Page 51 of Mean Machine

Unlike Odysseus, he wasn’t a man Brooklyn’d like to go to the pub with, at least not this version of him. In the hotel, he’d been likeable and relaxed, but out here, he radiated a presence, and while it appeared menacing to Brooklyn, he could at the same time see how it must look to men who didn’t have to go mano-a-mano with him. Reassuring. Solid as a tank.

For a moment, Brooklyn doubted he could do it. He had a visceral reaction to the idea of hitting another man outside sparring. While demolishing Thorne would be like taking down a concrete pillar with his bare hands, he couldn’t shake the image of Odysseus lying on the ground, something dark running out of his ear. He didn’twantto hit a man that hard again.

But he wasn’t really here to win.

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.

And that suited him fine. This way, he didn’t risk killing anybody but himself in this fight. He’d worry later about what came after.

At the sound of the bell, Brooklyn let Les push the gumshield between his teeth, tapped his gloves together, and began to circle Thorne.

He took a leaf out of Odysseus’s book. He had replayed their fight a million times in his head, and the grisly conclusion twice as many times. By nature, he was more the attacking type, but if he wanted to last against Thorne, he’d have to keep his strength together, be more tactical than he’d ever been.

He kept his guard up, and the first round saw very little in terms of punches. A few jabs, as if they both still had to find their distance, and Thorne changed his stance a few times, as if trying to work out whether to take Brooklyn on as a southpaw fighting southpaw or as an orthodox fighter. For all his brutal looks, Thorne had a keen tactical mind. Flexible too. There were plenty of boxers who did one thing well and kept doing it over and over, whether it yielded results or not.

Dragan Thorne wasn’t one of them.

The round ended with Thorne getting in two good hits to Brooklyn’s shoulder, but he danced away gingerly when the bell sounded. A rare moment of grace for the big guy.

Brooklyn sat down in the corner, spat out the gumshield, and took a sip of water. Les didn’t talk to him, didn’t give him any kind of advice. To his coach, he was just a body. Just meat. Despite the fact he’d made it this far.

Fuck him.

Brooklyn glared at Les. “Went to the bookies and bet on fucking Thorne, didn’t you?”

Les shoved the gumshield so hard between his teeth that it slipped past and almost into his throat. “Fuck you, Brook.”

Shit if that didn’t make him want to win. Clearly, Les didn’t give a toss whether he left the ring at all. The bitterness sat so deeply between them now, he couldn’t begin to imagine he’d liked Les at some point. To think he’d once bantered with him. Les was no better than Curtis, except he’d pretended to be nice, to care.

He jumped to his feet so fast his shoulder connected solidly with Les’s, almost spinning him around.Take that, wanker.

Round two, and he was changing tack. So did Thorne. Less guarded, more offensive, they both got a number of excellent shots in. They hurt. Thorne was massively strong, committing that power into a combination that left Brooklyn breathless and hurting in the corner. Hard to remember to break out of that by going lower in the knees, like ducking under a tornado. But he broke free and made it through the round, even though his ribs and sides were on fire.

But it didn’t hurt enough to give up.

Take just one fall in your career.

He owed it to himself and his pride—how far he’d come—to at least pretend he’d put up a fight. This was nothing. Thorne wore his opponents down before knocking them out, and Brooklyn wasn’t nearly there yet. In his long career of pain, this wasn’t the worst beating he’d got by far. Odysseus had given him much worse. His legs were still there, for one. A little pain only spurred him on.

And fuck Thorne too.

Round three, and Thorne turned into something from a horror movie. There was no escaping, no respite—the hulking bastard kept coming, kept punching, almost chased him round the ring. Not a moment of rest. He was already pressing for thecoup de grâceand looked intent on delivering it soon.

Sweat streamed from them both, spraying every time a glove thudded into naked flesh. It was pure instinct that landed the hook to Thorne’s temple just as the man was lashing out again. Perfectly timed counterattack.

Brooklyn managed to get a few gulping breaths in when Thorne relented and staggered backward with a look of surprise on his face.

The bell bought them both more time. Brooklyn hurt in too many places to count, but he’d be damned if he showed any of it. He gulped down the water, caught a movement to the side of him, outside the ring.

Nathaniel.

Looking pale and worried and like he might be sick.

He sold you out. He owns part of your contract.

Of course, as a large stakeholder, he has a subscription, dumbarse. Likely comes as a perk with the stake.

Nathaniel met his gaze, and he looked like he was about to jump to his feet and try to reach him, agitated like Brooklyn had never seen him before.

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