Page 32 of Mean Machine

“It’s Cuba,” Emilio said. “We don’t have pros. We’re all amateurs.”

Rose joined them. “Showing you the ropes will be interesting.” He grinned.

“Same number of fights?”

“Yes.” Rose reached for a water bottle. “Haven’t fought many southpaws.”

“Thorne is versatile. He fights orthodox and sometimes switches to southpaw,” Emilio said.

“He’s not all that,” Rose stated.

“My boys used to spar with Thorne,” Santos said. “But Rose knocked him flat on his ass once. Thorne didn’t take it very well. Will you take it better, Brook?”

Brooklyn laughed. “I’ll take what he can give me. And his clone here too. I think we’ll get along great.”

Which, of course, included a lot of pain. Santos put them through their paces with bag work, a subjective hundred miles of skipping, and endless rounds of conditioning.

“British boys are soft,” Santos said as Rose dropped a medicine ball on Brooklyn’s stomach muscles until Brooklyn wasn’t sure if he wanted to eat anything at all ever again. He’d never minded the training, but compared to Les, Santos just added another ten to fifteen percent of pain.

He had breakfast and lunch with the Cubans, ran, sparred, and hung out with them. If Santos hadn’t insisted on some additional training in, of all things,yoga, life could have been perfect. As it was, squat little Santos forced him through some fiendishly difficult exercises in Iyengar yoga—or “poses” as he called them. Or Santos was taking the piss.

As easy as they looked, they demanded a perverse amount of control over muscles he’d never consciously used. Like toe muscles. The yoga made Brooklyn hurt in all the places the boxing hadn’t managed to reach, but the focus he needed for it left him feeling calm and clear, his head quiet for once. The rage dulled, and the concentration of the poses removed all other concerns, much like a fight did. Only this was quiet, and he came out of it strangely rested and relaxed.

The Cuban heavyweights accepted the yoga and the other aspects of the new training regimen without protest. From what he gathered, they were under some kind of temporary stewardship contract too—to sponsor their immigration process, but obviously not without the sponsors extracting their pound of flesh.

Two weeks in, Brooklyn began to find his feet again. He managed to do more than stagger out of the gym and fall into bed. He hadn’t seen much of Nathaniel.

If you want to sleep in my bed, you’re welcome, but it’s not part of this.

After an earlier break than normal and a shower, Brooklyn went in search of his host and found him in a study on the first floor, his Mac open and glowing in the tropical afternoon. Books were piled left and right, and papers covered all the flat surfaces.

What was, however, most surprising, was the presence of a woman who stood quietly to the side. The focus of her attention was a young girl in Nathaniel’s arms. Nathaniel was leaning back in the office chair, resting the sleeping toddler against his chest.

Nathaniel looked up. “You’re back early.” He straightened and handed the blonde girl to the nanny. “Thank you. That will be all.” Brooklyn saw something in his eyes. Worry? Fear? Guilt? Being caught out? “How’s the training going?”

“As if Santos doesn’t tell you.”

“Well, that’shisassessment. I’m curious to hear yours.”

Brooklyn glanced at the nanny carrying the child out. The kid didn’t even wake up.

“I guess they’re worth their money.”

“ISU went out of their way to give you the best possible partners to beat Odysseus.”

“And Thorne, yeah.”

“Well, yes.” Nathaniel chuckled softly. “Thorne is the logical next step. I can’t imagine he would be able to resist the notion of putting the uppity newcomer in his place. Especially since you keep provoking him.”

“He can certainly try.” Brooklyn shrugged. “So what’s with the kid?”

“No comment.” Nathaniel’s thin-lipped smile betrayed he hated that Brooklyn had seen him like that at all. So what next? Was there a wife waiting in the woodwork?

“Last time I checked, kids don’t grow on trees.”

Nathaniel stood. “Why are you here?”

“Reporting on my progress.”

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