Page 9 of Mean Machine

“I said your contract will be worth three times that when you become world champion. That you’re just getting started and they’d be stupid to sell up now. Nobody sells a winning horse before the Grand National.”

Wow, talk about a bucket of ice water. “I’m not a horse.”

“No. You’re an athlete. A fighter. But I had to tell it to them in a way they’d understand.” Les slipped the phone back into his trouser pocket. “I know you’re about ready to do it. You’re a fine boxer. You’ll be great if you don’t fall apart before you get the title.”

Brooklyn laughed, but it sounded bitter even to his ears. “Like I’m doing it for them.”

“No, you do it because you have the heart of a warrior. You’re hungry. For justice, maybe even for death. But you want to die on your feet, fighting. Right?”

Gooseflesh all over his body, even on his dick. The man knew him too damned well. “You been writing the screenplay, huh? Nice tagline. Do you have something to eat?”

Les tossed him a couple of protein bars and a water bottle. “And you have an appointment later if you want it.”

“Sure. ISU’s certainly getting their money’s worth from this horse.” Brooklyn chewed, the sickly sweetness perfect after the sweat and adrenaline.

The door burst open. “Brook. My boy.”

“Hey, Cash.” Brooklyn smiled and found it wasn’t hard at all. “Tell me you got Thorne booked for me.”

Cash’s face fell. “There’s a fight I’d pay to see.” With all the free tickets he got, that was saying something. “Maybe we’ll have a chance if Thorne gets convicted for tax fraud or something.”

“Yeah, right after the moon crashes to earth.” Brooklyn started on the next protein bar. “Well, some guys dream of banging a supermodel. I just want to bang on Thorne a little.” He shrugged. “We all need our dreams.”

“Well. Keep dreaming, my boy. Guess who I talked to before your fight?”

“Not a mind reader yet.”

“Try.”

“The mayor of London?”

“Richard Bells.”

“And?”

“Dick Bells? Nice one,” Les said. “Brook, he’s Odysseus Xarchakos’s promoter. And he runs Florian Esch too.”

“Can I fight them both?”

“You can have the German. In two months.”

“Where?”

“In Hamburg. You’ll have to fight the crowd too. Esch is a local hero.”

“We’ll give you a bombastic instrumental song by Vangelis, and you’ll take the Germans by storm,” Les sneered.

“I thought the way to do it is to say, ‘Ich bin ein Berliner,’” Brooklyn said. “Cash, if you score me the Greek, I’ll come in my pants. Just saying.”

“It’s not impossible. Dick’s interested, but he’s above all interested in cold, hard cash.”

“You think he’d buy out Brook?”

“Possibly. I think he’s giving us Esch to see if Brook has star qualities. He’ll keep the Greek back. He’s a poker player; he’s teasing, but he’s very much on the ball. Brook, pretty sure you can have them both if the fight against Esch makes good money. We’ve been working hard to get your brand out, and we’ll have to do more ads and posters on the underground to step it up, see how ticket sales are looking. If we can fill a large enough venue, you’ll get the Greek.”

“Wembley, here I come.”

Cash grinned. “That’s my boy. I’ll make some phone calls.” He rushed out again.

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