Page 91 of Mean Machine

UPTFN lost no time putting him on air—first, there was another fight post-mortem, and they’d even dragged Thorne out of hiding to sit with Brooklyn and a moderator in comfortable chairs to talk about the fight as if it weren’t ancient history by now.

“In hindsight, are you happy with your trainer’s decision?”

Thorne laughed, displaying his perfectly straight white teeth and suntanned neck as he leaned back. “Derek made the best decision he could at the time. A boxer has to trust his corner. Nothing changed that evening. Though I think, after watching the fight, that Mr Marshall here might have quit on the chair that same round—Derek was just faster.”

Brooklyn shook his head, but had to grin. What a relief to see Thorne back at his old bullshitting-to-the-camera self. “You know I’ll fight you whenever and wherever.”

“Then your people should talk to my people.” Thorne gave him that big grin that said he wasn’t intimidated, that he still really considered himself world champion material and that he enjoyed his own strength and confidence tremendously.

“I guess they should.”

There was some more chatter, but once the recording was over, Brooklyn managed to find Thorne in the bowels of the studio. He’d come in with only part of his usual entourage—one bodyguard, no wife, no cornermen. “Hey, Thorne!”

Thorne turned around and waved at the bodyguard who’d been shifting on his feet. “No worries. Hey, Brook, how’s the face?”

“Doctors cleared me to fight. What about you?”

“Good.” Thorne actually looked somewhat relieved. “I heard you got a good payday too.”

“Yeah. I sold them three fights. There’s an option for another two.”

Thorne nodded and reached out to pat Brooklyn on the shoulder. It was a heavy touch, but friendly. Nevertheless, something in Brooklyn’s body bristled at the impact—any impact—from those cruel hands. Seemed the masseur was right and the body had a memory, and Brooklyn’s wasn’t happy about Thorne touching him. Thorne looked at the bodyguard. “I really need a Coke. Brook, anything for you?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Just the Coke, then.” Thorne waited until the bodyguard had left. “I’ve always been right about you—you looked good in the ring. The belts suit you.”

“And? Or is there a ‘but’ coming?”

“No, that’s it. It’s weird, isn’t it? Once you’ve fought a man, you’re close. I’ve fought you twice. I had to be an asshole about it during the promo. Nobody wants to see two guys fight who get along fine.”

“I figured.”

“Good. It’s always been my theory that there’s an intimacy between two boxers that’s only one step away from romantic. Though, you’d know more about this than I do. I never wanted to fuck an opponent.”

Brooklyn gave a surprised laugh. “Now that took a weird turn.”

“You ever felt that?”

“Yeah, but not like that. I mean….” He stared at Thorne for a while, tried to read his intentions. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

Thorne broke into his biggest, sunniest grin. “I’m just playing, Brook. Just playing.” The door opened, and the bodyguard showed up with a handful of tiny Coke cans. “You take care of yourself. Enjoy the fame and fortune. You sure earned it. Maybe I’ll see you in the ring soon.”

“What about Derek? What’s the story?”

“Derek.” Thorne’s face became almost serious. “Throwing a towel is a bigger story than a TKO. It gave my fans something to speculate about.”

“You made him do it, didn’t you? Shifting the blame?”

Something around Thorne’s eyes twitched. Anger? Irritation? “I trust Derek, and he trusts me. He had my life in his hands, same as Joseph had yours. Same as that motherfucker Flackett. Don’t trust anybody with your career, but during the fight, you got to trust somebody.”

“So you were shifting the blame to protect your brand.”

Thorne chuckled, patted him on the shoulder again, opened one of those cans, swallowed the contents in one, and tossed the can itself into the nearest bin. The only thing missing from his little show was a whistle as he sauntered off. “See you in the ring, Marshall.”

Before any of that could happen, UPTFN gave him a gig to comment on other boxing matches—something about his accent, they said. He thought they had to be joking, but the Americans constantly mentioned how much they liked the sound of his voice and that British accent, and there was no use telling them that his pronunciation wasn’t the Queen’s English at all. It was more a washed-out London accent, and very much not posh, unlike Nathaniel’s carefully cultivated vowels.

On the flip side, he knew his boxing and could talk about it endlessly. In addition, he was miles ahead of commentators who’d never fought themselves. Things took a turn for the even weirder when he started getting fan mail for those gigs, rather than the boxing.

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