Page 66 of Mean Machine

“Absolutely. We found a gym in East London. The location is good, and the standards are decent.” Santos glanced meaningfully at Cash.

The waiters arrived with the food. Considering the sizes of the steaks, they were devouring half a cow between them.

“You can join us tomorrow. We won’t be doing much apart from stretching and some running, because Rose is still beat up, but so are you.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Great. A car will pick you up at eight.”

Brooklyn regarded the steak a waiter set down before him, the expanse of perfectly grilled meat, and again it struck him that he’d chosen what to eat and how much.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Nathaniel watching him. It warmed him strangely—both that Nathaniel kept his distance and that he made clear he was still very much interested. This time it was Brooklyn’s choice, and he was recovering enough from the fight and all the sudden changes that a relationship became a distinct possibility. Nathaniel just did what he did: dress very nicely, be attentive, be present, be generous with his time and resources. Brooklyn quite enjoyed being courted in that very polite, hands-off kind of way.

After the food, Santos was the first to get up, and Rose and Em followed. Early training tomorrow, and Santos believed religiously in eight hours of quality sleep. Nathaniel ordered a bottle of red wine and glasses for Cash and himself, while Brooklyn stuck to water. Nathaniel also asked for the bill, waving Cash off when he offered to pay for it.

“ISU can’t have been happy to lose you, Cash.” Nathaniel poured wine first for Cash, then himself. He placed his long, elegant fingers against the glass and studied them, as if admiring the contrast between pale flesh and bloodred wine. “I wonder, though, if there are other reasons for you to leave. Bad blood, dirt that could make its way into a courtroom.”

“Maybe there is between Brook and ISU, but I have nothing.” Cash glanced at Brooklyn. “I understand that Flackett and Miller had a heavy hand when it came to discipline.”

“What did he do? Enough to press charges?”

Brooklyn shook his head and pushed away from the table. “It’s over now.”

Cash reached over and placed a hand on Brooklyn’s arm. The gesture was perfectly natural and not in the least patronising or loaded. “I don’t know details, but I saw Brooklyn before and after. He wasn’t the same man afterward.”

Nathaniel winced. “I know. Flackett’s history with ISU goes back a long way. He’s also been promising to deliver another champion, and ISU will back him on that count.”

Cash shook his head. “Yes, I don’t want any part in that. That’s one reason I quit.”

“The other is Brooklyn?”

Cash glanced at Brooklyn and nodded. “He’ll beat Thorne, and then….”

“Then what?”

“I don’t want him to end up with the Don Kings of the sport, who’ll take all his money and spit him out when they’re done with him. I’m a small-timer compared to the star managers, but at least I won’t feed him to the wolves for a few million pounds and fifteen minutes of fame.” Cash emptied half of his wineglass. “Certainly not after what he’s been through.”

Nathaniel seemed to consider that, sitting perfectly still, then regarding Brooklyn. “I’d suggest you don’t immediately announce that you’re working for Brooklyn.”

“No. For the moment, Brooklyn’s off the radar, though the press is digging for him. At some point, they’ll need to get access, and then the cat’s out of the bag. I’d rather give them controlled access than see them turn against us and they end up cheering for Thorne.” Cash sighed and stood. “We better get home. It’s been a long day.”

Nathaniel stood too, and Eric went to get their coats. Nathaniel offered Brooklyn his hand, and Brooklyn shook it. It was the first time in seemingly forever that they’d touched, and maybe it was the look in Nathaniel’s dark blue eyes or the skin contact or still the rush of freedom, but Brooklyn’s balls tightened pleasantly. “I got a phone now.”

Nathaniel hesitated, then smiled and kept holding Brooklyn’s hand. “Give me a call or text me. For any reason at all.” He took his hand back and fished out a card with his details on it. “I would enjoy spending more time with you.”

Brooklyn couldn’t help grinning. “I’ll do that.”

FOR ALLhis high standards and strictness and pure inventiveness when it came to activating muscles nobody had ever used in the history of mankind, Santos was never truly mean or brutal or volatile.

It wasn’t long until the light post-fight training regime morphed into all-out in-between-fights training. The new gym’s aged brick walls were almost depressingly bare-bones, but it had a ring, bags, ropes, changing rooms, and a shower.

Santos guarded the premises like a watchdog during the morning hours, which was when they had the place to themselves, apart from the occasional sparring partner who came in from the outside to train with them and go a few rounds. The only people who had access otherwise were Cash, a cleaner, and presumably the owner, a square-faced black guy who looked like a boxer about twenty years and eighty pounds ago. He sometimes came in to watch, chat with Santos, and then vanished again.

At noon one day, Brooklyn was sitting on the bench, sports bag between his feet, waiting for the driver, when Cash came practically bouncing in. Brooklyn stood, vaguely amused at how happy Cash looked. “What happened?”

“We have Thorne’s signature on the paperwork. The fight’s agreed and approved as a title fight.” Cash beamed at Brooklyn, making him laugh.

“Good news. When?”

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