Page 92 of Mean Machine

And then there were the parties.

With little else to do, and invitations streaming in, and his “handlers” at the channel telling him that being seen and being out there would be a benefit, he did attend parties in various clubs. There was something about entering the semidark, fake-intimate setting with a bunch of total strangers to drink, dance, and generally stop worrying about his head or the next fight. The truth was, he’d get paid whether he won or lost—all he had to do was show up and fight.

People recognised him, of course, and he might end up with an up-and-coming singer, a couple actors, and some people who were famous because they were famous, in a booth, drinking. It was a good old laugh. Maybe the strangest thing about all this was that guys were flirting with him who he would have pegged as straight. Maybe they did it to show how at ease they were with “alternative sexualities,” maybe they flirted with him to attract the women, maybe they were actually interested.

At first, it made him uncomfortable, this being pigeonholed as the “openly gay unified heavyweight champion,” but that was before he realised that everything in America was an intricate social game. Nothing really seemed serious. People would invite you to dinner at their houses in such honest-sounding words that he kept having to remind himself they’d be aghast if he actually showed up. That was the thing with the people; they were all perfectly nice, but he could never completely believe the act. They made all interactions pleasant, but he wasn’t making friends here. He was just playing the game, having fun that meant nothing.

And in many ways, that was a huge relief.

It didn’t seem to matter that the cut where he’d had stitches stood out angrily on the selfies. It didn’t matter that next to these fit, lithe, gym-toned bodies, his wasn’t anything but hulking. People courted him in part because he looked so different, sounded so different, had clearly lived a different life. At the same time, he enjoyed their energy and their positive attitude to everything—he’d rarely, if ever, had so much fun, though obviously being worth an obscene amount of money helped with fitting in.

That was, of course, before he realised that not everybody was their own master. The absence of guards masked the fact that stewardship was widespread in America. Unlike in Britain, where it was mostly a way to prevent the skint state from having to spend billions on new prisons, in America stewardship had grown straight from student and consumer loans that had spiralled out of control, and then become a standard financial product like any other if no assets or guarantor could be found. There was also no shame in it—Americans talked about their remaining terms with the same frankness with which they discussed second car loans, mortgages, and overall net worth or investment strategies. CEOs were under contract for those prestigious MBAs, actors were under contract with their studios, who’d heavily invested in their careers, musicians belonged to their labels, and apparently pretty much every active footballer was owned by the NFL.

Joseph supervised from a distance and told Brooklyn that the partying was absolutely fine right now but would end the moment they were back in training camp. There was still time. Negotiations were ongoing with a hard US heavyweight called Joshua Reid, whose team was trying for a bigger fee but seemed very eager for their champ to have a stab at Brooklyn. Joseph wasn’t keen on the fight. His view was that Brooklyn should have some easier opponents to bolster his career and get a few largely risk-free paydays before they took on a truly dangerous fighter.

Obviously, though, UPTFN insisted on getting their money’s worth and much preferred yet another “battle of the giants” narrative. Brooklyn didn’t mind either way. He’d see off whichever of the crop of young contenders was coming for him. None of them had fought Dragan Thorne twice, so all their big-mouth bullshit would still need to be proved in the ring, regardless of whether they came from legendary gyms and had undefeated records that had been won against weak opponents.

He was coming back from a club in the grey hours of the morning when his phone buzzed. Nathaniel. Oh boy. Their last few calls had been shortish because they were both busy. Nathaniel had an uncanny ability to call him when he was in the middle of a gig, a party, or taking a nap after a long night. And Brooklyn more often than not ended up on voicemail because God knew Nathaniel was working crazy hours with his case ongoing.

“Hey, how are you doing?”

“I’ve been better.” Nathaniel sounded tired, his voice lacking its usual resonance. “You seem to be having a good time, if I go by social media.”

“Uh. Yeah. You’ve been following me?”

“Eric showed me this Instagram and Twitter thing. And with hashtags, it’s quite astonishing how many pictures of you are out there.” Was that a chiding tone? Bloody fucking damn it, when had he started to second-guess what Nathaniel said? Well. Maybe he’d never really stopped, considering how they’d met.

“Sounds like you don’t approve.”

“Oh, Brooklyn.” Now he used that resigned tone of an overworked mother too exhausted to deal with an unruly toddler. Worse than a dentist’s drill. “No, it’s fine. You didn’t get much of a chance to enjoy yourself recently, so….” He trailed off, and Brooklyn could hear Nathaniel’s hand rasp over his stubble. “You know that none of this is actually necessary.”

“Yeah, but I’m the world champion now. I have to defend the title, and getting paid more money for that than I could ever have imagined is only a part of it.”

“I know. I know. It’s just, I can’t get over the risk. Which is curious, because ever since Odysseus, I’ve known how dangerous boxing is.”

“That was an accident.”

“It’salwaysan accident. Nobody signs up to get beaten to death.” Nathaniel’s voice gathered some strength. “I managed to compartmentalise all that. I know you’re not actually a violent man, even though you’re obviously capable of great violence. I wanted to keep it separate. Law trains you to keep your facts in nice, clean little boxes.”

Brooklyn’s stomach sank, and he was glad he wasn’t really drunk, merely tipsy. He’d burnt off most of the alcohol on the dance floor. “Do we need to discuss this now?”

“I’ve chased you for the past ten days, and there’s never a good moment. I can hardly send you an email.”

“No, I hate those.”

“See.” Nathaniel only breathed on the other end, and Brooklyn wondered why his breath sounded somewhat laboured, as if he was suppressing sighs or… tears? “I’d do anything for you, Brooklyn. I’d wait as long as it takes. I’d watch you having fun with all those people and be glad for it. You look like you’re having a great time, and what kind of man would I be if I were jealous of whoever shows you off on their Instagram like a prized stallion?”

“Except you are?”

“It’s… not my world.”

So he was. Which was ironic, considering Brooklyn had resisted all temptation. The last thing he needed was being seen with a local rapper or artist or socialite in a romantic clinch, even if that might raise both their profiles. Some might call him naïve that he preferred to be famous for boxing rather than who he fucked or who fucked him, but while they were all in the limelight, and with smartphones everywhere, there was no privacy. Besides, the thought that they might be under contract always served as a bucket of ice water.

“You have no reason to be jealous. I’m no longer fifteen. I have a grip on my hormones.”

“You said you’d like to date somebody because you chose them.”

“Yeah, and that was a day or so before I told you I’m happy to date you.”

---