Page 76 of Mean Machine

“At this point I better or I’m in a world of hurt in New York.” Brooklyn glanced back to Joseph, but he was busy giving instructions to the other boxer. “Don’t you have to go back soon?”

Nathaniel nodded, his mouth tight, his shoulders lifted a bit. “There are a few things I can’t do over the phone or via hotel Wi-Fi, I’m afraid.”

“Hazel?”

“Oh, my mother’s happy to have her for as long as I let her.” Nathaniel lowered his voice. “I do have to go back soon, and I also don’t want to be too much of a distraction.”

“You’re not.” In fact, it was a nice change of pace to wake up next to Nathaniel. Brooklyn enjoyed a quick breakfast with him, then lunch back at the hotel, where Nathaniel spent time on his laptop with seemingly a bottomless supply of iced coffee, then dinner late at night in one of the small local restaurants. While Nathaniel was there, the crew gave them space and had dinner enough tables apart that Nathaniel and Brooklyn had some privacy. Then back “home,” where they sat on the couch, drank wine or a cocktail, and talked—all very domestic and still very romantic in a certain understated way.

Without so many words, Nathaniel made clear that he’d stick around for the long haul. And if anything, Brooklyn found it very relaxing that Nathaniel didn’t judge him—not for the boxing, not for his past. In every sense that counted, Nathaniel was in his corner.

“But you do need to focus.” Nathaniel’s face betrayed no censure. He was merely stating a fact.

“I’m focusing. I’m switching gears when I’m with you, but I can switch back.”

“Good. I know this is important to you.”

Brooklyn allowed himself a wry grin at that. Almost no point saying anything. “So you’re planning to leave me here alone with Joseph? When’s your flight?”

“I think you’re in good hands.” Unspoken, between them, that Joseph was no Les. Brooklyn appreciated the delicacy of leaving things unspoken, but it was also utterly pointless. From the slight darkening in Nathaniel’s eyes, he was pretty sure that Les stood clearly between them right now, as if he’d been tangibly there.

Nathaniel looked down and to the side, then back up into Brooklyn’s eyes. “I’ll go with the earliest flight tomorrow. So the question really is, can I take you out for dinner tonight?”

“The place with the kleftiko?” The slow-cooked lamb dish had quickly become a favourite, but generally Cyprus was perfect for a passionate meat eater. Big chunks of it, falling off the roughly chopped bone at the slightest encouragement, with some bulgur or potato that looked very lost on the plate.

“Absolutely. It’s a date?”

“It’s a date.” Brooklyn noticed a movement from the corner of his eyes, which was Joseph crossing his arms and glancing at his watch. “First I got to earn dinner.”

Nathaniel took half a step back with a shooing motion. “Get back to it; the sooner you’re done….”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Overall, Joseph had no reason for censure—Brooklyn showed up for training on time, worked hard, barely complained when Joseph kept pushing him further. Every little bit of progress could end up saving his arse when it mattered, and the proof of that would come around not soon enough—and way too soon.

THE WEIGH-INwas the next part of the media circus, but this was several sizes bigger than London. As the saying went, everything was bigger in America, and the hotel surely delivered on the cliché. Thorne’s people had arranged all this, and ultimately Brooklyn had only to show up, strip down to his training shorts, and step on the scales.

Thorne arrived first, and while common wisdom had it that it became harder with age to drop weight, he was exactly on his usual fighting weight of 243 pounds, and he looked strong and confident. Much had been written about the fact that Thorne was thirty pounds heavier and three inches taller than Brooklyn, which, yes, was an advantage, but as Joseph kept saying, Thorne also had to move that bulk, and Brooklyn’s task was to not let him simply stand and let the rounds roll past—he’d have to run Thorne tired like a bull in the arena. That was the bigger game plan and the reason for an obscene amount of running along dusty paths on Cyprus.

When Brooklyn’s turn came and he stepped on the scales, he was a couple pounds below his target weight, but he always lost a lot of water before the weigh-in—thanks to boiling down—and ended up several pounds heavier once he’d had a chance to rehydrate.

Then, of course, the face-off. Thorne wore a smirk as he stared at Brooklyn, while Brooklyn had decided to play things “straight,” as it were. His role was still that of bad boy, so he levelled an even, unblinking stare at Thorne, whose humour seemed to waver a bit.

Camera flashes bathed both of them.

The moment lasted, and lasted, and even Brooklyn found it hard to break away from it. There was something undeniably compelling and unsettling about being this close to Thorne and attempting to stare him down, even if mostly for show. The press had made a thing out of the “sincerely bad blood” between them, which was mostly spin. The moderator and press had gone over their previous fight, how much Thorne had struggled and how close the decision had been in the end. Apparently that proved that this was a grudge match.

Even commentators who didn’t buy too much into the “bad blood” story considered the upcoming fight “exciting” and “too close to call.” Meanwhile, the online betting portals had Thorne as the odds-on favourite and Brooklyn as the four-to-one underdog.

Thorne recovered some of his swagger and gave Brooklyn a wink before he turned his back to Brooklyn, as if he were bored or Brooklyn was no longer worthy of attention. During the following interview, Thorne didn’t even once look at Brooklyn, merely gesticulated vaguely in his direction, but kept his full focus on the press.

It would have seemed childish, except Brooklyn found that strategy surprisingly effective at setting him on edge. It was a subtle snub as far as those went—Thorne wasn’t the type of boxer who’d punch or shove an opponent at a press conference in front of all those cameras, or worse, spit at him, but considering his sunny persona, being treated to the cold (massive) shoulder still had an effect.

They hadn’t spoken since their last meeting—Brooklyn’s people had arranged everything with Thorne’s people, with each of them giving the nod to the result of negotiations, but even that was enough of a headfuck to wonder whether Thorne did hold a grudge. Mostly, though, Brooklyn figured they were both playing their roles for money, ticket sales, and column inches.

“How do you think your opponent’s going to spend the night before the fight?”

What kind of question was that?

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