Page 19 of Mean Machine

“Good, then fast-forward. I don’t need to see him toy with his opponent. He surely won’t with me.”

“YOU READY?”Les checked his signed-and-sealed gloves one last time.

Brooklyn tapped them together. “Ready.”

The door opened into the darkened hall—the ring a square of glaring light. A sudden roar rose, tightening his guts. Jesus fuck, he’d never get used to a hostile crowd, that unnerving sound it made. Thousands of shouts merging into one utterly terrifying growl.Die, die, die, it chanted in his head.Bleed and die.

Twenty-thousand people, some on their feet, some on their chairs, even, shouting at him as he made his way down the aisle. No more than thirty, thirty-five steps, all in all, but it was like wading through molasses.

Okay, that was a lie. I’m not ready.

Once in the ring, though, the nervousness faded. Gloves up to protect his face, he circled Esch, watched him, but when Esch seemed not really committed to the fight, Brooklyn went in to drive him into a corner.

Esch struggled from early on, opening himself up when he attacked, and Brooklyn felt it was going well when his own counterattacks came in true. He kept pushing, drove Esch through the ring. By round three, Esch was beginning to fade. First knockdown in round five. Esch recovered a little, and the sixth round was hard on them both. In the seventh round, Esch went down and was counted out.

The hostility reached fever pitch. The hall booed Brooklyn, who forced himself to stare at them when the ref lifted his arm. It was like defying rolling thunder. The hatred was so thick, it was hard to breathe. This wasn’t about boxing at all.

Brooklyn spotted a TV camera. “Thorne, you’re next!” he shouted into the camera, and then joined Les, who immediately ushered him out of the ring.

The interview went by in a daze. Of course it was Cash who answered the journalists’ questions, spoken in comically accented English. ISU wasn’t going to risk letting him speak off-script into a live camera. Brooklyn kept his face straight, looking as imposing as he could with shaking legs and adrenaline still burning through him.

“Absolutely. Brooklyn will become champion. No doubt about it. He’s singularly talented and utterly committed. We’ll see a lot more of him—prime time,” Cash said with a smile.

INSTEAD OFback to his quarters near the event hall, Les took him farther into Hamburg. Curtis was in the car with them, as usual, but he didn’t comment. Brooklyn blinked when the car stopped at a red light and he saw the posters for the fight. Himself with balled fists, facing off Esch, and a big neon square with the name and date. There weremanyposters. The city was full of them.

Brooklyn stared, and despite the heaviness in his muscles, that gave him a huge buzz.That’s me. I’m all over the city.Maybe this little tour by car was his reward for winning.

The car stopped outside a restaurant. Steaks. Pseudo-American steak restaurant of some stripe or other. Les guided him out. It was a bit late for the place to be crowded, but the restaurant was still doing brisk enough business. “Eat whatever you want,” Les said and indicated the back of the restaurant. Possibly towards the toilet.

Brooklyn settled in the fake red leather seats. “What should I get for you?”

But Les was already off.

He studied the menu, considered all the things he should, strictly, not eat—just about everything was battered and fried—when somebody slid into the booth opposite him.

The protest died in Brooklyn’s throat.

Nathaniel. The man wore his usual grey suit but no tie, top two buttons open. “Please, by all means, I don’t intend to spoil your meal.”

Immediately a waiter dashed close, smelling money.

Hard not to take the twelve-ounce medium-rare steak and the potato skins when they were offered. Brooklyn ordered a salad too, and a large bottle of water. He watched Nathaniel’s fingers slide down the menu, noticed that his first finger was somewhat crooked. And he wore no rings, no jewellery.

He turned in his seat, spotted Les and Curtis a few tables away, Curtis watching him closely.

“Don’t worry about them. They are my guests, but I did ask them to give us a little privacy.”

“Like we’re on a date?” Brooklyn lifted an eyebrow. The waiter gave them both a broad smile and sashayed off.

Nathaniel’s gaze followed him and then fixed on Brooklyn. “Yes, just like we’re on a date.”

Brooklyn huffed. “Wine and dine and then fuck?”

“If you want to.” Nathaniel folded his hands on the table before him. “But that’s your choice.” The bread basket arrived, and Brooklyn resisted, while Nathaniel took a slice of baguette and lathered it with garlic butter. “On that note, I have no doubt you’ll beat the champion.”

“What are you doing in Hamburg?”

“I came over to watch you fight.” Nathaniel patted his lips with the serviette. “I have a subscription.”

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