Page 86 of Mean Machine

A big sigh of relief. “That’s great. I can’t wait to have you home again.” There it was, the warmth, creeping out behind a brick wall of worry. “I’ve missed you.”

“I miss you too.” Now that he could allow himself those thoughts, could allow himself to feel tender and focus on anything else that wasn’t the fight, the strategy, being ready, and fighting a big, mean puncher who’d beaten him once before, he realised that was the truth. He’d had to suspend all those emotions, but speaking to Nathaniel now, they resurfaced. Another advantage of waiting a few more days was that the swelling might be down too. He could even possibly see some bits of New York, buy presents, have a look at theotherBrooklyn, as it were. Surely no more than a few days. He’d have to regroup and rebuild and most of all recover before he could think about another fight. Spend time with Hazel and Nathaniel and really get a taste of what life would be like now.

“I’d better let you rest,” Nathaniel said eventually.

“How’s your case going?”

“It’s all under control. The opposition is being awfully chummy too. After I met the senior partner, I really thought she was going to offer me a job, that’s how nice she was.”

“Ever considered it?”

“I don’t know. I still like working the way I do. Large firms tend to want more of a team player than I often am. I can be quite set in my ways.”

“What about Dion?”

“He’s much more of a mercenary. We’ve been doing this for so long, we are really quite complementary, intellectually. Things that didn’t work out while we were dating work quite well in a professional context. For example, he’s an early riser and I’m a night owl. We can just hand over the paperwork and tasks when one of us is running out of steam. With enough coffee and pressure, we can work a case for twenty-four hours straight.” Nathaniel stopped himself. “But I should let you rest.”

“Maybe, yeah. Joseph said to get some sleep.”

“How do you feel?”

“Somewhere between buzzing and exhausted. It hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“Well, it is a big milestone. The big goal. When we met, you talked about how you wanted nothing else but to beat Thorne. Now you have.”

“Now I have.” Brooklyn finished his electrolytes and started on the protein shake. “Talk soon?”

“Absolutely. Good night.”

“Night.”

Brooklyn switched off the phone but felt restless now. He stood and paced the suite, then ended up standing in front of the picture window and looked across the city. It was confusingly familiar, thanks to all the films set here—yet new and exciting with its skyscrapers that were unlike anything in London and its immense heaving weight and density, but from up here, he could observe it all from a distance. From up here, the city was just buildings, traffic, and light, but no humans.

WHEN BROOKLYNentered Cash’s suite, Joseph was there as well—bent over a stack of newspapers and a tablet, while Cash was talking on the phone in the far corner. A laptop displayed a few dozen unopened emails, and more were dropping in as he watched.

Joseph looked up, then stood. “How are you feeling?”

“Better after my painkillers and breakfast.” Brooklyn glanced over at Cash, who seemed uncharacteristically silent. “Anything interesting happening?”

Joseph nodded at the pile of papers. “That’s press about the fight.”

“Should I look at it? I mean, is it good?”

Joseph flashed a grin. “There’s some jabs in there about the past, yeah, but mostly people seem excited.”

Brooklyn walked around the table and looked at the pile of papers, unsure whether he wanted to risk it. As far as Joseph and Cash were concerned, press coverage sold fights, but none of that should mess with Brooklyn’s head and mental preparation. A journalist in search of a zinger headline could be more cruel than a boxer throwing an uppercut—and there was no way to get back at them, unlike with the other boxer.

Admittedly, that was the part of the game that Brooklyn felt least equipped to cope with. He still expected them to dig up people from his past and give them ninety minutes in talk shows to trash him, and cover stories and double-page splashes for the dirty laundry. But even without that, the headlines about Proud Britannia twisting the ancient laws of Parliament to the breaking point, dealing ruthlessly with dissenters and any resistance they encountered, were enough to turn even a settled stomach. Rupert Edwards got a lot of exposure because the press considered him the steel fist in Jonathan Jones-Williams’ velvet glove. Seemed he was tipped to become Chancellor of the Exchequer or Home Secretary or Foreign Secretary in yet another Cabinet reshuffle to make that role all but official. Ugh.

Joseph watched him, but without any judgement at all. Joseph was good at merely observing and always seemed about two steps ahead. “It’s painfully obvious that there aren’t many boxing writers left who know what they’re talking about, but those who are left were impressed. One called you the ‘most complete boxer of your generation.’”

Brooklyn couldn’t help but grin. “I’ll take that.”

“I figured.” Joseph reached for the tablet and tapped it alive, then lifted it so Brooklyn could see it. The fight was front-page news on one of the nasty right-wing rags in the UK—a big photo of an admittedly tremendous shot that had Brooklyn’s arm fully extended, his fist connecting with Thorne’s jaw, whipping his head to the side, with “DRAGAN-SLAYER!” superimposed.

Brooklyn winced inwardly and hoped Thorne didn’t end up seeing this. “That’s some bullshit.”

Joseph shrugged. “It is what it is. They liked it too. Lots of talk about you ‘conquering’ the States now.”

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