Page 72 of Mean Machine

Brooklyn nodded. “Met Nathaniel and stayed at his place.” Cash lifted a curious eyebrow, but Brooklyn waved him off. “Friend of yours?”

“Yes, and he’s your new trainer.” Cash grinned. “Joseph was behind the successes of Carson, o’Doherty, and Hussein.”

“All of those were proper heavies.” The trainer measured Brooklyn. “Not upstart light heavies.”

He’d been called that so often it had no sting at all. Ali had moved up a weight category himself to compete. “Yes, well, I carry that extra weight pretty well.”

“So I’ve seen.” Joseph glanced at Cash. “I’ve trained a couple southpaws, and I focus a lot more on technique than Flackett did.” His lips twitched with distaste at the name. “I can prepare you for Thorne and whoever comes next.”

“Let’s focus on Thorne.” Cash paused when Marina came in with a cup of tea for Brooklyn. Brooklyn nodded his thanks. “Brook, Joseph has only recently become available.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Joseph fixed Brooklyn with that no-bullshit gaze again. “They put me away for a few years. I only just got my licence back, and there will be people who will dig for the dirt, but I’ve cleaned up. There’s no dirt left to find.”

“What did you go in for?”

Joseph didn’t blink. “Human trafficking. I helped some brothers out.”

“And why weren’t you put under stewardship?”

“Too old and too broken. Also, I’m diabetic.” Joseph tapped a slim black case that lay next to his teacup. “Any more questions?”

“Didn’t you get a bit rusty in the meantime?”

“No. I had plenty of time in the can. Trained boxers there too. Some of them might even stir shit up when they get out.”

“He was involved in a rehabilitation-through-boxing programme. He’s still training some of the rough kids in East London.” Cash looked apparently fondly at Joseph. They had to have some history, but Brooklyn couldn’t even guess how soft-spoken and happy Cash and hard-arse Joseph fitted together. Maybe through the black community. Wasn’t Marina involved in charities and the like?

“Yeah, some of them, I figure I’m the first one who tells them what self-control is. Life skills.” Joseph’s tone was so flat Brooklyn wasn’t sure whether he wasn’t being sarcastic.

If Cash vouched for Joseph, he trusted Cash’s judgement. High-grade trainers weren’t exactly a dime a dozen, and if Cash thought Joseph was good enough to train the boxer who’d hand Thorne his arse, then Brooklyn would go along with that. One worry less. Of course, the press would get into a feeding frenzy about an ex-convict training an ex-cop, but Joseph didn’t look like a man who’d fall apart under pressure. In fact, he had a killer’s eyes. He wouldn’t be intimidated, and from the calm emanating from him, it would take a lot for him to lose his shit.

Brooklyn reached for his tea mug. “All right, I’m in.”

“You guys will have a few sessions before we have to do our first press conference.” Cash pulled out his phone and checked the calendar. “Next Saturday. Hotel is booked. We’ll get Brook ready and then fly out to New York a week or so before the fight. It’s all coming together.”

Brooklyn’s stomach tightened. This was starting to feel real. It all seemed to weigh heavier on his shoulders—all those decisions were his now, in theory at least. In practice, he was happy to follow Cash’s lead. He took a mouthful of tea and put the mug down. “Let’s go work.”

THEY’D RENTEDa large conference room in one of the posh hotels around Liverpool Street Station in the shadow of a number of banking towers. The kind of place that came with hushed tones and subtle lighting, but the first impression was overturned by the room where the conference was being held—a good-sized auditorium with raised rows of seats, a large stage, and a screen in the background. If the carpet had been sticky and the place had smelled of cooled cheese sauce and hot dogs, it could have been a cinema.

But all that vanished into the background against the banners hanging from the walls. The left side of the auditorium was decked out in red-and-white banners, while the right side was all US American flags.

Brooklyn had seen several drafts of his “branding,” as the PR people called it, which for this fight, combined the red St George’s cross on white with the picture of a pair of heavy iron manacles that were less ripped apart and more exploded. BROOKLYN MARSHALL—MEAN MACHINE ON THE LOOSE. It looked like advertising for an action flick, which to most people out there it probably was, just that the blood and sweat weren’t fake and you didn’t get to bow out of the stunts to let another take your place.

The ballroom itself was packed with journalists. Several dozen cameras pointed in Brooklyn’s direction as he walked in, with Cash leading and Joseph following up, as well as the rest of the team. Cornermen. Cut man. He now had his own posse, all friends and acquaintances of either Cash or Joseph.

Brooklyn advanced towards the stage, taking care to not fall over cables from the microphones and other gear piled into the room. The rustle and bustle of a couple hundred people seemed to quiet down around him. When he’d found his place with his name tent, he looked up.

Applause rose. People stood up, clapping their hands. Cheering. Brooklyn swallowed hard and raised his hands as if he were in the ring. Not only journalists. Some were fans. Civilians. VIPs. Some might even have been customers, once upon a time—people he’d slept with. No sense that he’d lost the previous bout; they celebrated him like a winner.

And there was also Nathaniel to the far left, with Hazel sitting next to him, the nanny on the other side. Eric lingered to the side, a generally benign presence.

Brooklyn briefly smiled at Nathaniel, but glanced away before the journalists caught on. He lowered his arms again and sat down between Cash and Joseph.

Then the lights briefly lowered and then flared up again, and the door of the main entrance, centre and upstairs, opened, with a group of people spilling through—first was Dragan Thorne, tanned and well-rested in a suit that had to be very expensive, because it almost made him look merely fit and well-proportioned.

He sauntered down the stairs, his own posse on his heels—trainer, likely a couple bodyguards, as well as the current Mrs Thorne, a brunette bombshell wearing huge sunglasses that hid most of her face. She settled with the bodyguards in one of the reserved rows, while Thorne and his trainer made it up towards the stage.

Again, the audience was applauding, and while Brooklyn still felt they were mostly on his side—this being his home turf—it was certainly respect that he read on people’s faces. Thorne had been a champion so long, they almost forgave him for being an extremely conventional and uninspiring boxer. Plus, people liked him as a person, and many column inches had been published about how Thorne’s latest fight—where he’d reunited all four world titles—had been “the most electrifying performance of this seasoned champion in years.”

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