Page 53 of Mean Machine

Cash saved him, helping Brooklyn out of the gloves and into the robe and getting him past the ropes, where a crush of people waited to slap his shoulder and embrace him.

He eventually managed to get back to the changing rooms, where he sat, suddenly boneless, unable to even lift his arms.

Cash took his hands and unwound the bandages, saying absolutely nothing. After the roar from the crowd, the cavernous and spartan changing room was solace. “Want some music?”

“No, I’m just thinking.”

“Thinking what?” Cash gathered the bandages, moved them from one big hand to the other and finally put them down.

“Thorne wanted me to throw the fight.”

“Really? Wow.” Cash stared at him. “And you didn’t?”

“No. I didn’t.” Brooklyn gave a small laugh. Hell knew where that had come from. Hysteria? Exhaustion. “He was going to buy me out, make sure I was taken care of. Now he won’t. I’m fucked.”

Cash patted his shoulder. “There are others, Brook. Don’t you worry. The judgement was so close; you looked fantastic. There are very few heavies who can last twelve rounds—Thorne barely made it! You’re big news now. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

Brooklyn glanced up and saw nothing but understanding in Cash’s eyes. “That depends on how much I owe them, doesn’t it?”

“I’d have to go check the paperwork. I think you could be getting close. The winner’s purse would have been enough.” But Cash looked dubious himself. “Ah, damn, Brook. Why do you always get the short end of the stick?” Clumsily, Cash leaned down and embraced him.

On top of it, he’d lost the title—he’d merely added a cherry on top of Thorne’s career. And the money could easily have been enough if he had been able to secure a slice of the pay-per-view revenues or maybe a sponsor. But after Odysseus, no sponsor would touch him.

Cash’s phone rang, and he half turned and apologetically raised a hand while he fished it out of his pocket.

“It’s okay. I have to shower.” And damn if his legs weren’t shaking on the way. When he’d finished and got dressed, he came back out, sore hands shoved into the depths of his hoodie. The doctor was already waiting to give him a quick check-up, all business as usual, and told him, “You’ll live,” before packing his stuff and rushing out. He held the door open for Cash, who entered, pushing his mobile back into his pocket, looking a bit grey. “There’s somebody who wants to meet you.”

Brooklyn groaned. “Seriously? I don’t think I can—”

“Not like that.” Cash waited for him to gather up his bag, and outside, two big guards waited to escort them farther down into the bowels of the building, where a limo was waiting in the car park.

A Jag. Brooklyn climbed into the back seat and was relieved when Cash joined him. Plenty of space for the guards, one of which was the driver.

Yet another expensive hotel, but this time, Cash signed him in at reception and handed him a key. “Looks like you’re supposed to relax. Porn channel included. Knock yourself out.”

Brooklyn huffed. “I just want to sleep.”

“Then sleep.” Cash was about to turn away.

“Cash?”

“Yeah?”

“Where are you going?”

“Home? You know, I appreciate the offer, but the wife and I are back together and….”

Brooklyn laughed. “At least until the numbers are in?”

“Well, don’t run away this time, okay?”

Okay?What the hell?

“It’s not like you could go anywhere without a thousand fans wanting you to sign their boobs.” Cash grinned. “Have a rest. Or, hang on.” He reached into his suit jacket and handed him a card. “Call me if you need me, okay?”

Strangely, that didn’t trigger any flight reflexes. Cash trusted him to go up to his room and sleep. Maybe that was his reward, before they dragged him back to the gym tomorrow morning to, no doubt, get his arse kicked—again. This time for losing the title or simply for not dying.

“Okay, thanks.”