Page 89 of Mean Machine

“My experience says people believe the thing they want to see. Santos is no different.”

“Does he actually know about you and your brother?” The drugs were speaking—Brooklyn felt his heart suddenly pound. He’d never even alluded to what he thought he’d seen, the force field around the men that seemed so strong it was damn near visible to the eye. “It’s none of my business, actually. I’m a little drunk. Kumquat mojito is the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Santos left for the money. We couldn’t go pro at home, and we didn’t care about much else but boxing and each other.” Rose’s voice was deep with emotion, and Brooklyn couldn’t help but wonder what he sounded like when he sang. “The money makes the difference. It makes a difference to his family, to our family and our friends. Compared to that, the rest simply doesn’t matter. Santos judges us by our work, how well we prepare and compete.”

“I’m sorry. I’m… it really isn’t any of my business.”

But Rose kept speaking as if he hadn’t noticed that very English way of trying to stop the conversation purely to preserve face. The deflection didn’t work, and Brooklyn cursed himself for having brought it up. Rose wasn’t telling him anything new—nothing about this surprised him.

“See, we don’t talk about it. I do think you’re maybe the only one who’ll understand all of this. I’m not used to talking about it, because there isn’t really anything to talk about with those who understand, and we cannot speak to those who don’t. It’s been interesting, I guess, to vanish among people where nobody cares and few suspect and become a little invisible. I know Em is a lot more relaxed since we left.”

“That’s good. Taking the stress off.”

A few moments of silence, during which Brooklyn was vaguely aware of party noises behind him, wafting on the air.

“And you. You were married. Now you’re dating Nathaniel. How did you get your head around that?”

“I’m too drunk to make much sense there. I was fooling around with guys too, but it wasn’t, you know, emotional.” He swallowed, wished he had another strong drink, and knew that that way lay disaster. Besides, going back in to get another drink would mean drowning out the conversation in the music and chatter and more requests for selfies. “It was just physical.”

“Because that made you less gay?”

Brooklyn turned the glass in his hand and then put it down on the glazed rim of a planting pot. “No. Yes.” He’d long suspected that one of the fucked-up synapses in his brain put it all in one mental bucket—gay, weak, emotional. And emotional meant soft. Anger and rage were different; they were strong.

“Let’s say that I know that’s fucked-up, but I guess at some point in my life that was necessary, keeping it all separate, so Nathaniel…. Nathaniel’s emotional, but he’s also strong, mentally. Physically I could break him, I mean, I fucking broke a guy like Thorne and got paid for it, but mentally, I know Nathaniel’s up there with the best of them. And I like that about him, a lot. He has something that I don’t have—he can deal with what he’s feeling. Nathaniel has the whole range of emotions, and I wish I could do that, I guess. I think I might be getting there. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.” Rose chuckled tonelessly. “It’ll be good to see more of that Brooklyn, the one who’s not the Mean Machine. Or not only that. I’d hate to see the fighter go away.”

“The fighter earns the money. He’d better stick around for a while. But yeah, happy to meet you guys whenever you can make it. I should probably go back in—I was planning to get blind drunk and I’m only halfway there.”

“Then enjoy the party. We’ll see you hopefully soon.”

Brooklyn managed to hit the button to end the call and turned around, leaning against the stone balcony railing as heavily as against the ropes in the ring. Unlike them, it didn’t yield an inch. Inside, people milled around—his whole team, but also strangers. Actually, a whole lot of the latter.

Cash had indicated some “fans” had wanted to join the party, and some of those fans happened to be famous in their own areas, so it seemed there were artists, athletes, and general society types rubbing shoulders in there.

Once he got back in, there would be more requests for autographs, selfies, even flirting, but it was all a haze while the painkillers and alcohol tamped down on most thoughts and feelings. He just did all of that by rote, very aware that he was lucky to have it, even though the most important people were missing and an ocean away.

IT WASreally difficult to watch TV in the States, with all the extended ad breaks that ruined all shows and films, but at least there was almost no coverage of UK politics, and it wasn’t like Brooklyn had many other options. With his beaten-up face, he wasn’t going anywhere for the moment (or even the week), the hotel provided everything he needed in terms of food, and their gym was pretty good.

Joseph allowed him to do some light cardio, even though the sessions in the first few days made his face throb, and he pushed some weight around, but Joseph had decreed absolute rest for his hands and zero sparring. It was driving him slowly up the wall, this doing nothing while the swelling around his eye came down. The choice was between painkillers that made him sleepy and the aches and pains that came from having been tenderised for seven rounds by the fists of one of the heaviest punchers in the division.

So he slept, and ate, and listened to music, and watched a spot of TV, but all the boxing programmes were talking about whether Thorne had been robbed of a sure victory by a scared trainer. At the same time, it seemed that the Thorne camp only issued “no comment” statements, and neither Thorne nor Derek were spotted in public, likely in the hope that the speculation would burn itself out.

When they talked about Brooklyn, it was usually in the context of him having ended the long winning streak of a bulletproof champion. The fall of a king of the sport, and Brooklyn was cast as the foreign usurper. It was enough to make anybody a little moody.

However, Joseph would tell him that he was popular on social media; people were sharing gifs of him punching Thorne, and apparently that one had gone somewhat viral with a joke about millennials now “punching back” against the “straight cis-male patriarchy.” Brooklyn couldn’t claim he didn’t understand any of that, but the fact that he was “visibly queer” worked in his favour with certain demographics. Though mostly he kept his head down and did his interviews on the phone—he preferred that they used a promo photo for him instead of showing his fucked-up face.

He checked the time, muted the TV, then turned away and dialled Nathaniel’s number. If it were possible, he’d have pushed that phone call out for a few more days, but there was no avoiding it.

“Bishop.”

“It’s me. Are you good to talk?”

“Sure!” Nathaniel’s business voice turned more personable immediately. “How are you doing?”

“Still in pain, but getting better.” Brooklyn drew a deep breath, held it in his chest, felt where his ribs were still tender. “I thought it would be good to chat for a little, unless you got to work?”

“No, that’s fine. What’s up?”

---