Page 84 of Mean Machine

Once in the car, Joseph pulled out his phone and quickly gave Cash an update. “He’ll tell the press so they don’t worry too much about you.”

Which was probably fair enough, considering Brooklyn had missed the after-fight press conference. Had Thorne attended? And if he had, what had he said? Was he all right? Did it give him satisfaction that the first opponent who’d knocked him out had barely walked away from the ring under his own steam?

“Can you call Thorne’s team? Check on him?”

“I’ll do that, but first I’ll get you back to your room, make sure you take your pills, and tuck you in. Then I’ll check on Thorne. And, actually, Derek. He made a bloody hard call there.”

Figured that a trainer would arguably feel more for a fellow trainer than his boxer.

“I thought it might have been your towel.”

“If I’d known about the fracture, I’d have stopped it. But you were still moving properly, and Thorne looked worse.” Joseph sighed and shrugged. “That cut worried me, but I’d have taken my cues from you once you were back on the stool.”

“Ever thrown a towel?”

“Twice, with amateurs. Sometimes a man is too bone-headed to realise how badly he’s getting beaten up, so as the trainer you need to step in. It’s not a call anybody makes lightly. The ref should have stopped it, that was a mistake, so Derek had to do it. I don’t envy him the flak he’s going to get for that, stopping the fight of the year.” He gave another deep sigh. “One of my guys broke off all contact with me because he thought I’d robbed him of a victory. I hope he found a trainer who’s smart enough to not let him get wrecked needlessly. The other one sulked on me a bit for a few weeks but eventually came round to it.” Sharing stories like that was such a rare occurrence with Joseph that Brooklyn figured there might be something there that Joseph felt he needed to know.

“I might have sulked a bit myself.”

“If you didn’t absolutely believe in your own victory, you have no place in the ring. Not against a guy like Thorne, who frankly has no idea how to lose. But that faith can get dangerous. As a trainer, I need to honestly tell you I have every conviction you’ll win, and at the same time protect you from yourself—much more than from your opponent. Everybody in boxing knows that… but outside boxing, that’s different.”

Crowds of reporters were waiting outside the hotel, and Brooklyn groaned. No use kidding himself that they weren’t here for him.

“I should have remembered to bring you sunglasses for those bruises,” Joseph said calmly.

“No problem. The only thing that would hide them is a bloody welding mask.” Brooklyn opened the safety belt and pulled the hood of his top into his face to protect himself, but he didn’t fool himself as to what it could do against the serious-looking camera equipment. “You go first.”

Joseph did. His forbidding, no-prisoners-taken aura helped cut a wedge into the crowd, and Brooklyn followed in his wake. Only by virtue of his size and height did he not get jostled—journalists were aware of the punching power of a heavyweight, especially when annoyed, and none of them risked it, because violence was what Brooklyn did for a living—but the shouting for his attention, people begging, demanding more than “I’m fine” and “this was a routine check-up” and “I feel great,” when all Brooklyn’s sore brain and body wanted was sleep or a long soak in a tub, or sleep in a bathtub while soaking—felt like wading through eager, rapacious molasses.

Resentment rose. He’d given them everything he had. He’d been beaten up, everybody would be able to see that when they rewatched the recording—they’d had the press conferences and the access to him training, the interviews, the “One day at the gym with….” soundbites stuff. And they still wanted more—still suspected he might have more to give that he was withholding from them, when he really didn’t.

What more do you fucking want? My fucking life?

Joseph must have sensed the shift in his mood from worn-down to exasperated, took that half step back and to the side, and grabbed him hard around the biceps, using his chest and body weight to physically push Brooklyn through the crowd before some random nerd with his camera got himself hurt.

Joseph let him go immediately once they were inside but managed somehow to half shield Brooklyn and half herd him towards the elevators. A couple of people stared openly at him—the main difference between the US and the UK, Brooklyn found, was that no American ever faked not being interested inanything.

Joseph was true to his word—he actually did get Brooklyn all the way back to the suite, even unlocked it for him, switched on the lights, and did a quick sweep of the place, as if somebody might have let in a journalist or other undesirables. “Do you need anything else?”

Brooklyn eyed the couch, but if he sat down there, chances were he wouldn’t manage to get up again and might just sleep right there, which would be a damn shame, because the beds were really nice. “Some calories. I’ll get a shake and a banana from the kitchen.”

“I’ll get them. Shower?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Get undressed.”

Brooklyn chuckled but regretted it. Damn, had Thorne hit him in the throat? He couldn’t remember. Or maybe this was the stage when absolutely everything hurt because his body was staging a full-blown mutiny over the abuse he’d put it through.

Joseph gently shook his head and marched first into the kitchen to get him a protein shake, a litre bottle with electrolytes, the small bottle with painkillers, and a banana. He’d even peeled it and put it on a small plate.

While Brooklyn was still struggling out of the hoodie without trapping his sore face in there, he went to the bathroom and started the water in the shower.

“You’ll turn back the covers for me too?” Brooklyn dropped the hoodie on the couch.

Joseph fussed with the curtain. “Eat that banana. I’ll check in with Cash. Want me to come back in fifteen minutes to check you’re in bed?”

“Really no need.”

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