Page 67 of Mean Machine

“Exactly four months from now. Mind you, his titles are on the line. He’ll fighthard.”

“So will I.” Brooklyn gathered up his bag. “Any news about a trainer?”

“Yes, actually.” Cash’s brightness dimmed a bit. “I found a good one, if you get along with him. He’ll join you tomorrow.”

They left the gym and went to Cash’s car, parked just outside in the cramped yard. Cash made it a point of pride to get him to the gym in the mornings and back home afterward. The rest of the day, Brooklyn did things he’d barely if ever found the time for as a convict—relax or read or watch any of Cash’s gigantic collection of fights. If he wanted to spend an hour with Ali or Foreman, he could. Other things kept him busy too, such as paperwork. After much bureaucratic wrangling, he’d had his social security number reactivated, which meant access to the NHS. All that proved much more exhausting and emotional than it should.

Cash had insisted on private health insurance, as well as life and critical illness cover, in case he got hit in the head too hard and needed care for the rest of his life. Brooklyn didn’t like that Cash had to pay out of pocket for the premiums, but with the use of the gym, Santos’s fees, and some pocket money for whatever else he needed—if it was only a few pounds to buy a pack of cereal or protein bars or a bottle of water—his debts were already racking up, and rapidly, so a few pounds more or less a month barely seemed to make a difference.

That was what he told himself at least—except everything about that reminded him of being up to his eyebrows in debt to ISU, with his itemised quarterly statements making him so anxious he’d stopped opening them after a while. But no more statements. Did Nathaniel keep a spreadsheet on his shiny laptop? Cash never said a word about money after that first chat. But the truth was that the fight had to happen, not just because of pride and hunger for the title, but because it was the only way forward financially.

When they arrived at Cash’s house, Cash turned in the seat to face him. “I’ll have to announce the fight officially. Thorne will issue a statement later today.”

Brooklyn swallowed. “I’ll trust you.”

“It’ll mean interviews. A press conference at the very least. Are you ready?”

“I better be.” Brooklyn released his seat belt. “I’ll do whatever it takes. That’s the rules of the game.”

“Once the journalists are in the room, we won’t be able to control them.”

Brooklyn closed his eyes. Part of his “fame” was tied into that core of pain, the many sore spots in his soul that he himself had barely come to terms with. It wouldn’t take much for an enterprising journalist to dig up those. “I’ll try to behave.”

“Not too much. You are the Mean Machine, after all.”

Yeah, that. Free and less angry now, he didn’t feel particularly mean, but that too was part of his appeal. Thorne had cast him as the heel, the bad guy boxer who had to be subdued by the shining hero. Now the heel had broken out of his shackles. The world held its breath as to what would happen next.

“What’s the purse?”

“Ten million dollars, fifty percent pay-per-view.”

Brooklyn swallowed. Even after tax, fees for trainer, manager, and gym, he’d walk away with at least seven figures from the purse alone. PPV was the bigger money. “That’s generous.”

“Thorne said you told him you have family. What’s that about?”

Brooklyn shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“You’re not going to pay off your ex-wife, are you?” Cash turned farther in the seat until it creaked. “You have to look after yourself first. You need to hire a top team—that costs money. Don’t go crazy like some and buy all your school friends houses and cars. If this is your last fight, you need to make sure you can live off the money for the rest of your life.”

Brooklyn opened the car door. Cash was right. Hazel wouldn’t need his money. She was being raised by a man who wasn’t poor by any means. It would be silly to compete with Nathaniel for a child he barely knew and whose very existence had neither been his decision nor had it been planned. If anything, having his own money meant reclaiming some of the dignity he’d had as an employed cop who’d been able to buy a round for his friends at a local pub. He would no longer be indebted to his friend and his lover to a six-figure tune… and counting.

“Brook?”

Brooklyn turned and waited for Cash to waddle around the car. “No, I don’t think there’s any point to getting back in touch with Shelley. She’s moved on.” The biggest surprise maybe was that he didn’t hate or resent her for abandoning him. Like everybody else, she hadn’t exactly had a choice.

Cash took his arm in a strong grip, as if to steady himself as he walked alongside Brooklyn. “You should go out more. Have fun. Living like a monk for the next four months isn’t necessary.”

Brooklyn waited for Cash to unlock the front door. “I guess. I’m still worried I might start a fight and kill somebody.”

“You’ve never killed anybody on purpose.” Cash opened the door but looked at Brooklyn with a serious expression in his brown eyes. “Though Les said you really wanted to kill Odysseus.”

“I didn’t.” Brooklyn swallowed. “I just lost control.”

Cash turned back to the door and pushed it open wider, allowing Brooklyn to step inside. Laboriously, Cash closed the door behind them. “Then go easy on the alcohol and stay out of fights. Maybe even stay out of the rough areas of town.”

A few short years ago, that would have been a good idea. Then why did it have as much appeal as driving a nail into his forehead now? “I can’t exactly call up a few friends to make sure I stay out of trouble.”

“What about Bishop?” Cash placed his hands on his hips. “I thought you were close.”

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