in the family pile with a spaniel at your feet and sell that toThe LadyandCountry Homes & Interiorsto raise your profile with the upper classes.”

Brooklyn couldn’t help but laugh at the image. That was something for Nathaniel, or Dion, or both, but he’d never be able to pull it off. “Not sure I’m up for that, but thanks for the laugh.”

Nathaniel’s voice warmed. “Please don’t worry about me. I’m happy to drop any number of libel lawsuits if necessary, and I have decent security and privacy in place. And you—don’t let those vultures get into your head. You have a fight to prepare for, and worrying about how people regard your sexuality is nothing but a distraction. Maybe take a sheet out of the playbook of this Emile Griffith. He won, didn’t he?”

“He did. World champion too.”

“See? There are others who’ve faced all that and still won. You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Thankfully, Nathaniel was apparently completely ignorant of the rest of Emile Griffith’s story—or that he’d beaten a man to death in the ring who’d called him a “faggot” during the weigh-in. That, at least, was not something Brooklyn expected to happen—the 1960s and 1970s had still been different, but that didn’t mean the press would give him an easy ride.

JOSEPH PROVEDunimpressed with the newspaper coverage. Between him and Cash, they decided that isolating Brooklyn from the hacks was the best way forward, with vague claims of Brooklyn “needing time to prepare.”

A few things did filter through. Apparently Brooklyn lost as many fans as he gained after his outing—various internet forums and reddits weren’t exactly complimentary about his sexuality, but what was now termed his “confession” had put him squarely on the radar of the queer press, and several websites geared towards women also provided some coverage—focusing less on the inspiration porn and more on a kind of redemption angle. Brooklyn didn’t go looking and was glad that he was barely tempted. His mobile phone was decidedly unsmart, so the posts and commentary on all those apps, sites, and social media rushed past him like rain into a gutter.

He did receive a letter that informed him he’d been shortlisted for an “Out Sportsperson of the Year” award. Truth be told, nobody expected him to win—his past was a few shades too murky, what with the deaths and all.

He didn’t admit to anybody that there was only one thing he was scared of when it came to the press. Well, two, but Nathaniel had formidable defences, and no amount of (likely) digging unearthed Hazel’s origins or what had bound Nathaniel to Brooklyn in the first place.

As long as that wall held, Brooklyn only worried about one thing—that Shelley would sell her story to one of the tabloids. Surely she’d been approached. Surely they all had been, from Curtis to Les to former colleagues among the cops, former drinking buddies, other boxers. Hell, there were enough guys out there who’d paid for sex with Brooklyn, and more than a few women.

They all had stories to tell, no doubt, but the only one that made Brooklyn nervous was Shelley’s. She’d known him best. She was the best witness for the prosecution when it came to the court of public opinion. She knew his weaknesses, his uncontrolled moments, hell, she even knew his tendernesses, and what he’d been ashamed of.

Still, that “tell all” interview never materialised, and part of Brooklyn wondered why. The pockets of those hate rags were deep, so it wasn’t the money. They could throw six figures at her without even blinking—life-changing money, considering she still lived in that shithole. The idea was so tempting to go to her and ask, hell, likely even thank her, but he stopped himself, and then they were already off to the training camp in Cyprus to get Brooklyn ready for the fight against Thorne.

Joseph had vetoed using the twins again for the sparring, saying, “They have to work on their own careers. You can’t keep leaning on them.”

Instead, he’d hustled up some journeymen boxers as sparring partners, each of which would help with one aspect of Thorne’s style that Brooklyn had to master and overcome—they were all tough, dedicated men with years of experience in the ring, but no ambitions to go pro themselves. That didn’t make those fights easy. Brooklyn had the distinct impression they’d been chosen because they didn’t go easy on him, and they kept pushing him without having to be told. Good, strong guys who enjoyed the challenge and did their job exactly as asked and paid for.

They weren’t a replacement for the twins, in the same way a tool did not replace a friend, but Brooklyn understood he was being selfish, wanting Rose and Em at his side as if they didn’t have their own concerns and goals. But he decided to be open, and maybe make new friends among those strangers, except that Joseph seemed to keep them separate. For example, they didn’t really socialise—they only went to those lovely Cyprus restaurants together when the other boxers were about to leave for home.

It seemed strange to not try to be friendly with the guys, or maybe Brooklyn was too starved for normal friendships, normal interactions, something so simple as sharing a plate of mezze and a bottle of house wine in the sultry Cyprus evenings. Maybe that was odd, wanting to do that. What they did do was exercise, running along the dusty roads, with taxis and tourists going the other way towards the beach. The heat was oppressive but made bearable by the constant breeze from the sea, and there was nothing quite like going to one of the beaches used by the locals at night to swim. Just the warm water licking over his skin and more stars than he could ever hope to count twinkling above in a night sky that seemed full of promise.

After three weeks of training, a lot of sparring, meticulous analysis of Thorne’s last few fights—including the one against Brooklyn—Nathaniel joined them in Cyprus. They picked him up at Larnaca Airport, a local taxi driver, Joseph (who never let Brooklyn out of his sight), and Brooklyn, who was still not sure about the rules of dating a man—did you bring flowers? What about public displays of affection? Kissing?

Holding hands was certainly out. When they left the airport building, Nathaniel looked dazed and way too hot, with his flushed skin. He took off his suit jacket for one, and he already wore rumpled linen trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. He probably didn’t spend enough time in the Caribbean to get used to the heat.

Which was a shame, really. Just the sight of him made Brooklyn remember the time on Sint Maarten, when Brooklyn had been so mistrustful and Nathaniel so guarded. Looking at Nathaniel now, in the car, with his head resting against the side, flushed and exhausted, Brooklyn realised for the first time how far they had come, both individually and with each other.

He reached out and placed a hand on Nathaniel’s thigh, and despite the heat, Nathaniel reached out and placed his hand atop Brooklyn’s. He half opened his eyes, and a gentle smile played around his lips, while the taxi raced from the airport to the outskirts of Larnaca, where Brooklyn’s gym and hotel were located.

WHEN BROOKLYNstepped out of the ring, he noted Nathaniel was standing in the door, a towel slung over his neck, wearing jogging clothes, and by the dust on his trainers and legs, he must have worked almost as hard as Brooklyn. He seemed about to turn away, but then their eyes met.

Nathaniel paused and smiled the kind of friendly smile he used when other people were watching. It was one thing Brooklyn had realised about Nathaniel, namely that he had a whole repertoire of expressions, words, and behaviours that were reserved for private settings. That had to be one of the lawyer things he did. Face-saving. You could have thought that somebody who was connected and rich could do and say what he damn well pleased—but it seemed the opposite was true, even though the only other people in the room were Joseph, a sparring partner, and the cornerman, and they didn’t even pay much if any attention.

Brooklyn walked over to Nathaniel, who wiped one end of his towel over his face. He seemed to be dealing better with the heat. Their room had air con, but they didn’t turn it up high enough to make much of a difference, just a few degrees to help with sleeping. Brooklyn was now as used to the heat as he’d ever get, and if Nathaniel managed to go running (and didn’t avoid skin contact at night), that looked like solid progress.

“How are things?” Brooklyn asked.

“I’m appreciating the view,” Nathaniel dropped the end of the towel and gave him a much warmer smile. “By which I mean that looked like you know what you’re doing.”

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