Page 49 of Mean Machine

“Oh, that was a beauty of a fight. Pretty close too. I was at my best, then.”

Brooklyn managed a small grin. “Yes, you were good.”

Thorne smiled at him, almost fondly. “I like you, Marshall. You’re tough as nails, you look extremely good on camera, and you have the calibre to give me a good fight. The media will love it.”

“Shouldn’t your manager talk to my manager?”

“I manage myself. Fucking bloodsuckers have stolen enough of my money.” Thorne shook his head. “I’ll even fight you over here in London, on your home turf. If we do a rematch, we’ll do it in America.”

Brooklyn shrugged. “Okay. But you should talk to Cash. You don’t have to convince me—I’m not seeing a penny of the money.”

“Ah, yes. Now we come to the fine print.” Thorne pursed his lips as if pondering how to approach the topic. “You’ll wonder what’s in it for you.”

“I’ll fight you.” And not just because Les pointed him in the right direction. Considering it was a world title heavyweight fight, the purse could end up being enough to pay off ISU and his other shareholders, although the value of the shares would have risen in the meantime and would likely rise during the fight. And if it ended up not being enough, it could be close—close enough to move freedom within reach.

“I’ll also need you to lose.” Thorne lifted an eyebrow. “Take only one fall in your career. I know it’s not easy, but you can make it look good. Hell, we can go the full twelve rounds if you want to, but you need to go down.”

Now that was why Cash wasn’t involved. A big purse to show up and stay down when he was down.

Rock bottom. He wouldn’t even be his own master in the ring now.

“I know what you’re thinking. You hate the idea. But I have a better offer. If you lose, I’ll buy out your contract—what’s left of it after they got your purse. I have a fair idea of your valuation, and I can afford that. Granted, it’s that or another villa somewhere, but I don’t mind. I’ve made a lot of money since I fired my manager.” Thorne leaned forward again. “It would be an awesome fight with a great narrative. The ‘bad boy’ is punished, the ‘good boy’ wins, the world returns to its natural order. You’ll be my sparring partner while I’m still active. You can even go out there and fight. You’re only twenty-seven; you have at least, what, five to eight years left in you? I could even manage you when you strike out on your own after I’ve retired. I’m not a bad guy, Marshall. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Was that the deal—if slightly modified by things like stewardship contracts—that Rose and Em had left behind to strike out on their own? Thorne hated losing. If Brooklyn were to be his sparring partner, he would never be allowed to beat him.

But what other options did he have?

Just being free of Curtis and Les seemed worth it. Leave the country. Hell, he’d even carry the man’s golf bag across the lawn if that meant he could get away from it all. America might be far enough away. Nobody would be able to find him. New start. “You think the remaining shareholders would sell my contract?”

“Everybody has a price. It would allow them to recruit, contract, and train a dozen promising talents. They can even raise those boys to take you on. One day, every champion falls. They all did.”

And wouldn’t Les love that? He shuddered. If he won, he might be free or have to return to Les. In this scenario, by contrast, he’d be out in any case, with a new start, away from a country he’d served once and that had punished him brutally for one mistake. He’d have to start from nothing either way. Ironically, it was the offer of a new start in America that clinched the deal.

“Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll take the fall.”

“Thank you.” Thorne sounded genuine. “You won’t regret it. This is the start of something good, Brooklyn. For you and for me.” He leaned back. “Well, I booked your time for the night, under an alias, of course. Would you like some food? I’m starving. Fucking calorie-counting can wait for a few more weeks.”

Thorne was good company. They had a lot of food delivered from the hotel kitchen. Even the bodyguard joined in. And though Thorne polished off a couple of Buds, he didn’t drink much otherwise. Too disciplined to go on the piss once he didn’t have to maintain his fighting weight—unlike a lot of other boxers Brooklyn had known during his amateur career.

They watched some middleweight boxing on the sports channel, and Brooklyn envied the current rash of talent in that weight class. But the big money was in heavyweights. Lucky him.

“LES, YOUwon’t believe who just called me!” Cash shouted, hobbling down the length of the gym. Les half turned. Brooklyn kept working the bag. Carefully, delicately, trying to get his hands used to impacts again.

“Who?”

“Dragan Thorne. I shit you not. Thorne wants Brook.”

“What the hell for?”

“Ten million purse, fight in London; everything’s ready. All we need is ISU’s signatures on the dotted line. It’s the big time, Les.”

“What about pay-per-view revenue? Sponsorships?”

“Uh, nothing.”

“Is he serious? We’re getting robbed.”

“It all depends on Thorne, and those are his terms. If Thorne pulls out, it won’t happen. And it’s currently not that easy to book Brook for other fights. There’s no hot kid out there who could give him a good one. I could cast the net wider, but any other fight would be a big step down, when all people want to see is the title fight. Shit, Les, this is Dragan Thorne!”

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