Page 4 of Mean Machine

He was pretty sure somebody at ISU booked the money as “paid meet with a fan” and pretended wilful ignorance as to what happened during that time. They were all adults, right? Stuff happened between adults. It earned Brooklyn a few extra grand a month—not that he saw any of the money.

“At least you’re now properly fighting fit,” Les said, as if that explained or excused anything. Les wasn’t one of the guys; he was employed by ISU. Which made him just as complicit as Curtis. But Brooklyn had learnt to keep those thoughts to himself too. The hard way.

“Listen, if it doesn’t serve as a vent, stop it. Nobody’s putting a pistol to your head.”

“Vent?” Brooklyn almost laughed. “No, whatever. It still beats getting fucked up the arse.”

“Jesus, Brook.”

“What? You think there’s a ‘fan’ out there who will let me top him? Maybe. But he hasn’t plunked down the cash for it yet. Tends to be wankers who get off on topping somebody like me. Somebody strong.”

“And that you are,” Les said, almost under his breath.

Those words deflated the anger, turned it into cold, bitter spikes sitting deep in his guts, a feeling like tears tightening his lungs. He felt almost like crying, just from those words, out of nowhere. Unsettled, a low blow to a part of him he thought he hadn’t exposed. A weakness he thought he’d covered well. And fuck Les for finding that weakness.

Hold me down, babe. Love me rough.

Anything but thinking of his wife.

“We should be lovers,” Brooklyn said, grinning when his coach groaned. “We already quarrel all the time.”

“It’s banter.” Les dropped onto his hands and feet to put in a few push-ups. “Gimme fifty, champ.”

BROOKLYN WASdoing some light bag work late morning when he noticed one of his fellow boxers had stopped his rope-skipping. He paused to reach for his water bottle and half turned when the front door opened.

Les with two guests. The woman trailed farther behind, looking around like she’d never seen a boxing gym. In their formal dress, they stood out like accountants in the jungle. A tax raid? That would just be too ironic, but he really couldn’t afford to hope for the worst. If ISU blew up, there would be another corporation ready to step in and strip its assets. With the boxers here being the most mobile ones.

Les led the guests to the side of the ring, explaining something about the sparring going on there.

Prospective investors? Why was Les doing that and not Cash? He was the money man, after all. They didn’t strike Brooklyn as traders who wanted to pretend they were hard.

“Oi, I believe you’re here to work.” Curtis drew close, hand on his tonfa.

“Wanna hold the bag?”

“Fuck you.” Curtis pulled the tonfa and took the short grip, the length of the weapon protecting his lower arm, with plenty of wood sticking out to allow him some nasty punches. Fuck him.

Brooklyn kept one eye on the guard and returned to working the bag, imagining it was Curtis’s bulk he was punching, which focused him enough to ignore the visitors. He switched to working with Stu, hitting the man’s body armour with enough force to keep Stu at a distance. Nothing that went on outside the ring was of any interest to him. He shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t ask questions.

“Brook!”

Brooklyn added a couple more punches before turning to acknowledge Les, who was speaking in hushed tones to the two strangers. Brooklyn walked to the ropes and followed the gestured command to step out of the ring.

“That’s Brooklyn. Our great new hope.” How Les managed to say that without sounding completely stupid was a mystery.

“Hi, Brooklyn.” The guy offered a hand and then withdrew it when Brooklyn lifted his gloves. Besides, nobody shook his hands these days, anyway.

“Hey.” Brooklyn glanced to Les.

“Brook, this is Steven and Catherine fromUniversal Resilience.”

“We’re journalists,” Catherine added.

Brooklyn cast a longer glance at Les, but his trainer only smiled.

“Right.” He wiped his forehead on his arm.

“They’re here to do a feature on you.”