Page 97 of Mean Machine

“That does turn off some people,” Rose conceded. He cheerily emptied the wineglass and set it down on a nearby cocktail table. “So, you guys are done?”

“We haven’t talked since we agreed to stop things. I thought maybe it’s only a Pause button, but when you stop talking and get so carried away in your everyday stuff, it quickly becomes its own thing.” And by now it very much felt like they’d split up—maybe as Nathaniel intended, by kind of tiptoeing out of each other’s lives, until they were no longer within sight of each other and it might be harder to turn around and find their way back than simply continuing on their paths, wherever they led.

“Sometimes I think the biggest thing in relationships is to gauge the right distance,” Em said. “How far do you want to go away, how close can you be, how do you move where? You would think boxers were good at that.”

“Raising a family together isn’t actually like lining up a shot.” Brooklyn shook his head, but there was some truth in that, wasn’t there? You had to get pretty damn close to hurt someone. You had to time it right, and the biggest factor was distance—without that, even timing and speed were nothing. “But yeah, I think we’re done. And I don’t know where I went wrong. I can’t give up boxing only because he can’t cope with the risk. I’m taking the damn risk. It’s my choice to make, really. I get that it upsets him, but I’m the one in the ring, it’s my damn life and should be my decision.”

Rose rested a heavy hand on his shoulder, a solid presence, comfortable and strong. “Agreed. You want to box, you box. You want to stop, stop. And now you get to choose.”

Em made a near-triumphant sound. “Nowyou get it, Rose.”

“In your case, it’s a damn waste, but I told you I’d support you even if you got into competitive knitting.”

Em laughed. “Not with these hands, but thanks.”

“So why did you quit? You were making so much progress up the ranks.”

“My heart’s not in it anymore. The excitement is gone. I’d rather support Rose’s career and do my own little thing on the side for fun and the adrenaline rush.”

“Or maybe you worry we’d have to fight each other to see who is the world champion. At some point maybe you wonder which of us is that little bit better? That it?”

Em shook his head. “I’d rather let you have it. But MMA? That’s mine.”

“You’re not even winning.”

“That’s because I’m still learning. I need to get better at actually finishing and grappling. I still default to boxing. Might take a year or so, but I have that time.”

Rose turned to Brooklyn, looking more agitated than angry. “You know how much MMA fighters get paid? At the top? On the undercard, it’s like enough for the bus and a sandwich, but at the top? Half a million. Those people are fucking joking.”

“The sport is what it is. I’d rather get myself a sugar daddy than return to boxing only for the money.”

Now Rose’s face turned into a thundercloud. “Not happening.”

Em smiled, a perfect counterpoint to Rose. “Exactly.”

It was clearly a rehearsed argument. Considering how Rose still responded, Brooklyn assumed furniture had been broken the first time they’d discussed this. And it sure would have been interesting to see them actually come to blows, at least theoretically. They were both fairly evenly matched, though Rose was a bit more flashy, more dramatic as a fighter, while Em was possibly stronger and had stamina for miles. If these guys ever fought for real, in a ring, for a title, and meant it, they’d likely straight up kill each other.

“Well, you can always see how it’s going. If it does end up being competitive knitting, that should be okay?”

“I only want what’s best for him,” Rose groused, but without real passion.

“Same.” Em sipped his wine and glanced around. “How are you finding America, Brook?”

“I like it. Got a chance to visit lots of places where boxing history was made. I thought fighting in Madison Square Garden would have been the ultimate, but then you get to actually step foot into the gyms that made champions.” One thing to read about it, but now another to actually breathe in the sweat. Maybe getting recognised in those places—shaking hands, talking boxing with the old-timers, that had also made a difference. Standing in one of those places with, for the first time, the solid feeling that he had absolutely nothing to prove, that all of these men had seen him earn his place and prove his worth. That came with a sense of belonging he’d never really felt anywhere else.

It was a fucked-up, dysfunctional, awfully exploitative game, one where people got broken and died. It was also a small, exclusive world, and he was part of it. If anybody had an issue with his sexuality, nobody opened their mouth, and that, too, was a relief.

“And who knows, I’m actually optimistic about the future. We have some good talent in the division now. Maybe that will bring people back to the sport.”

“Eh, maybe.” Rose gently steered them away from the entrance to the bar and towards the pool area, which was quieter and also meant people didn’t try to squeeze past three big heavyweights having a heart-to-heart-to-heart. Brooklyn settled in one of the wood-and-canvas chairs and gazed at the pool glowing a magical neon blue in the low light around them.

A waitress walked past, offering what looked like breaded shrimp with sweet chilli sauce, but Rose with a grin and a joke relieved her of the whole plate.

“See, in Cuba, boxers are folk heroes. There’s no money in it, obviously, but the people need heroes, they want to believe in something. In America, there are no heroes. I don’t think England has heroes either. Nobody does. It’s strange.”

“Do you think it’s racism?”

“Maybe. We don’t sound local. England made some fine black boxers. But were they ever heroes?”

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