Page 2 of Mean Machine

“All right.” He was relieved when Les pulled off the gloves, and he wiggled his fingers in the sweaty red wraps. His knuckles would swell, but they always did. They’d be fine before the fight next month.

He freed the end of the bandage and unwrapped his hands, the left one first and then the right, and tossed the sweat-soaked cotton into the laundry bag. “Can I have a shower?”

Les studied his face for a moment. “Five minutes. I’ll pack your stuff.”

“Wow, you’d do that for me?”

“We’re on a tight schedule.”

“For what?”

“You have an appointment.”

“Fuck. I forgot.” He’d rather have gone back into the ring to finish off another journeyman who had more heart than talent.

“Exactly.” Les smirked. “So keep that charge. Can’t have you fall asleep on this one. She paid good money to get what you’re bringing from that fight.”

Brooklyn groaned but bent down to untie his boots. He pulled them off along with the wet socks, which went into the laundry bag too. He straightened slowly, gaze lingering on Les’s long, muscular form. He couldn’t help but grin at his coach’s exasperated sigh.

“Into the shower, Brook.”

“What?”

“I know exactly what you’re doing here. And it’s a ‘no.’”

Brooklyn huffed and plucked the towel from Les’s neck, delighting in his trainer’s sharp intake of breath.Oops.

“Go.” Les shoved him away, took the towel from his grip, and swatted him on the arse with it. “Get showered, Romeo.”

Brooklyn headed off, noticing, as always, the bars fastened to the window in the shabby little group shower. Considering the part of town, it was most likely more to keep burglars out than people like him in. Gym shower, not much different from the one in the place he’d begun boxing as an amateur. The gym he trained at now was south of the river and nestled in the arches of a Victorian brick bridge that had trains rumble over it every fifteen minutes.

Footballers got the nice locations. Boxers fought amidst crates in the yard behind a supermarket in the nasty part of London, if need be.

Les opened the door and dropped off a pair of jeans and a shirt, along with shorts, socks, trainers, and a hooded sweatshirt to keep his body warm. Brooklyn towelled himself down and assumed his “date” liked the thug look.

Once dressed, he stood in front of the mirror for a few moments, then pulled the hood up and lifted his hands, lightly curled into fists. Yeah, like a Lonsdale ad.

He lowered his hands when the doctor came in for a quick check, asking him if he felt all right, not dizzy, and peering into his eyes with a penlight. All routine. Health check before and after the fight, and constant monitoring in between.

“Car’s waiting,” Les said, opening the door. “You ready?”

“Got something to eat?”

Les offered him a protein bar and led him out, hand between his shoulder blades.

“What about Cash?”

“Schmoozing the contacts, arranging the next fights.”

Which tended to involve expensive clubs and lots of booze. Being a promoter certainly had its perks. “Tell me he’s talking to the editor-in-chief ofBoxing Weekly.”

Les laughed. “I’ll mention it to him. Thought you didn’t like the media?”

“They can suck my dick, but they can also help me get a title fight,” Brooklyn said as they were passing Curtis, who joined them. Sadistic bastard wore his wraparound sunglasses even indoors. Brooklyn had once mentioned it made him look like a twat and received Curtis’s tonfa to both kidneys, hard enough that he’d pissed blood for five days, but not hard enough to incapacitate him. Taught him not to “flirt with the guard,” as Les had called it.

He got in the car between Les and Curtis and peered out the window as they zipped through the streets, going east.

“So what’s my gig?”

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