Page 95 of Mean Machine

While Brooklyn undressed for the shower, Joseph stood there, arms crossed.

“I’m kind of pissing myself laughing that you’re not giving the fucking Proud British the handshake photo op they want.”

“Did they call again?” Brooklyn started the water but paused and half turned to Joseph.

“They keep calling. Jones-Williams really wants to be photographed with you, considering you’re a textbook success story of his policies.”

Brooklyn turned away from the water entirely. “Tell them I’m happy to take the photo op. But I’ll be wearing his fucking spine around my neck. Tosser.”

Joseph laughed. “We should find a better use for your testosterone, Brook. Get under the shower.”

“You could tell them it’s for the man’s own safety that I’m not entering a room where he is.”

“I’ll try to convey that without a physical threat to the life of a prime minister.”

Brooklyn stepped under the hot water. “Let Cash do it. He’s better with words.”

“That’s probably wise. I’ll grab you in fifteen minutes for the interviews.”

“Thanks.” The door closed and Brooklyn relaxed under the spray, consciously let go of the tension that was still sitting in his muscles, like slowly unwinding half a dozen taut coils, going from “ready to evade, punch, punch again” to just inhabiting his body. It was beginning to throb in some places, his sides, ribs, knuckles, the orbital bone, but he hadn’t been cut, so he’d be fine. And even by his previously exacting standards, this had been a great fight—Reid had been more than competent, he’d had heart and stamina, but in the end, Brooklyn had outboxed him on every count. Enough to make Brooklyn work hard for his victory, but thankfully not one of those terrible life-or-death fights that had unnerved Nathaniel.

Six months of no word from the man, but Brooklyn would have lied if he’d claimed he didn’t think of him every day at least once. Of course, he’d handled the breakup like an adult—he’d got drunk in his hotel room, cried into his damn mountain of pillows, and spent a few days staring morosely into space until Joseph had pretty much ordered him to go out partying because training would start soon, as Reid’s manager had agreed to the terms and they’d all relocate to Las Vegas to train and fight.

That also meant no word from or about Hazel, which was likely for the best as well. To the kid, he was nothing more than a large friendly man, and he’d quickly fade from her awareness and memory. Nathaniel would bend over backward to give her all the support and love and attention she’d need, so he wasn’t even worried about it.

But he also felt somewhat unmoored with nobody to return to. Arguably his most intimate relationship was with the masseur, who’d become a permanent member of his crew, and who thankfully did therapy without ever asking him probing questions about his feelings.

At the same time, people were queuing up to get close to him—from investment advisers and private bankers to all kinds of fraudsters, shysters, and hucksters promising the world and trying to relieve him of some or all of his money. That big contract was blood in the water, and to these guys, Brooklyn was nothing but chum. Thankfully, Cash had seen it all (if on a smaller scale), and Joseph failed to be impressed.

He quickly towelled down, noted Joseph had put some of his favourite clothes on a neat pile on the footstool. Sometimes it felt like Joseph and Cash were the only friends he had left in the world, or at least the only friends who were immediately and always available. That said, with the cut they got from his earnings, he’d made both of them rich—and when he sank down really far into brooding, he wondered if that had changed their relationship. Cash was his old self, and Joseph had arguably softened to him, though not enough to undermine his authority. Even his cut man and the guy holding his spit bucket walked away with five-figure sums after every fight, because it seemed churlish to not pay them well when they did play a vital role.

He slipped into the dark blue jeans he’d worn a lot and which got better and softer with every wash. The leather belt was mostly for show; his weight hadn’t changed at all since he’d bought them at exactly his fighting weight. With that went a clingy grey T-shirt with hisTeam Mean Machinebranding on the short sleeves and along the sides. On top went a darker grey hoodie to keep his muscles warm in the air-conditioned hotels where most of his life seemed to play out these days.

He kept his hair just long enough to stay unruly, not long enough to look actually messy, all of that with a clean shave, because he’d found he enjoyed a grooming routine that involved a barber, hot towels, and a face massage. By his previous standards, he’d gone properly metrosexual, but the TV people complimented him on his skin, which was several kinds of ridiculous, considering his branding was that of a badass with a lovely accent. He checked the area around his eye, which was shiny and reddened, and prodded carefully at the swelling, traced the scar there that was still visible as a thin line, but nothing that would put people off. He’d looked a hell of a lot worse.

He picked up the sports bag with his sweaty kit, but Joseph took it from him when he left the changing rooms and handed it off to another guy from the crew, and then walked him into the conference room where the journalists waited for the Q&A. Reid was already there, sucking down a sports drink, and they shook hands and even hugged again, with camera lights flashing.

“This guy’s a hero. He’s my fucking idol, man,” Josh said emphatically to the cameras.

Brooklyn patted him on the shoulder. “Great fight. We could do that again?”

Reid spluttered and laughed. “I’m yours, man. I’ll fight you again, sure!”

The moderator took over, guiding the Q&A while Reid kept rehydrating after the fight, and the way he was demolishing those bottles, even Brooklyn was getting a little thirsty, but he stuck to the water that some kind soul had placed before them.

This was one of the nicer interviews. Brooklyn saw it in the smiles and compliments from the journalists that Reid’s clear infatuation with his “hero” was winning him friends and respect. And the man was like a puppy, earnest and unfiltered in his affection, which warmed Brooklyn’s heart, and he in turn heaped praise on the boxer, who was only two years younger than him.

Reid didn’t seem to have any kind of nasty streak, merely seemed completely happy to be there in one piece and share the limelight with a unified heavyweight champion. He’d come up via the Olympics team, rather than the mean streets that birthed so many fucked-up men.

Once the interview ended, Reid came up to him for another hug and then pushed a pair of boxing gloves on him. “Would you sign those for me?”

Brooklyn patted his jeans for a pen, but the man held out a gold-coloured marker, so Brooklyn signed both of them and handed them back.

“I tried to get some of that kit,” Reid said. “But your webshop is fucking sold out, man.”

Without even thinking about it, Brooklyn pulled the shirt and hoodie off his upper body and handed both to Reid, who stared at him but immediately held on to the clothes, then raised them over his head as if he’d just won a belt. Brooklyn heard a few appreciative gasps and laughed to himself—it wasn’t exactly like these people hadn’t seen his chest before, but these strange Americans apparently thought this was daring and sexy.

So that was the final shot from that interview: Josh, who was wearing the Team Mean Machine sweater, arm in arm with bare-chested Brooklyn. Fame could be seriously weird.

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