Page 8 of Mean Machine

“What do you think of the young contender, Dragan?” the interviewer asked on screen.

“He’ll look good on the posters—at least until after the fight.”

Brooklyn grinned to himself, but deeper inside, a gnawing ache opened in his guts. It was a stupid idea, an even stupider hope. Thorne was free to choose his fights, likely had a whole team of people who carefully managed the second half of his career. With every single up-and-coming heavyweight out there hungry for Thorne’s three titles, taking on a no-name English convict, one without fame or notoriety and with a pile of debt on his shoulders, wouldn’t further Thorne’s career in the least. It wasn’t going to happen.

“BROOK, MYman, how you doing?” Cash fist-bumped Brooklyn’s glove after the fight and turned to walk up the aisle with him, the crowd cheering left and right. Moving down the aisle in the other direction—towards the ring—was always one of the scariest things Brooklyn could imagine. He still felt like he was going to throw up, even after all this time, but that was just nerves. Once the fight started and the world became as small as the ring, the crowd faded into the distance, and he grew calm.

“Pretty good.”

“I can see that!” Cash was a ball of glee, dark face lit with pride. Brooklyn shortened his stride so Cash could keep up. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with the promoter’s hip, but walking looked painful when Cash did it.

“Man, you’re my favourite southpaw ever.” Cash turned to the crowd. “Yeah, scream your heads off, ladies, but he’s going home with me tonight.”

Brooklyn pursed his lips to keep from laughing. Cash’s ego and sunny disposition, bottled, would make the world a much brighter place. “You ditching Marina? Really? I’m flattered.”

The doors closed behind them, and the crowd’s roar became the hum of an angry but distant beehive. The raw concrete walls sobered Brooklyn, but he was content to bask in the glow of Cash’s attention. The promoter had a way of making anybody feel good.

“Get cleaned up, my boy. I’ll just say goodbye to the journalists. Be back with you in five.” That translated into twenty minutes.

Les waved him off. “I’ll take care of Brooklyn in the meantime.”

“Great. Won’t be long.” Cash rushed off, his wobbling gait unstable and laboured, but almost nothing slowed Cash down.

Brooklyn headed to the changing room and undressed, his muscles still vibrating from the strain, blood rushing and pounding. A KO made him feel like a god. Concerns over his opponent’s well-being only ever happened when that adrenaline had burnt out. He could have torn down walls, punched over trees. He could do anything. For a little while, he could almost kid himself that life was good. Of course, life had never felt like anything special before he’d gone into the hole.

“That was great work, Brook. Glenn was outclassed. What the hell was Cash thinking? That fight was almost too easy for you.”

“I doubt anybody predicted that.” Brooklyn unwrapped the bandages and flexed his hands. His knuckles were red, abraded from the bandages. “He was a damn good boxer three years ago. He’s done.”

“Yeah. Shit, there goes the old guard.” Les shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter. The new guard isn’t any worse.” Brooklyn glanced up. “Or do you think so?”

“No, you’re a fine boxer, Brook. But I remember when Glenn was truly great.”

“Me too. So what?”

“Feeling my age, I guess.” Les touched him on the shoulder. “Go. Shower.” Les’s phone rang, and he fished it from his pocket. The way he straightened a little and sobered—ISU calling?

Brooklyn lingered to find a towel.

“Yes, sir, he’s here. I guess you saw the fight. No, he’s all right. Got a few bad ones in the jaw, but he’s mouthy all the same. Nothing broken or even rattled.” Les shooed him towards the shower. “A moment, sir.” He looked up. “Shower, Brook. The car’ll be outside in twenty. Yes, I’m back. Sorry, sir.”

Brooklyn headed off into the shower, still able to hear the mumble of Les’s voice through the spray, but then he ducked his head under and washed. What could he learn, anyway? Les wouldn’t speak openly. The business side of things was always tucked away. For all intents and purposes, it didn’t concern him. Even though, of course, it did.

His knuckles hurt under the hot water, and he took care to not get the soap on them. He’d beaten Glenn stupid. The old man had offered him too many openings to the face and jaw. Punches to the body were draining and hurt like motherfuckers when he managed to get the short ribs or the liver, but punches to the head disorientated and addled. What he hit in the end didn’t matter. Whatever was sticking out of the guard, he’d laid into it with everything he had.

He turned the water off, shook the drops from his eyes, and reached for the towel. A quick rubdown and a very careful pat dry of his hands and he wandered out again. He got dressed—faded jeans, socks, trainers, a sports top, and a hoodie to keep him warm. While the doctor checked Brooklyn, Les was texting on his phone.

“What was that about?”

“ISU got an offer for your contract.”

“What kind of offer?”

“Somebody wants to buy you out.” Les looked at him for a long moment, long enough for the doctor to leave. “I advised against it. Apparently the offer was so high that they asked me for my opinion.”

“What did you say?”

---