Page 79 of Mean Machine

“I’ll promise all of that except the last. I prefer to take my time with him.”

Nathaniel lowered his voice to nothing more than a murmur. “That does mean the sooner you can take your time with me, and under the circumstances, that would be my preference.”

Brooklyn grinned. “Understood. I have enough forbothof you.”

Nathaniel gave a short laugh, almost a snort, but there was no derision in it. “Talk to you very soon.”

“Yes, soon.”

Brooklyn put the phone within reach of the tub and stripped down completely. He stepped on the scales, mostly because he’d been doing that every time he’d been in the bathroom—ever mindful of his fighting weight, even though he didn’t have to worry about that at all tonight. He finished one of the bottles of water and then stepped into the tub and slid down into the vaguely vanilla-scented water as fast as the heat would let him.

Finally, something like peace and calm to think of nothing much—his thoughts were just drifting, going back to the weigh-in, further back to training in Cyprus, the easy companionship there with Nathaniel, the nerves before the flight out, worrying whether Joseph had packed everything, but Joseph ran a very tight ship—he’d yet to fuck up. Ultimately, Joseph and Cash got a big slice of the cake because they had to be good at what they did, and so far they’d earned their shares. Plus, obviously, the fame and glory attached to running a heavyweight champion.

The phone buzzed against the tiles.

Brooklyn reached over, quickly dried his hand with a towel, and took the call.

“Hey, Brook.”

Brooklyn sat up a bit in the bath. “Hey, Rose. How are you?”

“I tried to reach you for the past twenty minutes.”

“I was talking to Nathaniel.”

“I figured it had to be him. You wouldn’t go all chatty on anybody else, would you?”

“I’d go all chatty on you.”

“I believe it. You looked strong. Santos would be happy.”

“How’s he doing?”

“The usual. I’m booked to fight Harrison next week.”

“Good choice. He’s experienced, and you get some mileage up the ranks.”

“I’ll send you tickets via Cash, yes?”

“I’d love tickets, and to see how far you’ve come.”

Rose hesitated, and Brooklyn wasn’t sure why that was. He and Rose had always had an awkward kind of vibe between them. Friendly, yes, but there was always an undercurrent of something else, possibly something more. Among all the boxers he’d known, he’d call Rose a friend, yet there was so little basis for it—they’d sparred, they’d trained together, and weirdly Brooklyn felt he could trust the man, even though they hadn’t exactly spent ages together. “Santos says to not get too close to you, Brooklyn—since we might have to fight.”

“That’s pretty much inevitable, if you keep going the way you have. I should probably have sent you tickets to my fight….”

“Oh no. I prefer to see it on the television. So I can stop it and see it again.” Rose had a good analytical mind, which clearly served him well in his career.

“What do you think about Thorne?”

“He looked all right. As good a shape as he ever was, but you’ll take him.”

“Bookies say I’ll lose.”

“Bookies are full of shit.” Rose gave an annoyed huff. “Don’t let him get into your head. He was playing games at the press conference. Use that nice counterpunch. He’s not going to see it coming or defend against it.”

They had drilled that forever, and Brooklyn had refreshed it in Cyprus—all he needed was the right timing and distance to deploy it. “We’ll see.”

“Damn. I wish I could be there, Brook. Hold your towel or something. But I have faith in you. We lit a candle for you in church, not that you need it, but some spiritual help can’t hurt.”