Page 18 of Mean Machine

“You listening to me?”

“No.” Brooklyn bared his teeth. “Okay, now I am.”

“Take it slow. Too much strain isn’t good either.”

Brooklyn released the bag and gave it a double-fisted shove. “Right. What now?”

“Your attitude stinks, Brook.”

“So I’ve been told. You think I’m temperamentally unsuited to being a boxer?”

Les shrugged. “Cash says it could be a title fight.”

“I didn’t think Esch had a title?”

“No, the one after that.”

“Oh?” That meant Odysseus. Odysseus held the IBO heavyweight title—the least prestigious one, handed out by one of the smaller and younger boxing associations, but it was a legitimate world title. It was not important enough for many people to shoot for it, and Thorne had never even bothered with it—he had his three major belts and happily defended them rather than taking on Odysseus. Which was a smart move, considering Odysseus was the better technical boxer and dangerous.

Les smiled. “Seems the presales are going well.”

“That’s great.”

The tension went down a notch. That was good news. Well-timed too. He’d focus on beating that German piece of shit and then move on to the Greek. He’d still fight even if there was nobody watching. There were only ever two people who mattered. The enemy—and him.

“Have a cooldown, Brook. You’re done.” Les took his hands and helped him pull the gloves off. “I’ve copied Esch’s fights on DVDs for you. I think we should have a look.”

“Sure.” Esch was an uninspiring boxer if there ever was one. Mechanical, precise, dutiful rather than passionate, everything Brooklyn would have expected from a German. Maybe he’d be a bit more exciting in front of his home crowd. That was the biggest challenge. For Brooklyn not to lose his nerve in a venue brimming with hatred. “I’d rather watch Ali.”

“You know Ali’s fights by heart, Brook.” Les laughed. “Or are you with Norman Mailer, who said Ali was the ‘most beautiful man’?”

“He certainly moves like it. Moved, even.”

Les smiled. “Let’s go, champ. Have a shower, then come to my room.”

“You got something to show me, uncle?” Brooklyn teased.

“Only if you’re a good boy.”

Fifteen minutes later, he sat on Les’s bed while Les made him tea—splash of milk, no sugar. Brooklyn accepted it, slouched down until only his shoulders touched the wall, and lowered the mug carefully onto his stomach, soaking up the heat radiating from it. Les pushed the DVD into the player and sat near Brooklyn, but not close enough to invite touch.

Maybe living with the tension was the worst part of stewardship. He could never shed it. It was brimming in Brooklyn’s body whatever he did. Had been ever since the trial, and he wondered if he’d ever be truly relaxed again. Maybe when the world was no longer out to get him. Right now his body was first and foremost a weapon. Brooklyn shifted on the bed, sat up a bit straighter, and then grabbed the pillow and stuffed it in the hollow between the wall and his neck.

The DVD was pretty comprehensive and included the weigh-in. Esch was bulky but not as defined as Brooklyn. All the good food, probably. Or maybe he didn’t have a coach like Les, who could recite the amount of carbs in any of ten thousand different foodstuffs. “He could lose some weight.”

“Yeah, he looks spongy. That’s water trapped in the muscles.”

“Steroids?”

“Possibly. They caught Esch a couple of years ago for human growth hormones too. His coach certainly knows his way around a medicine cabinet.”

Brooklyn scoffed. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter.”

“Matters to me. I’d much prefer you getting old and fat than dying of some cancer or shit like that.” Les leaned towards the TV. “The other fighter here is a fall guy hired to make Esch look good. He’s badly outclassed.”

“Do you have anything on where he struggles?”

“He takes some pretty heavy punches in the sixth round.”