Page 42 of Mean Machine

Odysseus awaited him in the ring, white shorts with sky-blue stripes, white boots, blue tape, white gloves. His belt was around his waist, but one of his team members was already taking it off for the fight. In real life, Odysseus came across as somebody he wouldn’t mind going down to the pub with.

He didn’t look scary—just focused and razor-sharp, wide-awake, and in extremely good shape, radiating power and life with an easy, relaxed confidence. He wasn’t flashy at all. Brooklyn touched his gloves, thinking he might end up resenting the man for the pain he’d dish out, but he pushed the thought away.

He glanced at Santos in his corner. Rose stood close too, in a tracksuit, giving him a thumbs-up. Was Les watching from somewhere? Curtis? ISU was certainly watching.

And the audience was packed. Not one free seat in the hall. But the real money came via pay-per-view. Odysseus alone was a big moneymaker with his European following, and the Brits would likely switch on too.

Brooklyn watched Odysseus cross himself and roll his neck. He had a Greek flag crudely tattooed over his heart and a Spartan hoplite helmet high up on his right arm—the dangerous one—sitting atop a shield with a reverse V and two crossed lances, done by a more gifted tattoo artist. A detail he’d never noticed before. Nor had he any idea where in Greece Odysseus was from, or whether he had family.

Dark eyes met his briefly, and then the guard went up and Odysseus began to circle. He stayed out of reach, very well protected, evading Brooklyn’s jabs rather than responding to them. Odysseus didn’t jab—like that most basic of punches was somehow beneath him.

Brooklyn had to work pretty hard to even get into range, but when he did, he managed to get a couple of punches in. Not much, because the man ducked and weaved like a mongoose. That made Brooklyn the cobra, and the thought was sobering. Cobras tended to lose against that kind of opponent.

The first round passed without much happening, and Brooklyn took a mouthful of water and waited for Santos to wash out the gumshield.

Rose patted his shoulder. “He’s a tricky customer, Brook. But that looked good.”

Brooklyn grinned. “Think I can take him?”

“Watch that right hook and you should.”

Brooklyn opened his mouth far enough for Santos to push the gumshield back in. “Go,” Santos shouted at him, and Brooklyn bounced to his feet.

He pushed Odysseus harder this round, used the quick combinations he’d worked on with Rose until his eyes had glazed over and his hands had been too heavy to lift. He managed to get two low punches into Odysseus’s sides, hearing the satisfying, solid slap of a punch that had come in just perfectly.

He could see in Odysseus’s eyes that he’d hurt him, and the man stumbled backward for a few steps. When Brooklyn pushed forward to use his advantage, a blistering combination of punch and hook greeted him. Hurt, but more than ready to defend himself.

Rounds three and four were similar. Fairly hands-off, circling, with Odysseus moving far more, closing the distance only when he saw an opening, but his style was as defensive as ever. Round five, and Brooklyn began to feel the exertion. He pushed harder, extra careful about his defence. With a right hook, he opened up Odysseus’s guard and immediately threw a punch at Odysseus’s face.

From out of nowhere, something hit him like lightning against the temple and eye, and Brooklyn staggered back. The punch—and where on earth had that come from?—shook him down to the back leg, and he completely lost focus, lights spinning, and the terrible, feral growl of the audience made his heart race with panic.

He hit the ground but scrambled to his feet, unaware of any counting from the ref. Everything hurt; strength ran out of him like blood. He shook his head, unaware even of his opponent. The knockdown zinged like an ice-cold shock through him. His eyes blurred and stung.

The round was over, and hands were all over him. He spat the gumshield out. Santos was wiping at his face with a towel, which came back smeared pink. The stinging must be blood. Santos was pushing a cool, wet cotton ball against his eyelid right under the arch of the bone while strong hands were kneading his shoulders. Rose? Relaxing him, touching him.

“That’s bleeding a lot, Brooklyn.”

“Don’t stop it. I’m good.”I’m good.He’d never been cut that badly. Maybe fucking Odysseus had twisted the wrist, or hit him just right.

The force was unimaginable. Brooklyn was sure he’d never been hit so hard. And so fast—he’d never seen it coming. The thought of going out there and taking more of those punches filled him with dread. Maybe he wasn’t going to win this after all.

Santos smeared Vaseline into the cut over his eye and pushed the gumshield back between his teeth.

Round six. Immediately, the ref took his wrists and wiped the gloves against his shirt to remove any dirt from the knockdown. The ref sought Brooklyn’s gaze with his jaded blue eyes, but not without kindness. Something resigned in them: a man who watched young men try to wreck one another.

Brooklyn approached Odysseus much more carefully, hoped strength would return to his legs, but he knew it wouldn’t. It took rest to recover from that kind of blow.

Again, Odysseus kept his guard up high and tight, ready to lash out at any kind of provocation. Fucking counterpuncher, fucking bastard. Brooklyn’s next attack came in well, though. He was stronger and six pounds heavier, and he was going to use every ounce of that. He pummelled Odysseus’s sides and didn’t let him get away. Suddenly they were in an awkward clinch, half embracing, half attempting to get shots in.

When Odysseus rabbit-punched him in the neck, however, Brooklyn tore free and got an uppercut-hook combination in that hit Odysseus perfectly in the jaw and the side.

The man’s eyes rolled, knees giving out like they’d been cut off, and Brooklyn’s first response was to hit the bastard again on the way down. There was almost no resistance. Odysseus’s head wobbled on his neck like the muscles were no longer anchored.

The ref began counting, and there were movements from the Greek, but he didn’t get up again. An odd swaying, then he sank to one side, eyes blinking hectically as if he was trying to clear his vision.

The ref ended the fight and raised Brooklyn’s arm. The crowd jumped to its eighty thousand feet, but as Brooklyn turned to take it all in, his right eye was swelling shut.

There, in the first row, sat Nathaniel, clapping his hands and smiling, pleased, proud, simply beaming. Brooklyn grinned back, glad the man wasn’t freaking out over the blood, and then he spotted somebody moving in the second or third row to the side. He looked familiar in the way a ten-year-old memory was familiar, but at the same time, he looked strange in the turtleneck and tan-coloured chinos. Short-shorn hair. Tall. Broad shouldered.

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