Page 52 of Mean Machine

The bell. He took the gumshield and stood, his body aching all over.

Thorne approached like an invading army.

Of course, Thorne knew he’d go down. That was the deal. It was easy to muster a confident swagger if your main concern was looking good on camera.

Brooklyn stood his ground, more defiance than real fighting spirit, but things got ugly when Thorne hit him hard in the face. He staggered back, and only the ropes held him upright.

The ref was between them immediately, and Brooklyn wondered, dazed, what kind of courage it took to slide between two heavyweights when you were a guy older than sixty, all of five foot five, and potbellied. And then to push them apart with all the confidence of Moses parting the Red Sea.

Thorne snarled at him through the gumshield, flashing red plastic that looked like a mouthful of blood and mirrored the red blooming from his split eyebrow. It was a small cut at the outer edge of the bone ridge over the left eye, but of course it bled like a motherfucker, streaming down Thorne’s sweating face.

Brooklyn couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen Thorne bleed, but the picture shocked him. Thorne looked genuinely angry now, blue eyes flashing at him.

No help. No respite. The fight resumed, and Brooklyn practically walked into two terrible punches that almost sent him down again.Jesus fuck, Thorne was strong. Brooklyn felt the strength drain from him, but most importantly, from his legs. Everything was in his legs. The ability to punch hard, the ability to take punches. He felt like one of those weird Japanese fighting game characters whose “life” bar at the top of the screen depleted with every hit they took.

Flashing lights, up and down seemed to want to switch around, and through the confusion, it was terribly difficult to remember why he was here, and why he kept walking into more pain. It didn’t really seem worth it, especially as he’d promised to go down, anyway. Surely it was time now?

The bell saved him again. He found his corner, hurt and confused, closed his eyes and let them touch him and give him water. All he did was breathe, trying to find his strength somehow. But he felt like he’d been run over by a truck. Already. What round was this?

“Well, this won’t be a Thrilla in Manila,” Cash said. “He won’t last much longer.”

“Yeah, it’s gonna be over next round,” Les said. “He’s shaken Thorne’s confidence, that’s all.”

“Want to throw in the towel?” Cash asked. “We can probably get a rematch.”

Les made a noncommittal sound. “Might be a good way out for Brook. People are going to say Odysseus broke his heart. I think they’re right.” Then, louder, with a punch against Brooklyn’s biceps, “Get up and fight, Brook!”

Brooklyn stood at the bell. God, his legs were weak. Thorne was a lot stronger than him. Round six. Halfway there. But halfway where? He had no clue.

Thorne was relentless. He kept pushing, and Brooklyn knew a couple more good hits would finish him.

Then don’t get hit, Santos would say.

Brooklyn smiled at the memory and almost unconsciously ducked under a cross that seemed powerful enough to break his jaw, had it connected.

He went down low and punched Thorne in the liver with everything he had left, once, twice.

The crowd roared as if it had been waiting for him to attack. But the biggest effect this had was to buy him time, because Thorne never seemed to fully recover from the liver punches. Brooklyn attacked to try and end it, but Thorne hurt was still a dangerous man. A few times, Thorne rallied, attacked, but Brooklyn knew better than to let him have his way—he let Thorne punch himself out, kept landing punches himself, but they both gassed out.

Thorne’s lungs were blowing hard, and the short breaks weren’t enough to calm down and recover. Brooklyn felt the same. He had to work harder to make up for Thorne’s advantages, but he had nothing left by round ten. The last two rounds they spent clinching and trying to press for a decision, but they were by far too evenly matched. This was less of a fight and more of a war of attrition, as they both tried to muster small scraps of leftover strength to hurl at the other, but they’d both slowed down and were dead on their feet.

The final bell.

He glanced over at Les, who looked flabbergasted, and Cash, who, despite his bad hip, was beginning the oddest, most touching little victory dance Brooklyn had ever seen. Prematurely, but Brooklyn had to smile when he returned to his corner to await the decision.

Even if this meant Thorne wouldn’t help him in case the earnings weren’t enough, even if the rest of his life was still in ruins, even if he’d stay under contract and ended up being run into the ground like a fucking racehorse, even if everybody hated him but Cash and a few thousand strangers out there in the hall, this was the one thing nobody could take from him. He’d proved Les wrong—he’d lived for this.

Every man has a price.

I don’t, Brooklyn thought.You can’t buy me. You can’t break my heart.

This was his fight, whatever the judges called.

The tension in the hall was unbelievable—so it had to be a close decision. They were called back to the middle of the ring, with the ref taking both their hands.

“And now after twelve rounds of heavyweight championship boxing—we go to the judges’ scorecards: Judge Philips scores it 115-113 Thorne. Judge Carroll scores it 115-113 Marshall. And Judge Martinez scores the bout 115-110 for your unified IBO and still WBA, WBO, and WBC world champion, Dragan Thorne!”

The ref raised Thorne’s hand, and the hall erupted with cheers and applause. Somebody’d had the dramatic sense to drape an American flag over Thorne’s shoulders.

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