Page 80 of Mean Machine

“I guess it can’t. Though I have no idea who even to talk to upstairs.”

“Saint Sebastian looks after all athletes. Or you go straight to Mary.”

“I don’t think I have a chance to go straight anywhere.” Brooklyn relaxed into the water again. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“You come to Manchester, we talk for longer. All three of us. Santos doesn’t need to know.” Rose sounded playful, and maybe there was that undercurrent again. With somebody as light-hearted and yet earnest as Rose, it could be hard to tell whether he was flirting or just being himself. “It’ll be worth it.”

Yeah, like that. At some point he might have to press the issue to get clarity about what was going on here, but he’d always shied away from that because he’d never been in a position where he could afford to lose a friend.

“Yes.” Rose suddenly chuckled. “I can’t wait for Thorne to get his ass handed to him. That’s one thing he never managed to learn—how to lose. And you’ll do it in front of millions of people, and take all of his titles. That’s one for the history books. I mean, I don’t hate the guy, but he’s very full of himself, considering he’s not that much of a boxer.”

“I’d rather fight him now than when he’s deteriorated further.”

“The timing’s good,” Rose agreed. “Promise me you keep hold of those belts until I get there.”

Brooklyn laughed. “Will do. You might have to share with your brother.”Like, I assume, everything else.

Rose hesitated again, and the weird tension was back. “One step at a time. But trust me, I’ll take good care of them.”

Brooklyn glanced at the clock on his phone and groaned. “I’ll have to cut you off there. I have a massage booked in five minutes. We’ll talk soon?”

“Yes, soon.”

Brooklyn ended the call and quickly washed his hair and scrubbed himself down, then wrapped himself into one of those very nice hotel bathrobes that were generous enough that even he fit in there, and towelled his head, face, and legs. By the time the masseur knocked, Brooklyn felt he was presentable, so he opened the door.

The masseur gave him an up-and-down look. “Where can I put up the table?”

“Over there.” He sat down on the couch while he watched the man bring in the massage table, free it from its bag, and quickly put it up. Tall and wiry, very tanned, the masseur was at least fifty, with dark silver hair. The main attribute Brooklyn had learnt to appreciate about masseurs was their hands—the bigger and more powerful, the better the massage. Good thing that this guy came highly recommended by a number of athletes, and apparently, other performers, because his rates were eye-watering. And from the questionnaire Brooklyn had had to fill out first, the man knew pretty much his whole medical history.

Finished with his setup, the masseur motioned him closer and opened a very large towel for Brooklyn. “You can get undressed now, sir.” With the help of that towel as a shield between them, the man got him on the table naked without a moment of immodesty, which was an almost laughable amount of care and concern, considering Brooklyn’s past, but it had the strange effect of relaxing Brooklyn as he lay on the table covered by two of those soft towels.

The man rested a heavy, warm hand on Brooklyn’s covered back as he walked around the table, seemingly never breaking contact.

“We’ll do a restorative and relaxing full-body massage, and if I encounter issues, I’ll resolve them one by one.”

“Sounds good,” Brooklyn mumbled into the table’s head piece.

The man adjusted the top towel, then stood near Brooklyn’s head, rubbed some oil on his hands, and began with a light touch to his shoulders, his touch growing firmer and leaning more of his weight into the movements as he progressed. Brooklyn groaned with pleasure at some of those movements and was glad he was face down, because the way this was going, he’d be drooling before it was over.

Relaxation hit him so hard that he felt floaty, at the same time inside his body and nowhere near, really. He felt sleepy and boneless when the man helped him turn onto his back without any of the towels even so much as being put into disarray.

“Slowly. That’s good.”

He tried to help the guy—working that much muscle on a client had to be exhausting, so he lifted his arm when the man was beginning to focus on that.

“No, put that down. I carry that weight,” the man said.

Which proved harder than expected, giving up control over each arm and leg in turn, and he took several admonishments before he could obey on that purely physical level. He’d had massages before of course, usually to deal with a tight muscle, but this guy was nothing short of a miracle worker, his grip both intuitive and precise, and Brooklyn didn’t even have to tell him what was tight or hurt, or to go harder or just a little to the left, because he seemed so tuned into Brooklyn’s body that Brooklyn had the quite disconcerting sense that his body and the man were having a conversation Brooklyn wasn’t privy to.

Now on his back, he at first watched what the masseur was doing through slitted eyes, but then decided he was too relaxed to pay attention with anything but his skin. Those strong, warm hands spent a very satisfying amount of time on Brooklyn’s neck, then gradually moved to the chest muscles, tracing the direction of the muscle fibre and stretching out what felt like tightness—especially after he’d worked on the back.

The masseur had a beautiful fluid style, barely pausing, never moving anything abruptly, never breaking skin contact, and always moving the towels so Brooklyn was as covered as necessary and never felt exposed. He put every joint through its full range of motion, and by now he didn’t have to admonish Brooklyn to let him drive—once his chest had been done, Brooklyn could have been poured down a sink and happily mingled with the ocean.

The masseur then worked on his belly and sides, and that was when something released. Brooklyn couldn’t have placed that pressure, had no idea where it came from, which was unsettling because he normally knew exactly what was going on in his body, constantly kept part of his awareness on muscles, breath, balance, but suddenly a huge emotion welled up—it felt like bone-deep, physical sadness and spikey, burning hurt, and both dug their way out of his body, flooded everything, and as much as Brooklyn hated it, most of the warmth and relaxation prevailed and he lifted a hand to his face and sobbed, tears suddenly streaming from his eyes as if he’d rubbed them with chilli.

The masseur came back up to Brooklyn’s shoulders, rested his burning hot hands on his skin. How could his palms be so hot? “Need a moment?”

“Fuck.” Brooklyn wiped at his tears, but his eyes had a different idea—they just kept streaming, and it totally wasn’t like cutting onions. It wasn’t that kind of tears. It was the kind of tears that were full of sadness and pain.

---