Page 110 of Mean Machine

“But I didn’t want to win that way, Brook! I wanted to earn those belts, not pick them up when you tossed them at my feet.”

“You think you didn’t earn them? Christ, Rose, are you serious? You’d have won anyway. You hit me, you’d have done that a few more times, and at some point I’d have just run out of strength. You are the better boxer. And you want all this more than I do. Because I don’t… anymore. I’m done. I was probably done after Thorne but was too stupid to really get it, so I held on, proved to myself that I can do this, but against you… I never wanted to hurt you. I’d rather have you knock me flat out than raise my hands against you. Do you get that?”

The hardness in Rose’s face broke, and he looked lost and sad. “So what now?”

Brooklyn took him by the neck and pulled him close. “Now you enjoy your turn in the spotlight. Make that money, get filthy rich, let them celebrate you as a hero. Show them what kind of man you are.” They both chuckled. “Maybe not that part, then.” Brooklyn pushed him away and grinned at Rose. “You deserve it more than anybody else. Nobody I’d rather see take those belts.”

“Oh, fuck you, Brook.” Rose’s eyes were watery, and he hugged Brooklyn hard again.

“Same to you.” Brooklyn kissed him briefly. To any onlooker it might have seemed like a strange type of revenge for that very provocative kiss a day ago, but Brooklyn hoped the message was clear. “You know I’ll be there for you, right?”

“Yes, I know.” Rose swallowed and took his hand. “Can I invite you to the victory party?”

“That would be very inappropriate.”

“Oh. Very.” Rose grinned. “Are you coming?”

“What about your girlfriends?”

“Oh, they’re in on that. Nothing wrong helping family out, right?”

Ah, that type of family. Brooklyn chuckled and shook his head. “Nothing at all. You think I can get my CD signed?”

“Cookie signs anything you let her reach with a Sharpie, so absolutely.” Rose put his arm around Brooklyn’s shoulders and led him away.

Round 11

BRINGING THATgiant stuffedsomethingwith him had been a stupid idea. It wasn’t so much an animal as an absurdly googly-eyed purplish-pink sparkly vaguely human figure with a rainbow-coloured horn on its big round head and tiny glittery wings on its back—some kind of nightmare chimera between a unicorn, a dragonfly, and a big-headed doll. But those things were apparently all the rage, according to the lady who’d sold him one, and if he went by the reactions of kids of Hazel’s vague age at the airport, she was probably spot on.

It also endeared him with the flight attendants in business class. Tall, broad-shouldered man dragging a pink atrocity halfway around the globe turned out to be a great conversation starter, though he felt like a liar when he confirmed that, yes, the creature was “for his daughter.” He really had no practical or legal claim to that, and every time he said so, he was painfully aware that it was more a hope than a truth.

But there was nothing else left. They’d dissolved the team with one final party and a golden handshake. Cash, bless him, had taken the very first flight out of McCarran International Airport to race home to Marina, while Joseph had stayed behind to deal with whatever needed dealing with when it came to UPTFN and any stray sponsors, bills, and agreements.

After more than a year where these people had been his chosen family and constant supporters, scattering them to the wind was bittersweet. Any vague hopes that maybe Brooklyn might return to fighting had to stay just that—he couldn’t really explain to them that the very thing that had made him an exceptional boxer was gone, and that it was a good thing.

At least Cash and Joseph were still going to be in London, and maybe they’d meet up, once Brooklyn had found a base for himself. He’d rejected the offer to stay at Cash’s—he felt Cash and Marina should have some time to themselves before he returned to the picture, hopefully as an occasional guest.

Waiting for his plane, he’d managed to book a hotel in Central London as well as a car to get him there, which helped him relax somewhat. He owned nothing but the contents of the big suitcase he was dragging behind him—half of which was boxing kit he’d likely never wear again—and the floppy stuffed atrocity in his arm.

When he left through the Nothing to Declare exit at Heathrow’s Terminal 5, a huge crowd greeted him. He’d been so focused on trying to find his driver (who said he’d display his name on an iPad), that for several stunned moments nothing else registered, and certainly not the army of reporters trying to get him to comment, despite the fact that his short turn with the heavyweight crown had been an almost exclusively American affair.

At some point they’d forgive them for that, and if not, fuck them.

When they blocked his way, he lifted his free hand. “Guys, guys. Come on. You want an interview, talk to my manager.”

And now get out of my way and nobody gets hurt.

He had to shoulder his way through, but thankfully caught sight of a shell-shocked-looking guy in a suit with an iPad displaying “Brooklyn Marshall” and the logo of the limo service Brooklyn had booked.

The driver reached for Brooklyn’s suitcase, but Brooklyn shook his head. He wouldn’t make a guy who was considerably smaller than him carry his stuff. “Just lead the way and get me out of here.”

“Of course! Damn, I thought the name sounded familiar!”

Brooklyn followed on the driver’s heels all the way to the parking lot, with people filming his progress more or less overtly on their phones. Tired boxer with pink atrocity trying to get through a busy airport.

And thank God, everything calmed down once he was in the safety of the big Mercedes.

“Apologies, sir. I don’t really follow boxing.”

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