Page 65 of Mean Machine

Yes, of course, he was also a gamble for a few million pounds, and a pretty safe gamble at that, but they could just as well have treated him like a commodity—and they never had. He nodded thanks because he didn’t trust his voice, and instead concentrated on the fruit salad.

After the meal, Cash drove him to the hotel, where they packed up all the stuff Brooklyn had bought with Eric. He wasn’t sorry in the least to leave the place behind—right now what he really wanted was somewhere to relax, away from the public, with no risk of journalists walking into the lobby, somewhere where he wasn’t so fucking exposed and helpless.

The guest room back at Cash’s house faced the garden, which was being redone—a new layer of grass sods had been laid, but hadn’t settled yet or turned into proper lawn, and a pond was dug, but not filled yet. Old trees at the back shielded the property from the neighbours, and Brooklyn could pretend there weren’t any. The area itself was quiet and residential—good for a morning jog and not an area where he’d have to worry about getting run over by a car. A very different pace to Central London. A single bed, a fitted wardrobe. As sparse as the room was, it was luxurious compared to the old gym. Cash dropped one of Brooklyn’s bags onto the made-up bed. “Marina will look after your diet too. She’ll enjoy having an enthusiastic eater in the house. We used to have young boxers stay with us.” Cash glanced around. “None recently, but we still had the extension built in the event that we need it.”

“It’s more than I need, Cash. I’m good.”

Cash beamed at him. “Let me check your papers, and we’ll set everything up so you’re independent.”

Brooklyn handed him the thick envelope with the documents, and Cash skimmed them while Brooklyn stowed away his clothes.

“We should set you up a bank account and get some odds and ends.”

They ended up back in town. While Brooklyn hadn’t been too sure he needed a bank account because he wasn’t earning anything yet, and it felt strange that Cash lent him even the one pound for the necessary deposit, having one helped him get a mobile phone, which was one of the things Brooklyn had missed more than he’d thought possible. Being able to reach people—and vice versa—ironically, felt like a hugely significant step on the way to freedom. And just when Brooklyn had a moment to feel down about having nobody’s contact details, Cash gave him his, muttering, “It’s a start.”

Yes. A start. He needed to stop thinking about the past three years and everything that had come before.

WHEN THEYentered the steakhouse, a hush fell over the crowd. Brooklyn ducked down and was glad when the waiter swiftly guided them upstairs past the Reserved sign. Too many people recognised him, even in jeans and a pullover. His bruises had reached the point when they looked most dramatic but actually hurt less. At least the swelling was down. And this was a nice kind of steakhouse within spitting distance of Smithfield meat market—attracting all the “new media” and consultancy people who made their living near Farrington.

The waiter led them to a private dining area with a table that seated ten. Another waiter lingered there, hands folded before him.

Nathaniel stood from the table and smiled. “Now we’re complete.” He gestured around the table: Eric sat at the far end, more an indulged servant than a true member of the group, Em and Rose, as usual sitting side by side, their thighs brushing, Santos opposite his boxers.

Fate had it that Brooklyn ended up next to Nathaniel, Cash on the other side, and Rose exactly opposite. Rose beamed at him, bruised himself from a hit to the cheekbone—on his sharp and pretty features, it looked like misapplied makeup, more an experimental decoration than a blemish.

They ordered drinks, and then Nathaniel turned towards Cash and Brooklyn. “Cash and I have hashed out the contracts. He’ll walk you through those when you get back home. You might have another attorney look at them before you sign.”

“I don’t think you’d screw me over.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “That would run rather counter to my intentions, yes.”

The drinks arrived—Brooklyn stuck to water, but so did Em and Rose. Brooklyn made eye contact with Rose and glanced down at his large pint glass with ice cubes and the slice of lime. “You’re in training?”

Rose pointed at the bruise on his cheekbone. “We are. We’re signing with Cash to get launched as pros.”

Cash raised his hands. “For the moment at least—I can get you set up right.”

Rose and Em would definitely be assets to the sport. Though it might mean they’d square off in the ring sooner rather than later. Brooklyn wasn’t sure how he felt about fighting men who’d stood by him during his darkest days. “I know it’s what you wanted.”

Em grinned. “Don’t worry, Brooklyn. We’ll be gentle to you in the ring.”

Brooklyn played over the goose bumps with a laugh. He knew what gentle looked like when they sparred. Rose and Em never fought each other seriously, but they were both good technicians, and he’d learnt more from sparring either of them than in years in Les’s gym. “So if Cash’s going to be your promoter too, what about Santos?” He turned to Santos. “Will you train me too?”

Santos measured him. “At the start, yes. Until Cash finds you a different trainer.”

That could only mean that they were already moving the pieces in place to have them all compete for the heavyweight crown. “So, hang on, I’m supposed to take down Thorne and prepare the way for the brothers?”

“You against Thorne is the bigger fight.” Cash reached for the water jug and topped up Brooklyn’s glass. “You’ve already come close to beating him. The world is waiting for the rematch between the Mean Machine and the Destroyer. Rose and Em are nobodies. They have to first ignite people’s imagination. Besides, the boxing associations will not allow a pair of newly minted talent a shot at the champion, regardless of how good their amateur records look. They’ll have to work their way up, just like everybody else.”

“I leapfrogged that too. Somewhat.”

“Thorne technically challenged you. To some, that was a publicity stunt, but it made lots of people lots of money, so they don’t mind a repeat. Besides, you have a pro record with legitimate fights. You’re high profile. The fans want that fight, and they’ll get it.” Cash looked at Santos, who nodded. “If you win, Rose and Em can’t fight you immediately, so don’t worry about that. You should still have different trainers. If it comes to that, Santos wouldn’t be able to stay fair and balanced.”

It made sense, of course, but Brooklyn already missed Santos’s advice and the camaraderie of the Cubans. Hopefully, it wouldn’t happen. There were enough heavies around to keep all three of them busy. So many things could end a boxer’s career. “As long as they don’t have to fight each other.”

“They couldn’t.” Santos leaned closer. “They’ll fight anybody else, but not that.”

Brooklyn nodded. Fighting a friend was hard, but your twin? Your lover? How did you forgive yourself if he got hurt? “But we can train together until then?”

---